Spider Weaves Its Web, Then Hides in the Dark

Gelman pushed through the glass door plastered with GG paper and stepped into the desolate lobby. After glancing left and right, he walked up to the front desk, which came up to his chest.

Behind the desk sat a potbellied middle-aged man, lazily flipping through a magazine with a scantily clad woman on the cover. He shot Gelman a sidelong glance.

"What is it?" the middle-aged man asked, his tone impatient.

"One night, single room."

"Six thousand Jenny."

Gelman had no idea if this price was steep or cheap; he only knew that the six thousand-plus Jenny he'd just unexpectedly acquired would vanish in an instant.

He pulled six thousand Jenny from his wallet and placed them on the counter.

The middle-aged man grabbed the bills, counted them quickly, tucked them away, then pulled open a drawer and casually tossed a key with a number on it in front of Gelman.

"Up the stairs, turn right, find your room by the number."

Without even asking Gelman's name, he dove back into studying the magazine model's figure.

In a rundown hotel like his, all sorts of shady characters came to stay. If he dug into every one of them, he probably wouldn't have lived this long.

Why bother with all that? As long as the money was paid, that was enough.

People who chose to stay here also appreciated this attitude of his—both sides got what they wanted.

Gelman picked up the key, saw the faded number "207" on the sticker, and headed for the stairwell, climbing the railing-less stairs to the second floor.

After finding the corresponding room, he went in, locked the door behind him, then walked to the rust-stained windowsill. Standing behind the curtain, he peered outside.

Gelman had noticed three people tailing him earlier, so he'd deliberately brushed past them, memorizing their features.

But as for the fourth person Biscuit had mentioned, he didn't know who it was, and Biscuit had intentionally kept it from him.

Ten minutes later, the two assassins acting as decoys crossed the street and entered the hotel. Another fifteen minutes passed before the third assassin stepped inside.

After that, Gelman pulled up a chair, sat by the windowsill, and continued observing, jotting down everyone who entered the hotel besides those three assassins.

Gelman figured he might have already seen the fourth person without realizing it at the time.

Though Biscuit hadn't told him who the fourth was, her words were essentially a hint: the fourth person was among those both of them had encountered.

But when he compared his memories, the result was disappointing—no one matched.

That meant he had to consider possibilities like disguise or costume changes.

It seemed the fourth assassin was exceptionally cautious, possibly not even near the hotel yet.

Gelman couldn't leave a threat unaddressed; for now, he had to wait for them to make a move on him.

They'd followed him the whole way, aiming to find the right moment to strike.

Gelman had to create that opportunity for them.

He picked up the wall phone, his eyes still fixed on the street, while his fingers dialed the number he'd noted down at the front desk—the hotel owner's.

"Yeah? What?"

"Send two six-packs of beer to room 207. I'll pay you later."

"Two six-packs of beer? Alright... wait a bit."

After a while, the beer was delivered to Gelman's room. He tore open the packaging, set the cans on the table, and casually grabbed one.

By then, night had fallen. The pedestrians on the street outside dwindled, and the surroundings grew quieter.

Gelman didn't turn on the light, letting the room sink into darkness.

Snap. He popped the tab on the beer can, slowly pouring the liquid onto the bedsheet. When it was empty, he crushed the can with a crunch and tossed it onto the floor.

He repeated this process over and over until he'd "finished" one six-pack. Then he got up and headed into the bathroom.

By this point, the aura he'd been radiating for sensing had mostly receded.

It was a signal, making outsiders think he was gradually letting his guard down.

After showering, he came out and continued "drinking beer." When only two cans remained, he finally stopped, rose from the chair, kicked aside the empty cans in front of him, and staggered to the bed.

He collapsed onto it, finally dispersing his vigilant aura, and "fell asleep."

Some time later, a faint rustling came from the keyhole of the door, followed by a soft click. The locked door swung open.

The light from the hallway stabbed into the room's darkness like a blade.

Two men glanced at the beer cans on the floor, then at the bulging blanket on the bed. Without hesitation, they walked over, raised their silenced pistols in unison, and aimed at the bedding.

After a series of short puff, puff, puff sounds, they frowned—the noise didn't sound like bullets piercing flesh, more like hitting a pillow. They exchanged a look, didn't bother to check, and immediately retreated toward the doorway.

From under the bed, Gelman raised his blunderbuss, aimed at one man's abdomen, and fired with a bang.

The man stumbled, fell backward, and lay still, a bloody crater of clustered holes in his gut.

The other man's eyelids twitched as he glanced over. Firing toward the bed, he pressed his mouth close to the mini communicator on his collar and tersely reported the situation.

"Found. One down."

Gelman rolled out from the other side of the bed, sprang to his feet, and deftly deflected bullets with his Meat Saw, the crisp clang-clang-clang ringing out amid flashing sparks.

The assassin clutching the pistol burst out of the room.

Gelman gave chase.

The dim yellow lights flickered along the entire corridor. Aside from Room 207, none of the other doors had opened.

The tenants had heard the gunshots—they simply chose not to open their doors, playing deaf and dumb.

The assassin who had fled the room, seeing that he had lured Gelman out, turned around and kept firing until his ammunition ran dry.

Gelman deflected the bullets with his Meat Saw but paid no further attention to this assassin. Instead, he turned his focus to the one emerging at the other end of the corridor.

This was the third assassin.

He had been cloaked in black robes, but now he cast them aside, and five "Nen Balls" shot out from his chest. Some smashed into the walls, leaving small craters; others struck the light fixtures, sending sparks flying.

No doubt about it—he was an Emitter.

The five "Nen Balls" bounced erratically in all directions, but since the corridor was straight, they would inevitably ricochet toward Gelman.

Gelman slashed two "Nen Balls" apart with his Meat Saw—thump, thump—blasted two more away with his Blunderbuss, then sidestepped the last one.

Gazing at the shattered glass littering the floor, a thought struck him. He raised his Blunderbuss and bang blew out a nearby light fixture.

In an instant, half the corridor was swallowed by darkness.

The second assassin—the one who had first entered the room—was on this side. The sudden blackness robbed him of his vision. When his eyes adjusted, Gelman was gone.

Nervously, he tossed aside his empty pistol and pulled a pair of Brass Knuckles from his coat, slipping them onto his right hand for reassurance.

A click reached his ears. He spun around, throwing a punch powered by his waist, and slammed it into the corridor wall.

Boom!

The wall caved in, blasted into a man-sized hole by his Brass Knuckles and fist, revealing the terrified, screaming tenants inside.

But no Gelman.

Then, a gun barrel pressed against his lower back, and a Meat Saw rested against his neck. Gelman's voice sounded in his ear.

"An Enhancer?"

"You—"

The second assassin's eyes flew wide in terror, but before he could finish a single sentence, the Meat Saw slashed his throat. All his garbled wails were swallowed by the gush of blood.

In an instant, the wall was stained black-red.