Chapter 335: Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

These seven Anomalies knew how to disguise themselves. They understood restraint, and they excelled at exploiting human social conventions and relationships to shield themselves.

Difficult to deal with.

Yet it was precisely for this reason that Pandora had taken an interest in them.

She was no member of the cleanup squad, nor was she under any commission from the Academy. The repetitive, brute-force work of overwhelming enemies with sheer power held little appeal for her.

It was matters like this—ones that carried a certain intrigue, that required some mental engagement—that could stir a flicker of excitement within her.

She dressed herself again, smoothing out her slightly disheveled hair.

Pandora looked toward the door and smiled.

Tonight, the Anomaly called Butterfly had been nothing more than the appetizer she had prepared for Phoebe.

Now, the real hunt began.

………………

Inside the banquet hall.

The champagne tower refracted a brilliant yet cold light, every glass like a pricked ear, listening to the whispers swirling all around.

Crocodile stood at the crowd’s edge, holding an untouched drink.

His outward appearance was that of a man in his early fifties—broad-shouldered, with a strong, resolute face. The gray at his temples lent him an air of steady, commanding authority.

His gaze swept across the room with apparent nonchalance, but he was, in truth, constantly watching a particular direction.

That side door. The one leading to the guest room corridor.

Among the Seven, he and Butterfly were closest. They relied upon each other.

He knew what Butterfly had gone off to do with the evening’s star, that young woman everyone was calling Dr. Douglas.

He had assumed it was nothing more than one of her routine feedings.

But this time...

She had been gone too long.

Long enough that even he felt a thread of unease.

Serpent and Bear were not in the banquet hall either. He had no idea what they were doing, and he couldn’t find them.

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But he was no longer willing to wait in vain.

The hotel’s guest room wing was some distance from the banquet hall, and entirely separate. Such private areas were, by custom, off-limits to bodyguards—his own were no exception. It was hotel policy, and a rule of tonight’s gala.

But really, what here could possibly threaten him? A handful of human bodyguards were, to put it bluntly, nothing more than camouflage.

The only thing he truly needed was himself.

Without hesitation, Crocodile signaled his guards with a glance, silently instructing them to remain in the banquet hall.

He straightened his cuffs and set off alone toward the guest room corridor.

The hallway lights were warm. The carpet was thick.

The long corridor was steeped in an almost unnerving stillness. On either side stretched rows of firmly shut doors. The dark wood panels gleamed with a dull, uniform sheen under the wall sconces.

Room numbers ran in orderly sequence, their brass digits glinting faintly in the amber glow.

It was only then that Crocodile realized his mistake. He had no idea which room Butterfly and that young female doctor had entered.

There were too many doors—each identical, the same dark wood, the same brass handles, the same dead silence. He couldn’t very well push them all open, one by one.

But Crocodile did not leave.

His eyes swept methodically down the corridor, starting from the very first door.

And then he noticed it.

Among all these rooms, there was one door not fully closed.

It was ajar.

Just a crack.

Not wide. Just enough to glimpse the pitch blackness within.

That sliver of darkness simply hung there, open, as if to lure someone inside.

To Crocodile, this was practically an insult.

He had no reason to be afraid.

He was Crocodile.

He was one of the apex predators atop this city’s food chain. He lurked among the sheep, and sheep could never harm a wolf.

Without hesitation, Crocodile reached out and pushed the door open.

It swung inward without a sound.

The room inside was dark.

The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the city lights and the moon alike.

Only one source of light bled through—from the direction of the bathroom. It was a warm, yellow glow, carrying the hazy softness of steam.

It spilled through the half-open bathroom door, casting a small, damp patch of light onto the carpet.

He heard sounds coming from within the bathroom.

The rush of water. The rhythmic hiss of a showerhead spraying hot water.

And—

The playful laughter of two girls.

One of them was Butterfly. He would never mistake it. That syrupy, coquettish laugh was Butterfly’s trademark tactic during a feeding.

But...

Something was wrong. The voice sounded hollow. Unlike what he usually heard. As though it lacked some element of... vitality.

A premonition of dread seized him.

He thrust the bathroom door open.

The showerhead was running, spraying steaming hot water. Mist filled the chamber, cloaking everything in a dense, shifting haze. The mirror was coated in condensation, droplets sliding slowly down the glass.

A small phonograph sat on a shelf in the corner, playing some sultry, romantic jazz. The lazy, low notes of a saxophone reverberated through the steam.

But the bathroom was empty.

Completely empty.

Only a small, black tin box sat beside the phonograph.

The laughter was coming from within that box.

“What is that?”

Crocodile’s brow furrowed. His eyes fixed on the black box, confusion welling up inside him.

Just as he was puzzling over the peculiar little device, a soft sound came from above him.

Plop.

Something fell, landing at his feet.

The sound was slight, yet it made every muscle in Crocodile’s body seize taut.

He looked down.

It was...

A head.

A beautiful head, riddled with holes.

The torn human skin was stretched over it like a garment violently burst apart, splitting open at the seams to reveal the iridescent moth-head beneath.

Deep within those intricate compound eyes, the terror of death lingered.

It was a fear so intense, so visceral