Mors crept out of bed and returned to her bedroom, then checked Machi’s messages.
Machi:俠客 said he couldn't reach you. Did you receive the transfer for the last mission?
Yes, the transfer was from 俠客, who manages the troupe's finances, for 300 million Jenny. Mors didn't suspect 俠客 of any favoritism in troupe matters. According to his original character setting, 俠客 was loyal to Chrollo and the troupe, happy to follow Chrollo's lead.
300 million Jenny was a colossal sum for ordinary people, difficult to accumulate in a lifetime. However, compared to the Zoldyck family's income, or even their pocket money, it felt a bit… subtle.
Missions posted on the Hunter website primarily offered rewards in the millions and tens of millions. Those with rewards in the hundreds of millions were either incredibly troublesome and time-consuming, or bounties on highly dangerous individuals.
To put it plainly, killing was still the most cost-effective way to earn money. The Zoldycks had long seen through this.
No, she couldn't be too demanding. After all, the difficulty of the troupe's last activity was ordinary. Furthermore, comparing the Phantom Troupe, founded less than ten years ago from scratch, to the world’s number one assassin family with a long history, was perhaps unfair. They weren’t starting from the same line.
The next message was sent the following day.
Machi: …Did 俠客 do something weird to you? If you mind, I’ll notify you about troupe activities from now on.
She recalled that in the original work, the troupe’s activity notifications seemed to follow a pattern: "The leader notifies the old members, and then the old members inform the new members." For example, Machi always notified Hisoka about troupe activities.
The last message was sent today. It was a notification for a troupe activity, a type where participation was not mandatory, and members could choose whether to attend based on their personal will.
Mors chose to participate, not just because she was free and could earn some pocket money, but also to boost her reputation within the troupe. She couldn't be too随心所欲 like Hisoka in the original work, absent for long periods and becoming an "oddity" within the troupe.
According to the original setting, despite their seemingly cold and ruthless demeanor, troupe members possessed human sentiment within the group. Relationships between members had varying degrees of closeness. While most members wouldn't stab others in the back, it was better to be safe than sorry. Building some rapport with members who could be befriended might prove useful at a crucial moment.
Prevention was better than cure.
She then looked at 俠客’s messages.
A backlog of 99+ messages. That man, who was inseparable from his phone, had a "severe" case of phone dependency. He sent texts several times more frequently than ordinary people. However, it might also be a common trait of Manipulators – a strong desire for control.
As for Machi’s mention of "weird things"… recalling the large box of toys 俠客 had enthusiastically prepared, even modifying each one himself, it was indeed not something an ordinary person would do.
Never mind, no need to explain. Machi wasn't someone who gossiped.
Scanning 俠客’s messages at a glance, Mors was amazed by his ability to find conversation topics out of thin air, to the point where she didn't know how to reply or where to begin.
Rubbing her temples, Mors decided to stick to matters related to the troupe. First, she would reply to Machi saying she would participate in this troupe activity, and then she would reply to 俠客, stating that she would handle the tattoo issue herself.
The spider tattoo was a distinctive feature of the Phantom Troupe. Each member had a twelve-legged spider tattoo on some part of their body, with the spider's back bearing their number within the troupe. Therefore, those familiar with the troupe often referred to them as "Spiders."
Regardless of the pattern, tattoos hurt, so Mors wanted none of it.
She recalled that in the original work, Hisoka, who had joined the troupe under false pretenses, used his Nen ability "Bungee Gum" to forge his spider tattoo on his back.
However, the original work mentioned that "Bungee Gum" could only imitate things as thin as paper, akin to high-quality color printing, and might be exposed upon touch.
The primary reason Hisoka's fake tattoo was never revealed was that he always wore a shirt. Other troupe members wouldn't randomly strip him and feel his back.
If she adopted Hisoka's strategy and used stickers to create a fake tattoo, it would mean Mors could no longer have intimate contact with other troupe members, as it would be easily exposed.
She thought of 俠客. 俠客 was the "Spider Brain" of the Phantom Troupe, definitely not someone easily fooled.
Kicking 俠客 away directly seemed too costly. Mors bit her thumb, contemplating that 俠客’s toys could still be adjusted.
Before joining the Phantom Troupe, Mors had considered the tattoo issue. She wanted to place it somewhere visible but hard to verify. Her original plan should still work.
The tattoo number would only be determined after joining the troupe, and preparing the corresponding fake tattoo would take some time. She hadn't expected the second troupe activity to come so quickly. Fortunately, the goods were already prepared. She had asked Milluki to use the Zoldyck family's technical personnel for it. As for whether Kikyo would find out, Mors didn’t care. She hadn't asked Kikyo directly for help because she didn't want to be questioned excessively by Kikyo when asking, and it was more convenient and less troublesome to find Milluki. He would get it done immediately for a small fee without asking too many questions.
The pickup address, of course, couldn't be this apartment, as it would reveal her current residence. So, she had filled in a distant location that required a flight to reach.
Using the game backpack's "one-click outfit change" function to change into another set of clothes, and leaving a note on the refrigerator door, Mors left the apartment.
When the man left behind in the apartment woke up that morning, the empty space beside him in bed didn’t alarm him. Mors, or rather, the young lady, had already told him that she was sensitive and easily alerted, and preferred not to have anyone beside her when sleeping, so she would return to her own room.
The man rubbed his hair in annoyance. After a few days, he regretted realizing that no matter how hard he tried, the young lady’s expression in bed remained utterly impassive.
When the man was tired, the young lady would gently stroke his head, as if… as if petting a dog frolicking on her.
Yes, with her background, allowing him to do as he pleased was merely playing along, as mundane as ordinary eating and drinking, with no special significance. The young lady’s perception had long been abnormal.
Otherwise, how could the young lady endure the abuse from her family since childhood?
“This way, you’ll love me like you love your family, won’t you?” the young lady wrote on a note afterward.
The young lady was broken. She believed that "playing along" was an expression of "love."
“You don’t need to be grateful; you’ll love me, won’t you?” the young lady wrote.
Perhaps deep down, the young lady vaguely understood that her family's "love" wasn't real, yet she still yearned for "love."
“Because I want my mother’s scent,” the young lady wrote.
The young lady’s mother had already passed away. Perhaps it was precisely because her mother died early that it facilitated her scumbag brother and father.
“The taste you make is very close, but still a little off. I think that must be ‘love.’” the young lady wrote.
The young lady tilted her head and leaned against the man’s chest, hoping he would pat her head, as her mother used to do.
“You should be happy to see me. Genuinely happy.” the young lady wrote.
The young lady accompanied the man to the supermarket. She linked arms with him, gazed straight ahead, her face filled with reminiscence.
“My mother died before me. I brought her ashes home and held them in my arms like this.” the young lady wrote.
The man, who was picking up a watermelon, saw what she wrote and didn't know how to react, so he wore a confused expression.
“Why did my mother die before me?” the young lady wrote, also with a bewildered look.
That day, the young lady ate a lot of beef. She said she didn’t have money before and rarely ate beef. She and her mother would always defer to each other, and she had to endure.
The young lady ate until she couldn’t eat anymore and lay on the sofa, rubbing her stomach as if in discomfort, yet her face remained expressionless.
The next day, the young lady starved herself for the entire day.
The young lady, who had opened up, seemed like a soap bubble about to burst at any moment.
The man dared not reach out to touch her anymore, fearing her potential breakdown.
The young lady mistakenly thought the man had lost his "love" for her. She grabbed his hand and placed it on her chest.
“No… Young lady, this is not the time for this…”
This time, the young lady initiated and pinned the man down.
The man was surprised to discover that the young lady’s strength was not weaker than his own.
The young lady straddled the man’s waist, cupped his face, and gazed at him for a long time.
“…I.” The man probably knew what he was supposed to say. “I… will love you…”
The young lady nodded and unbuttoned her clothes.
…
Now, it was difficult to distinguish who was satisfying whose needs.
The man took down the note from the refrigerator door. It contained the young lady’s message: I’m going out for a while.
…Doing business.
The man ruffled his hair. He thought the young lady’s "doing business" was probably a euphemism. Perhaps the young lady was periodically using her body to please her scumbag brother and father, just as she was seeking his "love."
“…Damn it!” The man punched the wall.
His knuckles ached, but the wall remained undamaged. Even facing just a wall, he felt so powerless. He couldn't save anyone and could only watch as he lost them.
Lowering his head, he pressed it heavily against the wall. The man recalled that the young lady had also told him that for safety reasons, she would frequently change her residence, and planned to move soon.
This was an important reminder. Thinking of the young lady's scumbag brother and father, those two individuals capable of such heinous acts, he suspected they could commit even more dangerous deeds.
The man clenched his fist, breathing repeatedly. After calming down slightly, he returned to his bedroom, brought the notebook from the drawer to the desk, opened it, and continued writing recipes.
He described them in as much detail as possible. If he were to die, the young lady, armed with this recipe book, could still recreate the flavors they had researched together, her favorite ones.
The recipe book was kept secret for now. If he could naturally find out the young lady's birthday, this would surely be the best birthday gift.
The man flipped the notebook to the last page, where a note the young lady had written was tucked: "This way, you’ll love me like you love your family, won’t you?"
“I will love you,” the man said again to the note. “I will love you.”
He placed the note aside and turned back to the unfinished page, picking up his pen again.
Two days later, Mors arrived at the troupe's assembly point.
俠客 had not yet arrived. Machi was unaware if Mors had replied to 俠客’s messages and assumed Mors was no longer in contact with him. So, she asked Mors, on 俠客’s behalf, if she had handled the tattoo issue.
Mors opened her mouth, but instead of speaking, she stuck out her tongue.
The troupe members had excellent eyesight. Even those far away could see the twelve-legged spider tattoo on Mors’s tongue. The uncolored part on the spider’s back was Mors’s troupe number, the digit 8.
The troupe, or rather, the Spiders, were likely seeing such a "trendy" spider for the first time. The gazes that fell upon Mors from everyone instantly carried a heavier, more varied weight.
To strike the horse, strike its head; to capture the bandit, capture its chief.
Amidst the many stares, Mors chose to look at the Spider head, Chrollo. As usual, he held a book on his lap, the candlelight by his feet flickering in the wind, seemingly shimmering in his obsidian-like eyes, as if Chrollo’s own expression was flickering.
No, in reality, his expression was not flickering; Chrollo’s composure was as usual. He sat like a statue in a temple, looking down at all living beings from above.
With a swallowing motion, Mors closed her mouth, as if she had swallowed the spider in her mouth.
Feitan stared at the line of Mors's throat, which changed with her swallowing, and the outer corner of his right eyelid twitched slightly.