"A sixth sense cannot make up for a total lack of common sense."

~ Natsuki Takaya, manga creator, Fruit Baskets

Hank heaves with stress. Clutching his stomach, he says, "Oh, I, uh, oh, no, no, I can't watch this."

The Crocodile slaps the back of Hank's head. "Shut the fuck up."

If there really are spirits here, now would be a good time to show up. Haunted house, my ass.

Indeed, something does show up. Whether it's a spirit is debatable. A scream rips through Carey Manor. This time, though, it doesn't come from inside the freezer. It's shrill and crisp, and it's not clear where it came from. It is, however, clear everyone heard it.

Zandra watches for Chad to drop the knife. This time, he has a sturdier grip.

"Is someone else in the house?" Carter says.

"Melvin," Sunglasses says.

"I stuck him in the maid's quarters off the kitchen," Zandra says.

The Crocodile allows Sunglasses passage to the maid's quarters. He returns to report that the door is still locked, and that he can hear snoring inside.

Although no one says it, they all think the same thing. They listen for more screaming, but nothing comes.

"Maybe you pissed off the wrong spirits," Carter says to Zandra.

Maybe I did.

"There's another guest," Sunglasses says through a wheeze.

"What did you just say?" The Crocodile says.

"Zandra invited eight. Only seven showed up," Sunglasses says.

Our guest from apartment 201? Not a chance.

Everyone's heads turn toward Zandra.

"Like you said, only seven turned up," Zandra says. "To be honest, I'm surprised we only had one no-show."

The Crocodile breathes in deep through his nose as if he catching a whiff of the scream. He says, "It came from upstairs."

Oh, so you're part bloodhound, too. My bad.

"Maybe we're all just hearing things. Maybe Zandra here put a little of that beet juice in all our drinks," Carter says.

The Crocodile focuses his slits on Chad.

"Me?" Chad says.

"Yes. Go check it out," The Crocodile says.

"Alone?"

"Bring the knife."

Chad sighs and drags his feet as he exits the kitchen. Bexley takes a step in his direction to follow, but she stays put instead. Her breathing is more noticeable.

"Now, Zandra, open the lock. I don't care how. Just do it, right now, or I shoot," The Crocodile says.

Such an awful liar. He's threatened to shoot me too many times already.

The revolver is less than 10 feet away. The Crocodile keeps putting distance between us whenever I get too close. He's no dummy. He's not going to let someone take that gun out of his hands.

Time to turn the screws.

Zandra shuffles over to the walk-in freezer door and closes her eyes before gently laying her hands on the padlock. She holds that position and breathes deep.

"Well?" Carter says.

Zandra opens her eyes and removes her hands. "This lock won't open anymore. You'll just have to shoot me."

"Or I could shoot the lock," The Crocodile says.

"Idiot. You watch too many movies. You'll spray debris everywhere, probably kill yourself," Carter says.

"Fine. You're dead, Zandra," The Crocodile says.

This time, Bexley screams.

"You can't kill her. She didn't tell us the secrets yet," Bexley says and puts herself between Zandra and the revolver.

Perfect. Drive that wedge as far as it will go.

The Crocodile slugs Sunglasses in the gut once more for no apparent reason. Sunglasses finds a sink to empty his dinner into.

Hank, already visibly uncomfortable, finds refuge by hopping onto the edge of a countertop.

"This entire place is oozing money. Just take something hanging on the wall," Carter says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a money clip tight with cash. "How much is this going to take?"

The Crocodile shoves Bexley aside. He says to Carter, "You think I'm that stupid? They're getting ready to sell this place. They'll know something is missing."

Carter peels off an inch of cash and holds it out for The Crocodile, saying, "Then take this."

Let's not pretend you're a nice guy all of a sudden, Carter. You're hoping this will even us up over the Ukraine thing, and that I'll forget about that little piece of blackmail I have on you.

You'll have to do better than that. I have a stubborn memory.

"I don't know you. Ever take free money from someone you don't know? Fuckin' problems, man, big problems," The Crocodile says. "Zandra owes me. It's different."

"Honor among thieves. Cute," Zandra says over the sound of Bexley begging mercy.

"Shut up," The Crocodile says.

Carter stuffs the cash back in his pocket and says, "Well, if you insist, but maybe you'd be interested in what they say are, uh, discreet assets in this place."

Not so fast, Carter. We're not ready for that yet. This must be done properly.

"He's drunk," Zandra says, which can only be true given Carter's voluminous indulgences.

"You'd hate me even more sober," Carter says and laughs.

The Crocodile's stance isn't as solid as before. He rocks his weight from side to side. It's not obvious to anyone not paying attention, but Zandra notices.

He's overloading on stimuli. The scream, the money, the lock, Bexley's begging, Carter's assholery, Sunglasses vomiting, the stakes of holding that revolver, and whatever drugs he's on on all pour gas on The Crocodile.

During crisis situations, emergency responders talk the robotic way they do to stay focused, so they don't overload and do something irrational. The fight-or-flight mechanism is difficult to overcome. Even if The Crocodile is a pro at being The Crocodile, he's not a pro-pro. No one is immune from stress.

Which means one more push ought to do it.

"What's your real name?" Zandra says to The Crocodile as Bexley pushes her way back in front of Zandra.

The Crocodile squeezes his eyes shut and takes a step backward. "Shut up."

"Please, put the gun away, there's got to be another way," Bexley says. "There's never going to be another chance. Please, please, please."

A little more.

"You're in luck, child," Zandra says to Bexley. "The latent powers that reside in everyone are most pronounced, even for new pioneers, during times of extreme duress."

Sunglasses, now upright once again, takes out his smartphone. Zandra can't tell whether it's to record what she's saying about supposed supernatural abilities, or to call the police. The Crocodile tries to make sure it's not that second one.

"Phone done," The Crocodile says, forgetting in the moment how to pronounce "down."

Good, good, keep going. Something will pop and force a decision.

"Shoot me," Zandra says. She puts her hands up in the air. "Do it."

Bexley screams out again.

The threat of violence can sometimes be turned on its head. The Crocodile knows there's risk to pulling the trigger, but he doesn't yet have his reward, the money he's after. He's less dangerous without what he wants than with, and even if he doesn't realize it, his lizard brain does.

Which means to maintain control, he's going to have to assert himself.

"Shoot me," Zandra says. "Or are you too weak to do it?"

Now Hank is the one throwing up in a sink. The air in the kitchen is hot and sour.

"Open the...open...," The Crocodile says, squinting.

Bexley pounds on The Crocodile's chest, saying, "You promised you wouldn't do this. You promised."

"Let me think," The Crocodile says, quieter now.

Bexley doesn't let up, and The Crocodile roars back to life in a flurry of rage. He pushes Bexley off of him and says in what sounds like a single, guttural syllable, "Dammit, I said let me think!"

The sound of the gunshot is louder than Zandra expected, given all the stainless steel in the kitchen, not at all like the open air of the shooting range earlier on. The explosion stings her ears.

Zandra pats herself down and looks at her fingers, and then the floor. Sunglasses, Hank, Carter, and Bexley check themselves, too.

One of them is bleeding.