Los Santos suburbs.
Soren stepped out of the sedan and looked up at the sprawling private estate in front of him.
Victorian-style buildings loomed in the night. A massive fountain sculpture sprayed water into the air.
He curled his lip. "Fucking rich bastards."
At the banquet hall entrance, Soren deliberately stopped and waited.
Only when a servant noticed him standing there motionless and politely came forward to escort him did Soren sigh with genuine regret.
"Too bad."
He had been hoping some clueless security guard or arrogant rich kid would look down on him and start something.
That way he could have legitimately collected some "emotional damage" compensation to patch up his empty wallet.
Unfortunately, the servant had clearly been given instructions in advance.
The man didn't even check Soren's invitation before leading him straight into the hall.
The dinner party was still in the pre-meal cocktail hour.
The lighting inside was deliberately dim, soft classical music played, and guests wandered around with wine glasses, chatting.
The moment Soren appeared, the murmur of conversation dipped noticeably.
All those high-society figures who usually only appeared in the news turned to look at him.
Some gazes held curiosity, some hidden scrutiny, but most carried carefully concealed wariness.
Soren picked up a glass of champagne and swept his eyes across the room.
What surprised him was how many Black guests there were.
Whenever any of them met his gaze, they instinctively stepped back, as if he were the devil himself.
A smaller group of white guests, however, looked at him with open greed and fervor.
Almost every guest carried the faint scent of demons on them. A few even gave off a weak holy aura.
It confirmed his earlier guess—plenty of these elites had come into contact with demons or angels.
But thinking about it, that made sense.
Once you reached a certain position, even if you stayed clean and resisted temptation, you couldn't guarantee your rivals or enemies wouldn't throw themselves into a demon's arms.
To avoid dying mysteriously or having your family used as bargaining chips, you had no choice but to step into the game and seek equal supernatural protection.
Since no one approached him, Soren was happy to stay quiet.
The host had gone through Papa Midnight to invite him, so someone would lose patience and come to him eventually.
Until then, he might as well eat for free.
He headed toward the buffet tables loaded with food.
Looking at the meat dishes…
Soren thought for a second and decisively took his plate to the dessert section instead.
"No wonder there are so many extreme vegans…"
At that moment, an elegant white man holding a wine glass walked up beside him.
He watched a waiter slicing into a slightly bloody roast and spoke unhurriedly, "The doneness is still a little off."
"When top-quality ingredients are hunted, if they can be kept in just the right state of terror, adrenaline makes the muscle fibers tighter and more flavorful."
The man's voice was magnetic and pleasant.
He turned to Soren.
"What do you think, Mr. Soren?"
Soren hadn't found the strawberry sundae he wanted, so he settled for a macaron and gave the man a once-over.
Hannibal?
This guy still hadn't been locked up yet?
Still, Soren didn't sense any demonic or angelic aura on him.
"Oh, pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself."
The man raised his glass elegantly. "My name is Hannibal Lecter. I'm a psychological consultant here in Los Santos."
"I personally think it tastes better when it's cooked a little more—cleaner and safer."
Soren replied casually.
Hannibal's smile froze for a split second before returning smoothly. "It seems Mr. Soren has his own unique views on cuisine as well."
"I hope I'll have the honor of inviting you to dinner someday so we can discuss it properly."
He gave a meaningful smile, raised his glass in salute, and politely walked away.
Soren watched Hannibal's departing back, feeling curious.
An ordinary person with zero supernatural power, yet he moved freely in a circle surrounded by demons and angels. That alone proved he was anything but normal.
Still, as long as the guy didn't bother him, Soren couldn't be bothered to dig deeper.
As time passed, the cocktail hour ended and guests moved to the dining tables.
Just as Soren pulled out a chair to sit, a waiter approached and whispered respectfully,
"Mr. Soren, Mr. Braddock is waiting for you in the study upstairs."
Soren paused. "He couldn't call earlier? He sent an invitation but expects his guest to talk business on an empty stomach? Tell him to wait a little longer."
Several nearby dignitaries froze mid-motion.
No one in this estate had ever dared refuse the master of the house so bluntly.
But the moment they looked up and saw it was Soren, they quickly lowered their heads again, pretending they had heard nothing.
The waiter's face stiffened. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before bowing slightly. "Understood. Please enjoy your meal at your leisure."
After dismissing the waiter, Soren picked up his knife and fork and started on the food.
At the same time, he observed the people around him.
Something about some of them felt… off.
One guest would open his mouth for several seconds before finally bringing the wine glass to his lips.
Another would already have the fork piercing the steak before the knife even started cutting.
It was as if their bodies simply couldn't keep up with the commands from their brains.
Demonic possession? Or side effects from some drug?
Soren filed the question away.
The long main course finally drew to an end.
The moment Soren picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, the waiter returned, bowing politely once more.
"Mr. Soren, Mr. Braddock is waiting for you in the study upstairs."
"Lead the way."
Soren tossed the napkin down.
The host was surprisingly patient.
Following the waiter through a carpeted hallway, Soren was led into a spacious study.
A slightly overweight middle-aged man was already seated on the leather sofa.
Soren didn't stand on ceremony. He walked straight over and sat down on the opposite sofa.
At the same time, he discreetly scanned the room.
A tiny hidden camera in the corner quickly caught his attention.
He withdrew his gaze, leaned back, and looked at the middle-aged man, waiting for him to speak.
The man stared at Soren, voice low and gloomy. "I am Richard Braddock. The largest medical device manufacturer in the state and several private psychiatric hospitals all belong to me."
He tried to use his background and status to suppress Soren's edge.
Soren didn't care. No matter how rich the guy was, none of it was going into his own pocket.
He gave a faint nod and stayed silent.
Seeing Soren's complete disregard, Richard's cheek twitched. He took a deep breath.
"At the same time… I am Scott's father."