Ingrid—the high-society lady who had casually dropped thirty-five million dollars just to satisfy her twisted little fantasies—was now very, very dead.
Her blood had soaked so deep into the expensive dark-red evening gown that you couldn't tell where fabric ended and shredded meat began.
Her once-perfectly-maintained face was twisted beyond recognition. No one could guess what kind of hell she'd gone through before the end.
Soren stepped out of the torture room, glanced at the fresh transfer notification on his phone, and let out a satisfied little whistle.
Rich ladies really were the best. She'd already blown thirty-five million trying to buy him (even if the money never actually touched his hands). Now he'd squeezed another twenty million straight out of her.
What a saint.
Like the old saying goes: horses don't get fat without night grass, and people don't get rich without windfall money.
The ancients weren't kidding.
At this rate he could finally pay off Morrison for that sports car. And after that? Unlimited extra-large double-crust, double-cheese, loaded Italian sausage pizzas (no black olives, obviously) without a single pang of guilt.
One bite of sundae, one bite of pizza…
This was the kind of life he used to watch Dante live and never dared dream about.
Screams and desperate pleas kept leaking out from behind the sealed iron doors lining both sides of the corridor.
Soren strolled down the hall like he owned the place. Every time he reached a new room he kicked the door off its hinges and ran a quick, brutal shakedown.
After draining their accounts he'd either give them a clean death or break all four limbs and leave them as toys for Alessa.
They were all scum anyway. No sympathy required.
But after clearing out several rooms, Soren's frown kept getting deeper.
"Why the hell is everyone so broke?"
He stared at the pathetic transfer records on his phone—mostly just a few thousand to a few tens of thousands.
Weren't these supposed to be elite global clients of an international crime syndicate?
Instead, almost everyone tonight was just some overworked white-collar drone who'd taken out loans to come here and blow off steam.
Soren rubbed his temples. Then he caught his own reflection in one of the torture-room mirrors and a thought hit him.
Had the real big shots recognized him?
He might be a nobody, but his flashy uncle was infamous in the industry. Dante had once sliced the Golden Gate Bridge clean in half, for crying out loud!
Anyone connected to that walking disaster zone was probably on every blacklist. The smart ones would stay the hell away.
Realizing this, Soren's face darkened. He kicked the freshly drained corpse at his feet and walked out.
Up ahead, an iron door burst open from the inside.
A blood-soaked man stumbled out, cursing wildly while clutching a still-dripping power saw.
"I'm done! Fuck this! What the hell is this place?!"
"This isn't fun at all!"
He staggered toward the elevator, completely ignoring Soren standing in the middle of the hallway.
Soren just shook his head. Clearly another broke loser.
He stepped into the now-open room.
In the center was a tiger chair. A woman was strapped down tight with restraints.
Her tight camisole had been ripped halfway off. Her blood-soaked body trembled uncontrollably.
A deep, gruesome gash split her once-beautiful face. Blood kept pouring out, but her chest was still rising and falling faintly—she wasn't dead yet.
Hearing footsteps, Whitney struggled to open her eyes.
When she saw Soren, her ruined lips moved weakly.
"Guh… guh…"
Blood bubbled from her mouth with every weak breath. The sound was half plea for help, half desperate wish for him to end the pain.
Soren walked up to her and stayed quiet for a moment.
That kind of injury… only a god could save her now.
"Go to sleep."
He reached out and gently wrapped his hand around her neck.
A slight squeeze.
Crack.
Better a quick end than letting her suffer for hours.
Whitney's body jerked once, then went completely limp. Her pain-filled eyes stared emptily at the ceiling.
Soren withdrew his hand and left the room.
At the end of the corridor he heard a familiar crying voice coming from another chamber.
"No! Please! Don't touch me! I have money! I can give you lots of money!"
Inside the room, Beth was strapped to a chair, tears ruining her perfect makeup.
In front of her, a middle-aged man grinned excitedly as he browsed through a wall of blood-stained torture tools.
In real life he was a pathetic pushover—bullied at work, humiliated by his wife at home.
But here, hearing beautiful women who would never even glance at him scream and beg, watching them fear him… only here did he feel like a man again.
Unable to pick the perfect tool, he impatiently stripped off his shirt.
This trip had cost him his daughter's private-school tuition and a second mortgage on the house. He wasn't about to waste one second.
Just as he was about to pounce—
BOOM!
The iron door exploded inward, frame and all, slamming against the wall.
The man jumped, nearly pissing himself.
He spun around and started yelling. "What the fuck is wrong with your service?! Don't you people understand privacy?!"
"I haven't even started yet, you bunch of—"
His rant died instantly.
A massive purple skeletal hand clamped around his body and lifted him into the air.
Only then did the lust-fueled fog in his brain finally clear.
He stared at the intruder in pure terror, legs kicking helplessly as he tried to beg for mercy.
Meanwhile, Beth's eyes lit up with desperate hope the moment she recognized Soren.
"Soren! Save me! Please!"
"Evening, Miss Beth," Soren said calmly, ignoring her plea for a second as he stepped into the room. "Looks like you're having a little trouble. Need some professional security services?"
Beth nodded frantically, voice hoarse. "How much?! I'll pay anything—just get me out of here!"
Soren rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then held up one finger.
"One million?"
Beth didn't even hesitate. "Fine! One million! Just guarantee my safety and get me back to Los Santos—I'll transfer it immediately!"
"Don't worry, Miss Beth. Like I told you in the van earlier," Soren said with a professional smile, "I'm a legitimate private investigator who also offers security services. Very professional. I would never do anything as low-class as price-gouging."
Soren gave a satisfied grin. He used the demonic hand to lift the still-struggling middle-aged man right in front of Beth.
"And as a thank-you for supporting my business, I'd like to offer you one more special deal."
He looked into Beth's bloodshot, hate-filled eyes.
"For just a little extra… this man is yours to do whatever you want with. Sound good?"