Orson ignored Gabrielle and her threats, keeping his focus on slurping his noodles.
DK Group's power made framing him a trivial matter. They had crushed his reputation before; this time, Usher wanted him in jail. The essence of the strategy hadn't changed.
But Orson was sick of their games. He had suffered enough in his past life—this time, he wouldn't let himself be bullied so easily.
Gabrielle smirked, breaking his train of thought.
"Orson, you're a big deal in Infinite Dimensions, I'll give you that. If it weren't for the young master's goodwill, you wouldn't even have the privilege of sitting here negotiating with me."
Orson tilted his head mockingly. "Oh? How noble of you."
One of the bodyguards behind Gabrielle scowled and stepped forward, clearly intending to teach the disrespectful young man a lesson.
Gabrielle raised her hand, signaling for restraint. Her smile remained unshaken.
"Make your choice."
Orson finished his broth, stood, and threw the empty container into the trash.
"Vice President of Dragon's Kiss Guild? Pass. Doesn't interest me."
"What about ten billion for a buyout?"
He scoffed. "Not tempting enough."
---
"Then what will it be?"
Gabrielle's tone darkened as she drummed her fingers on the stack of papers.
"You may not care about yourself, but shouldn't you at least think about your sister? A terminally ill girl, isn't she? Scheduled for surgery next month, if I recall correctly."
---
Orson froze. A flash of murderous intent flickered in his eyes—his bottom line had been crossed.
"You're playing with fire," he said through a forced smile.
He turned and walked toward the sink, casually saying, "Excuse me, my hands are greasy. I'll just wash up."
---
When Orson returned, Gabrielle paled. "What are you doing?!"
Orson was holding two kitchen knives, one in each hand.
The three bodyguards were visibly startled. No one had expected such audacity from this scrawny gamer.
"What do you think I'm doing? You break into my home, make demands, and expect me to bow? No chance."
One of the bodyguards lunged forward, drawing a collapsible baton and swinging it at Orson's face.
---
With a sharp sidestep, Orson dodged the strike and lashed out with a swift kick to the man's ankle. The bodyguard yelped in pain, stumbling.
Orson's knife pivoted in his hand, the flat side slamming into the back of the man's neck with a dull thwack. The bodyguard crumpled to the floor.
---
Gabrielle and the remaining bodyguards froze.
"What the hell? Since when was the gaming prodigy a hand-to-hand combat expert?"
Orson planted a foot on the downed man's back, his face calm but radiating menace.
To these professionals, he may have seemed like easy prey—but they had underestimated him. Even in a weaker body, his combat instincts as a trial survivor gave him the edge.
"Here's my choice: leave now, or die."
---
Gabrielle forced herself to regain composure, retrieving her documents and standing.
"You'll regret this, Orson. There are countless ways to make you suffer, to make you wish you'd never been born."
Orson didn't respond. Instead, he dragged the groaning bodyguard by his belt, dumping him in the hallway outside.
"I won't see you out. Enjoy the elevator."
---
From the balcony, Orson watched Gabrielle and her entourage retreat to a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Only then did he exhale, re-entering his apartment.
This place was far too exposed. DK Group's goons could find him here effortlessly.
Lighting a cigarette, Orson paced the room, considering his next move. His sister was still in the hospital, and leaving her vulnerable was not an option.
"A bigger city. Better security. Better healthcare," he muttered to himself.
---
The tension in his chest refused to ease.
"Fighting a corporate giant with only your fists? A fool's errand."
He could toy with Usher in Infinite Dimensions, but reality was a different beast. As much as Orson hated the thought, survival meant picking his battles carefully.
---
Just as he cursed his predicament, a sharp pain exploded in his left eye.
"What the…?"
The world blurred and spun. His vision flickered erratically between the real world and fragmented scenes from Infinite Dimensions.
The two realities seemed to overlap, the boundaries between them twisting into a surreal chaos.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
---
A few minutes later, the pain subsided, leaving Orson slumped against the side of his bed.
Before he could process the bizarre episode, the lights in his apartment flickered and died. A cold breeze brushed his face, and his pulse quickened.
"Gabrielle's back?"
He glanced toward the balcony, and his heart nearly stopped.
---
A shadow crouched on the railing—a figure with feline grace and wild, flowing hair. Two piercing eyes glinted in the darkness, locked onto him.
---
"The real you… what a disappointment."
The figure's voice was icy, laced with disdain. With a fluid leap, the intruder entered the room, her movements sharp and lethal.
---
Orson's instincts kicked in. Gripping a kitchen knife, he barely deflected the glint of her blade. Metal clashed violently, the force ripping through his wrist and drawing blood.
The woman's strength pinned him against the bed.
"Who the hell are you?!" Orson growled, straining against her weight.
---
Her body pressed against his, radiating a cold intensity. In the faint light, he could make out her striking features and shapely figure—details he had no time to appreciate.
"What's wrong, 'Grand Sorcerer'? Scared already?" she mocked, her tone dripping with cruel amusement.
Despite his resistance, Orson could tell she wasn't exerting her full strength. Her goal wasn't to kill him—not yet, anyway. She wanted to humiliate him.
---
Realizing the futility of struggling, Orson suddenly released his grip on the knife.
"Do it. Kill me already."
---
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. The room fell silent, their bodies locked in an uneasy standoff.
Then, without thinking, Orson's hand slid upward, resting on her waist.
"Might as well enjoy my last moments, right?" he muttered, his cheeks reddening slightly.
---
"You pervert!"
The assassin recoiled as if burned, slapping him hard across the face.
Orson didn't hesitate—he slapped her back, sending her reeling in shock.
---
For a moment, she froze, visibly shaken.
"Is… is she crying?"
Orson gawked at the sight of the deadly assassin trembling, her eyes watering.
"You… you deserve to die! A thousand times over!" she screamed, her voice cracking.
---
Something about her tone tugged at his memory. Narrowing his eyes, Orson studied her face carefully.
"Wait a second… you're… Blank?!"