Chapter 2

Three days later.

The nights in Beverly Hills smell like money—champagne, cigars, and the kind of bespoke perfumes only the rich wear.

I stood outside the Chateau Marmont Hotel, watching the young valet parkers busily taking over one Bentley, Rolls-Royce, and Maybach after another.

I was wearing that faded black jacket, jeans, and combat boots.

The security guard at the entrance—a burly man in a black suit—looked me up and down, his eyes saying, "You've come to the wrong place."

"An invitation." He held out his hand.

I took out the electronic invitation that Elena had sent me.

He scanned the QR code, his brows furrowing even more.

"This is... an invitation from Mr. James Harrison's entourage." He looked at me. "And who are you?"

"Sean Carter."

He said a few words into his headset, then reluctantly stepped aside.

"Rooftop terrace. The elevator is on the left."

I walked into the lobby.

Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, champagne towers everywhere, and women in evening gowns.

The air was filled with that kind of laughter unique to high society—fake, affected, and loud.

A waitress carrying a tray almost bumped into me. After she saw what I was wearing, a clear look of disgust flashed across her face.

"Sir, the staff entrance is at the back," she said in a nasal voice.

"I am a guest."

"A guest?" She looked me up and down. "Are you sure?"

I ignored her and headed straight for the elevator.

The whispers around me buzzed into my ears like flies.

Who is that person?

"Judging by his attire, he's a security guard, right?"

"Could he be some celebrity's driver?"

"My God, how could they let someone like this into a place like this..."

I pressed the elevator button.

The elevator doors opened.

There were three men standing inside, dressed in suits, with Rolex and Patek Philippe watches gleaming on their cuffs. They both frowned when they saw me.

"Brother, the freight elevator is on the basement level," one of the bald, middle-aged men said.

I went inside and pressed the button for the top floor.

"Hey!" another young man wearing glasses said irritably, "Didn't you hear me? This is—"

The elevator doors closed.

The space was deathly silent.

The three of them stared at me like I was trash.

I leaned against the elevator wall, hands in my pockets, expressionless.

"Anyone can sneak in these days," the bald man whispered to his companion. "Security is getting laxer and laxer."

bite--

The elevator was stopped at the top floor.

The door opened.

The terrace was brightly lit, and at least two hundred people were drinking and chatting.

I went outside.

The air here is thinner—not in a physical sense, but the kind of air that only those standing at the top of a pyramid can breathe.

I scanned the entire room.

James Harrison should be in the northwest corner—Elena said he would be standing next to the decorative olive tree.

I walked through the crowd.

"My God, who is that?"

"security guard?"

"No way, security guards can come up here?"

"Damn it, I paid $50,000 for the entrance fee..."

I ignored the voices and walked straight to the northwest corner.

An elderly man stood beside an olive tree. He was over seventy years old, with his gray hair neatly combed and his dark blue suit perfectly tailored.

He saw me and nodded slightly.

"Mr. Sean."

"Mr. Harrison."

"Come with me."

He turned and walked to a quiet corner at the edge of the terrace, where potted plants and a screen created a relatively private space.

I followed.

"Documents." He pulled a brown paper bag from his inside suit pocket. "Mr. Arthur's will executor's document, proof of completion of the protection mission, and your...payment for these three years."

"I don't need any payment."

"That's the rule." He handed me the paper bag. "Mr. Arthur said that debts owed to Zero must be repaid."

I took the paper bag.

"One more thing," Harrison lowered his voice, "Your privileges have been restored. At the Pentagon, your SPEC-OPS-CMD level nine privileges were reactivated early yesterday morning."

I nodded.

Three years ago, in order to completely conceal my identity, I voluntarily froze all my permissions.

The contract has now ended, and the system will automatically unblock the account.

"This means..." Harrison looked at me, "that you have the same resources at your disposal as you did three years ago. Intelligence networks, financial systems, special forces... all the doors are reopened for you."

"clear."

"Sign here." He handed me a pen and a document.

Just as I was about to sign, suddenly—

"Sean?!"

That voice.

Familiar, sharp, and full of astonishment.

I turned my head.

Vivian stood five meters away, wearing a red backless dress, with a diamond necklace sparkling around her neck.

She was arm in arm with a man.

Around fifty years old, 1.85 meters tall, with slicked-back hair, wearing a custom-made suit, and a Richard Miller watch worth $200,000 on his wrist.

Richard Warren.

One of the three major Hollywood production giants.

His net worth is four billion US dollars.

"How did you get here?!" Vivian's voice rose eight octaves.

Everyone around turned their heads.

"Vivian, what's wrong?" Richard frowned at me. "Do you know this...person?"

"He...he is..." Vivian's face flushed red. "He's my...ex-husband."

The last two words were practically squeezed out through clenched teeth.

Richard looked me up and down, then smiled.

"Ex-husband?" He burst out laughing. "Hahaha! Honey, are you kidding me? You're telling me your ex-husband was... a plumber, but I thought he was at least... you know, at least dressed decently."

A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd.

Vivian's face turned even redder.

"Richard, let's go." She grabbed his arm. "Ignore him, he's a loser."

"Wait a minute." Richard shook off her hand and walked up to me. "I'm curious. Dude, how did you get in here? Stole the invitation? Or bribed the security guards?"

I didn't say anything.

Harrison took a step back, his face expressionless.

But I know what he's thinking—he's debating whether or not to step forward and explain.

I shook my head slightly at him.

unnecessary.

"He must have sneaked in!" a woman shrieked. "I knew security was too lax!"

"We should call the police!"

"Yes! Throw him out!"

Richard raised his hand, signaling for everyone to be quiet.

"No, no, no, gentlemen." His smile widened. "We are civilized people. We cannot treat...the poor like this. After all, charity is a virtue of our upper class, isn't it?"

He turned to me.

"Dude, I'm giving you two choices." He pulled out his wallet, took out a stack of hundred-yuan bills, and said, "One, take this five thousand yuan and get out of here right now."

He paused for a moment.

"Two..." His smile turned vicious, "Kneel down, kiss Vivian's shoes, and apologize in front of everyone—apologize for the past three years you've defiled her, dragged her down, and wasted her youth. Then—get out."

The audience burst into laughter.

Someone whistled.

Some people applauded.

Vivian stood there, a smile on her lips, her eyes filled with naked pleasure.

"Richard, you're so naughty," she said coquettishly, but her tone was full of smugness.

"Honey, I just want him to understand," Richard said, putting his arm around her waist and addressing the crowd, "to understand the...gap between him and us. You know what? I hate those lowlifes who don't know their place, always thinking about climbing up and polluting our world."

He snapped his fingers.

Four bodyguards in black stepped out of the crowd and surrounded me.

This is not ordinary security.

Judging from their gait, muscle definition, and the look in their eyes—these are retired mercenaries or gang thugs.

Tattoos were visible on their collars and cuffs.

Tattoos in Russian prisons.

"So, buddy?" Richard asked, a cigar dangling from his lips. "Which one do you choose?"

I looked at him.

Then he looked at Vivian.

Her eyes were filled with expectation—expectation to see me humiliated, kneeling, and begging for mercy.

I handed the folder and pen back to Harrison.

"Wait me a moment."

Then I turned to Richard.

I put my hands in my pockets and looked at this man who thought he was at the top of the world.

What's your name?

Richard paused for a moment, then laughed in fury.

"What's my name?" He looked around at the people. "Gentlemen, he asked me my name! This good-for-nothing from the East Side slums asked me my name!"

The whole audience burst into laughter.

"Richard Warren!" he pointed at himself. "CEO of Warren Pictures! Four billion dollars! Forbes top 100! Did you fucking hear me?"

I nodded.

"I heard you clearly."

Then I took out the black satellite phone.

The screen was still lit.

【SYSTEM ONLINE. ALL CLEARANCES ACTIVE.】

(System online. All permissions activated.)

"What are you doing?" Richard frowned. "Calling for help? Calling your slum friends?"

I ignored him.

I dialed a number.

A number I haven't dialed in three years.

beep--

beep--

"Zero." The voice on the other end of the phone was calm and professional, with the conciseness characteristic of a soldier. "We've been waiting for your call for three years."

"I need a complete profile of one person," I said. "Richard Warren. Warren Film Group."

"Hold on."