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Soren didn't shake hands. He just gave a small nod. "Let's cut straight to it. How do you two want to handle this?"
Facing that kind of blunt, no-bullshit question, Steve's face tightened with discomfort.
In the hospital he dealt with families like this all the time—the ones who were the hardest to manage.
He'd figured the kid would at least fake some polite small talk before getting to the point. Instead, Soren skipped the bullshit and went right for the throat.
Still, Steve knew he was in the wrong, and the settlement money was more than fair, so he was ready to fold.
Steve opened his mouth, about to agree. "We understand how this whole thing started—"
"You're that killer's fucking backer?!"
His wife Annie suddenly screamed, cutting him off.
"My son is dead! That little bitch murdered him!"
Annie's face twisted, her hands clawing at the table like she wanted to rip it apart.
Her shriek instantly pulled every other customer's eyes toward their booth.
Soren stayed perfectly calm, ignoring her completely.
He looked across at Steve, who was shifting nervously in his seat. "Mr. Steve, I'm here to fix the problem. I'm not interested in a shouting match."
Steve gave an apologetic nod and reached out to pull Annie back, but she jerked away and screamed again, voice raw and wild.
"I don't want your dirty fucking money! I've got one demand!"
Annie's bloodshot eyes drilled into Soren, a greedy little glint hiding behind the grief.
"You and that Carrie girl are coming back to our house with me—right now!"
She was breathing hard, chest heaving. "You both stand at my son's funeral and bow your heads. You apologize to him on your knees. Do that, and I'll go straight to the station and drop every single charge."
Soren stayed seated, watching her quietly.
Weren't they supposed to be obsessed with the cash? Why the sudden switch?
But when something smelled this wrong, there was usually a reason.
She reeked of demon, and now she was demanding they come to the house for some "apology" at a funeral.
His mind went straight to live sacrifice, resurrection ritual—classic cult shit.
He turned to Steve. "Is that what you two are asking for now?"
Steve's mouth fell open. He clearly hadn't expected his wife to throw that curveball.
But after a second he seemed to talk himself into it. Maybe she really was just grief-crazed. Now that they had the big payout, asking the person responsible to show up at the funeral and apologize actually sounded… reasonable.
He nodded at Soren. "Yes. Exactly what my wife said. One apology and this ends."
"An apology's fine," Soren told Steve. "But that girl's been through hell. She's traumatized—depressed, scared to leave the house. She's in no shape for this."
"I'll go to the funeral in her place and apologize to your son."
He wanted to see exactly what game this family was playing.
If something was off, he could clean it up all at once and be done with it.
The second Soren agreed, Annie rattled off the exact time and address of the funeral, like she was terrified he'd back out.
Her desperate eagerness only made his suspicion spike higher.
…
The Steve family home sat deep in a quiet patch of woods—an old three-story villa with that vintage American look.
Soren parked on the curb and stepped out.
The air smelled of fresh-cut pine. A big tree out front had a little treehouse built into the branches.
But his eyes locked on the group standing in the shadows underneath it.
Half a dozen men and women in suits. Not talking. Not moving. Just staring straight at him with these stiff, frozen smiles.
Cultists?
Soren's eyes narrowed.
He straightened his coat and walked toward the front door.
He rang the bell. Steve answered.
In just one day the guy looked ten years older—hair a mess, heavy stubble, eyes sunken.
"Annie's upstairs getting things ready… come on in."
Steve forced a weak smile.
Inside, every curtain was drawn tight. The place was dim, almost dark.
On the coffee table sat a bunch of miniature models—tiny hospital beds, a perfect replica of this house.
But every single figurine that was supposed to be a person had its head chopped clean off at the neck.
Click.
A strange tongue-click sound echoed from somewhere above the living room.
It wasn't loud, but in the creepy silence it sounded way too wrong.
Soren looked up. Nothing but an empty ceiling and a hanging lamp.
"You hear that?" he asked Steve.
Steve froze mid-step. "That was… our daughter Charlie's favorite sound when she was alive."
"Ever since she passed, the house has been making that noise for no reason."
"Annie says it's Charlie coming back to see her."
He squeezed his eyes shut, pain etched on his face. "She's losing it. Just say what you have to say and get out of here, okay?"
Soren suddenly turned and looked up at the second-floor railing.
Annie was already standing there, staring down at him.
She looked completely different from the hysterical woman at the diner. Face blank, arms hanging limp at her sides.
"Mr. Soren, since you're here to apologize… come up to the attic."
Her voice was flat. Then she stepped back and melted into the shadows.
Soren didn't hesitate. He climbed the stairs.
The second-floor hallway was pitch black, like the open mouth of something waiting to swallow him whole.
In the middle of the hall, a folding ladder hung down from an open trapdoor in the ceiling.
Soren glanced up.
Candlelight flickered inside the attic. Shadows danced across the ceiling.
He bent his knees, muscles coiled.
Bang!
He jumped straight up through the opening and landed inside the attic.
The space was bigger than he expected, every corner lined with lit candles.
Annie—who had been on the stairs a second ago—was now floating in mid-air in the center of the room.
A piano wire was wrapped around her hands and sawing back and forth across her own throat. Bright red blood poured down her clothes like a waterfall.
She didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Her eyes stayed locked on Soren.
Her mouth split into a hideous, jagged grin.
From the dark corners of the attic, more than a dozen naked men and women slowly stepped out.
Pale skin. Identical creepy smiles. Knives in every hand.
Soren glanced down. He was standing dead-center inside a blood-drawn ritual array that was now glowing with faint red light.
"Got it," he muttered.
These assholes really were trying to summon a demon—and they'd picked him as the sacrifice.
"Kill him!"
The naked cultists snarled and rushed forward, knives raised.
Soren's eyes went cold. He gripped Alastor in one hand. Demonic power flooded the blade.
One simple horizontal swing.
Shing—
Lightning flashed.
Every cultist froze mid-lunge, still in their running poses.
A thin red line appeared across each of their bodies.
A heartbeat later, a dozen torsos slid cleanly off their hips. Blood sprayed everywhere, snuffing out half the candles.
The ritual array under Soren's feet sensed the interference and exploded with blinding red light.
A cold, malicious presence materialized out of thin air and drifted straight toward the floating Annie.
Annie's hands—still sawing at her throat with the piano wire—suddenly stopped.