Chapter 64: The Terrifying Party

"Percy, do you know? Today I met another one of those… how do you put it… 'socially self-sufficient' patients."

In a well-decorated but not luxurious living room, several neatly dressed men and women sat on the sofa, drinking and chatting.

Behind them, electronic flames flickered in the fireplace, and a record player emitted faint classic rock music; the overall atmosphere was cheerful and friendly.

But if anyone had heard their conversation at this moment, they would have been stunned.

"Socially self-sufficient? Damian, you mean those bastards who skip their bills?" asked Percy, raising his glass, his black, neatly trimmed hair catching the light.

The evening's male host, Damian Allen with his brown hair, spoke with disgust: "Skipping bills is civilized. He's the kind… whose mouth tastes sweet, like he circulates cola instead of blood. Then the first thing he says when he sits down is, 'Can you pull this out? I don't have insurance.'"

"So you refused?" asked Karl, Damian's wife, tying up her black hair.

"Of course I did, damn it. I'm not a charity. I'm a dentist, not a shelter worker."

Damian sipped his whiskey: "And guess what these people love to say the most?"

"I bet it's curses," a woman answered first.

"No no no, dear, I think they love saying 'God'," said the man beside her, laughing as he corrected her.

Damian shook his head: "Neither. What they love to say most is, 'Doctors only care about money.' God, of course we care about money—who doesn't? If he had money, would he be standing here? He'd have bought a gun or a booster already."

"And their tartar is as thick as geological strata, their gums bleed at the slightest touch, and their breath—do you know that smell? The cheap lead taste of tap water. God, I get physically nauseous just smelling it."

"So I'm planning to switch clinics soon. I'm done with treating this trash."

After speaking, Damian downed a large gulp of whiskey.

"Darling, think of it as training in negative energy conversion," Karl patted the man's back.

Damian looked at her: "Do lawyers comfort clients like this?"

"I make them sign papers. Once they sign, the world becomes quiet."

"Haha." Everyone laughed.

At that moment, Damian suddenly turned toward the second floor: "Where's Ryan? What's he doing?"

"He's probably still in his room," his wife Karl replied.

Damian frowned: "Is he planning to live in his room forever like a hermit crab?"

Saying this, he stood up and walked to the second floor, arriving at his son's room.

"Click." The door was locked.

"Open up, Ryan."

After a moment's wait, the door creaked open, and the boy stood in the shadow of his father, hands behind his back.

"Slap!" Damian struck him without hesitation.

Seeing tears welling in the boy's eyes, he hissed: "Stop crying. You deserve this."

"I've told you many times—don't lock yourself in your room! Do you want to kill me?"

"That'd be a shame—my inheritance won't go to you, you golden-haired little brat!"

After saying that, he kicked little Ryan to the ground again.

After venting his anger, the man visibly relaxed. He adjusted his tie and added: "Take the jar to your mother later. Remember—smile! Greet them! Unless you want another beating!"

Little Ryan remained silent, nodding hard.

After his father left, he quickly shut the door.

Little Ryan first opened the window, then went to his desk and pulled open the drawer.

Immediately, a faint, cloyingly sweet odor, almost rotten, flooded his nose.

"It should be enough," the boy's eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he held up a dried pink bud.

This was his final achievement over the past three months.

And the key to gaining his parents' approval.

"Ryan!" At that moment, his mother's voice came from downstairs.

Little Ryan instantly clenched the bud in his palm, turned, and left the room.

"Help me get the jar," Karl passed by her son, ignoring the faint bruise on his face.

"Yes, Mom," Little Ryan hurried to the storage closet and pulled out a pitch-black jar from the deepest box.

When the boy opened it, a sweet, grassy stench immediately filled his nostrils.

He casually picked up a leaf, put it in his mouth, and chewed.

"So bitter." He spat it out, then put one of his own grown leaves into his mouth to taste.

"Not as tasty as mine! They'll definitely praise me after eating it." Little Ryan wrinkled his face, spat out the leaf, triumphantly crushed the bud in his palm, dropped it into the jar, and shook it vigorously.

Then he carried the jar to the kitchen.

His mother Karl was preparing tonight's dinner: "Space Cake."

In simple terms, it involved heating leaves with butter to make "Special Butter," then using it for baking.

The resulting cake induced euphoria—it was essential for Damian's family when entertaining guests.

"Mom, here you go," Little Ryan handed the jar to the woman.

"Go to the living room. Don't let your father lose face."

Karl didn't comfort the boy. She simply opened the jar and poured out a measured amount of "ingredient."

"Cough cough cough, this smell is so pungent."

Though she complained, her movements were expert—she directly dumped the ingredient into the pot with the butter and heated it.

Meanwhile, Little Ryan was scrubbing his face raw in the bathroom.

When the mark was gone, the boy forced his lips upward into what he believed was his happiest smile, then walked into the living room and greeted the guests:

"Good evening, Uncle Percy."

"Good evening, Aunt Yunia."

「……」

After rattling off seven or eight names, little Ryan finally closed his mouth.

"So good!" several guests praised him, and his father Damian ruffled the boy's hair in encouragement.

After that, little Ryan sat on the sofa the whole time, acting as an observer. His smile never faded, as if he were a motionless puppet.

After some time, the hostess Karl brought over a freshly baked cake.

"Look what this is!"

"Space Cake!" Percy and the others stared in delight at the soft, fluffy cake base on the plate.

"Wow, God, it smells absolutely amazing."

"I can't even imagine how happy one bite would make me!"

"But no matter how delicious, don't eat too much, or you won't have the strength to drive later."

"Hahaha."

Amid laughter, everyone used knives and forks to slice the Space Cake, each taking a piece.

Only little Ryan received none.

But it didn't matter—he quietly picked up a crumb from the floor while others weren't looking and shoved it into his mouth.

"So sweet."

The boy felt the cake base melt instantly on his tongue—delicious beyond words.

But soon after, he suddenly felt his head spinning, his body weak, the world around him unreal.

Before his eyes, the guests' smiling faces slowly twisted. Like masks carelessly smeared, their mouths stretched open to absurd extremes, as if tearing through skin all the way to their ears.

Beneath those rigid grins, facial muscles seemed to have lost control, wriggling subtly and disgustingly beneath the skin, as if countless tiny worms were crawling and gnawing beneath the surface.

Even their laughter and chatter became distorted—their once clear voices now dull and sticky, like muffled sounds drifting through thick water. The high notes turned shrill and hoarse, like rusted metal scraping frantically across glass.

Little Ryan instinctively pressed his throbbing temples, beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead; he felt his head swollen and pounding, his body utterly miserable.

But the others seemed completely unaware of his distress—only Damian, his face the most twisted and grotesque, sneered: "Fuck, look at this pitiful, weak mess."

"You're not my son. My son's hair should be intelligent, dark—not cheap, golden!"

"Every time I see you, I'm ashamed!"

"You should roll back to hell!"

More curses echoed endlessly in the boy's ears, but he could no longer make them out—he only wanted to flee from the horror before him.

But as he rose to his feet, the demon father grabbed him.

Then the man drew a leather whip from his belt and lashed out.

The guests, seeing this, did not stop him—in fact, they raised their bloody knives and forks, shouting loudly: "Eat him, eat him, eat him!"

Even his mother Karl stared at him with venomous hatred: "I shouldn't have given birth to you."

"You only bring misfortune."

"You belong in hell!"

As she spoke, the woman jabbed her fork toward the boy.

"No!"

Little Ryan's heart pounded wildly with terror; he struggled violently free and fled in panic toward his room.

The atmosphere in the living room fell silent.

"Why did he suddenly run off?" Percy asked, puzzled—the cake on the plate was already half gone.

Damian frowned and set down the tie he'd planned to give his son: "Maybe he didn't want to help."

"Hmm." Karl put down her fork and knife: "That's what you get for being so strict all the time."

"Isn't it right for me to be strict? That stupid golden hair of his will make everyone look down on him at work."

"Just dye his hair then," Karl said.

Damian didn't dwell on his son's issue—he changed the subject: "Percy, I remember back in school, you dyed your hair gold on your own."

"Haha, yeah. I did it for fashion back then. If it were now, I'd never do something so embarrassing."

The conversation shifted back to their lives and jobs. They ate cake, savoring the approaching euphoric sensation.