Under everyone's gaze, Braydon Neal strolled into the inn at a steady pace.
A waiter, wearing a flattering smile, rushed toward him. He couldn't afford to offend someone as ruthless as Braydon—if anything happened to him, he'd just have to consider himself unlucky.
"Sir, what do you need?" the waiter asked nervously.
Braydon casually glanced at the inn's menu.
"A bottle of burning knives and a serving of peanuts," he said. "I hope I can finish this meal in peace. Otherwise, you should already know what will happen."
Braydon's calm tone made sweat bead on the waiter's forehead.
"Understood, sir. I know what you mean."
The unspoken warning was clear—if there was anything wrong with the food, Braydon wouldn't show mercy.
He found a table and sat down, his gaze lingering briefly on the bloodstains marking the surface.
