In the grand palace, fine wine and sumptuous dishes sat upon a long table draped in a red tablecloth. The rich aroma of food, fruit, and wine wafted through the air, making one's appetite stir and inviting a hearty feast.
The fireplace blazed, radiating cozy warmth. Luxurious bronze-colored metal chairs, intricately patterned silver tableware, exquisite golden candlesticks, masterpieces hanging on the surrounding walls, and perfectly chosen soothing music filled the room.
Everything displayed an air of deep aristocratic grandeur. Even a medieval royal banquet would have been no more impressive.
"You seem quite satisfied with your life now," said the young man seated at the head of the table.
Had anyone else been present at this lavish dinner, their eyes would have dropped out in shock. The one seated in the host's place was not Victor Doom.
In all of Latveria, was there anyone more eminent or more noble than Doctor Doom?
Even the old aristocrats, powerful warlords, and leaders of every political faction had to bow beneath Victor Doom's feet, so eager they might as well have knelt to lick his shoes.
"I am very satisfied, but not content."
Doctor Doom replied through his metal mask.
He set down his knife and fork and looked toward Sean across from him, complicated emotions flickering in his eyes.
Sean had molded an entirely new personality for him: ambitious, driven by desire, possessed of formidable execution, and coldly indifferent toward everything.
In a sense, it could be called a true reflection of another side of Sean's heart.
Doctor Doom knew all this, yet through the long process of personality molding, he had become like an elephant tied by a rope, forever unable to break free from Sean's control.
There was a fable in a storybook: an elephant in a zoo could be