After less than three hours of sleep, the alarm went off.
Mike dragged himself out of bed with a heavy head.
He got dressed, tossed his bags and suitcase into his car, and drove to the precinct.
During their day shift patrol, Frank noticed his lack of energy.
For once, Frank didn’t tease him much and took over most of the public interactions.
“Didn’t sleep well last night?” Frank asked casually after they finished handling a neighbor’s noise complaint.
“A bit of insomnia,” Mike replied vaguely, rubbing his temples.
“I thought maybe you spent the whole night playing with Sarah,” Frank joked.
Mike gave a dry laugh and responded with a middle finger.
In reality, Mike was focusing what little attention he had on the car’s radio, listening for any reports regarding the Art District, fires, or homicides.
However, as the morning passed, everything remained quiet.
The dispatch center hadn’t mentioned anything related to the incident.
It was as if everything that happened at the warehouse—including the fire he personally set—was just a hallucination.
Mike felt something was off.
Even if the fire wasn’t massive, four people were dead, including one dressed as a ninja.
Even though he had taken the contraband, there were plenty of traces left behind.
If even one person had reported it, it would have been a major case.
It was impossible for there to be no ripples at all.
He had a growing suspicion.
He had only embezzled the funds because the system required it, but it seemed that someone in the upper echelons of the NYPD or some other official agency was taking dirty money too!
Once he thought of it that way, everything clicked.
During lunch, he took the initiative to buy Frank a coffee and chatted about his plan to find a new place to live.
He was just a crooked cop who robbed other criminals, not a crooked cop who conspired with gangs for a paycheck.
While he hadn’t been suffering much from a guilty conscience anyway, he now felt even less conflicted about the night’s events being swept under the rug.
It was a good thing that someone was covering for him.
If the other side wasn’t the police or the FBI, they couldn’t investigate him openly.
The chance of being discovered was nearly zero.
There was nothing left to worry about!
That evening, Mike brought his clothes and luggage back upstairs and slept in his apartment for one more night.
But by noon the next day, he had rented a townhouse in a middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn.
The house wasn’t huge—a typical American-style small house with two floors, a half-floor attic (effectively two and a half stories), and a small basement.
It had white wooden siding and a small patch of lawn out front.
It closely matched the living environment he had envied in his previous life.
No neighbors above or below, only to the sides, with independent entrances and private space.
It was infinitely better than his moldy apartment.
More importantly, the environment was quiet and provided better privacy, which was beneficial for his nighttime “activities.”
The only downside was that it was smaller than the houses he remembered, but for a single man, it was plenty spacious.
He made another trip that evening to move the rest of his things, though he left a few pieces of clothing behind.
He didn’t intend to cancel the lease on the old apartment.
He would stay low for a few days.
In the future, the apartment could serve as a safe house.
Normally, a housewarming would call for a party, but Mike didn’t have many close acquaintances at the precinct, and he didn’t want to reach out to his old community college classmates.
Combined with his growing habit of keeping a low profile, he decided to act as if nothing had happened.
On his third workday, during their lunch break, Sarah asked to meet him that evening.
“I know you’re not into this, but it’s a waste to let them go.
Come with me, and we can go get something to eat on the East Side afterward.”
Mike truly had no interest in opera, but he did want to go—not for the performance, but to pass by the Art District.
“Sure, see you tonight.”
After work, Mike went home and changed into a casual suit.
He picked up Sarah and drove toward Manhattan.
As they passed near Brooklyn Bridge Park, Mike said, “Let’s take a detour.
This way seems less congested.”
Sarah, who was touching up her makeup, gave an “mm-hmm” and didn’t mind.
They arrived near the Art District.
The car slowed down.
Mike’s gaze swept toward the back alley of the old bookstore.
His newly acquired Dynamic Vision allowed him to clearly capture the dim details in the distance without needing to stop.
The warehouse was still there.
But unlike before, the walls of the factory building bore the blackened scorch marks of a fire.
A few windows were shattered and crudely boarded up with wood.
Overall, it looked like a dilapidated site following a minor electrical fire.
However, there was no yellow police tape around the warehouse.
Not even many pedestrians spared it a curious glance.
It stood there quietly, seemingly forgotten by the world.
Mike’s heart felt a bit heavier, but he quickly recovered.
After all, with The Hand involved, even if the NYPD had opened a case, it would probably be taken over by SHIELD—the agency that handled supernatural phenomena.
Or rather, Hydra-SHIELD.
“What are you looking at?” Sarah followed his gaze.
“Oh, I heard there was a small fire over there.
Faulty wiring or something.
It shouldn’t be anything serious.”
“Yeah.”
Mike grunted in response, retracted his gaze, and hit the gas.
The car merged back into the flow of traffic.
It seemed there were some rumors at the precinct, but they had been suppressed internally.
The water in this world ran deep, and he already had one foot in.
The only good news was that he could now see things more clearly.
On his first day off.
Mike took the initiative to ask Sarah out, but not for a date—they went to a furniture store.
“What!
You moved into a new house!
OMG!” In the mall, Sarah had been wondering why Mike brought her there.
Upon hearing his explanation, she immediately jumped on him in excitement.
Her excitement left Mike caught between laughter and tears.
“Please, *I’m* the one moving, not you!”
Well…
not necessarily.
Sure enough, Sarah hugged Mike and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to your place tonight!” Get faster updates on g.com.
“OK!” Mike smiled and patted Sarah’s backside, signaling her to get down.
“I’ll sear some steaks for you tonight.”
“I’ll bring a bottle of red wine.
No, make it two.”
…
The night was deep but not yet quiet; the wine was gone, and the people had just settled down.
As Sarah caught her breath, she suddenly remembered something.
“Did you know?
Jesse, the one who took your first time, is dead.
I saw some reports yesterday.
They say it was a gang cleaning out a snitch.”
Mike flinched when he first heard the name, but after she finished, he playfully slapped her.
“You scared me.
That thieving junkie?
He was bound to end up dead.”
Sarah sighed.
“Yeah.
I used to think he was pitiable, just stealing worthless junk to survive.
But over time, there’s no way he was just stealing.”
Recalling Jesse’s secretive behavior, Mike couldn’t help but say, “When a poor guy becomes a junkie, he’s almost guaranteed to lose everything.
There are gangs around where he lived; they probably use drugs to keep them under their thumb.
Once you’re hooked, you can’t stop.”
Sarah nodded.
“There was a guy in my high school who secretly drugged a girl.
Later, that girl got AIDS.
I heard it was because she was in orgies every day just to get a free fix.”
Mike shook his head.
“It’s a pity that stuff is impossible to ban now.
Some places are even starting to push for legalization.”
Sarah looked up in surprise.
“That stuff can be legalized?”
Mike thought of the future state of the United States where contraband would run out of control.
He chuckled.
“Mm-hmm.
It starts with ‘protecting their privacy.’ Hah!”
Sarah found it hard to believe.
“My God.
If that’s true, I’m starting to feel like I’m actually doing something righteous.”
Mike teased, “So it’s not so boring anymore?”
Sarah’s face fell.
“Still boring.”
Mike couldn’t help but laugh.