Mike retreated quietly, as silent as he had arrived.
Back in his car parked a distance away, he took off the baseball cap and spectacles, then used a wet wipe to clean off the dark foundation and the fake goatee.
The Hand’s people were still monitoring Jesse’s former residence, which meant their investigation into the “warehouse” raid hadn’t stopped.
Mike started the car and drove slowly out of the neighborhood.
He didn’t head home.
Instead, he turned toward another part of Brooklyn—a few bars where the Buffalo Gang was known to frequent.
He wanted to fish for more information.
Ten minutes later, he parked in a paid lot, pulled a black knit beanie from his bag, pulled up his collar, and stuck on a full beard.
The bar’s interior was dimly lit and filled with loud music.
Mike walked to the innermost seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
He drank slowly, scanning his surroundings and letting his ears catch fragments of drifting conversation.
“…heard Old Jack’s been in a foul mood lately, that shipment got busted…”
“…new crew of Colombians in the South Side, can drive the price down…”
None of this was what he wanted.
He sat for about twenty minutes.
People gradually left, and once the bar had thinned out by half, he finally heard two men in grease-stained cargo pants mention Jesse.
“Jesse?
…Kid died a hell of a death.” One of them lowered his voice.
“Word is when they found him, his fingernails were gone, and he was covered in marks.”
“Served him right,” the other sneered.
“Taking a few hits is one thing, but actually trying to run business?
He was a nobody.
It was only a matter of time…”
Mike moved two steps closer with his glass, the voices becoming clearer.
“It wasn’t just about the business,” the first voice whispered.
“I heard from ‘Skinny’ that a few days before Jesse died, someone saw two guys dressed like ninjas.”
“Ninjas?
You’ve been watching too many damn movies.”
“Believe it or not, Skinny said he saw it with his own eyes.
Nighttime, right outside Jesse’s building.
The guy just ‘whoosh’—straight up the wall.
Two days later, Jesse’s dead.”
Mike’s hand holding the glass remained steady.
He set the glass down, preparing to leave.
Just then, a commotion broke out at the other end of the bar.
A man in a faded denim jacket with messy hair stumbled to his feet, pointing at a bald, burly man across from him.
“Say that again, you motherfucker!
That money is mine by right!”
The bald man sneered and stood up.
He was nearly 1.9 meters tall with bulging muscles.
“By right?
You lost two bags of product.
Keeping your life was an act of mercy from Boss Jack.”
“Everyone’s short on supply right now!
Who knows who snatched it!”
“So you just stopped caring?” The bald man took a step forward, getting right in the other man’s face.
“Do you know what those two bags are worth these days?
I could sell you for parts and it wouldn’t even cover the debt.”
The people around them went quiet, watching with interest.
The bartender polished a glass, his face expressionless.
Mike guessed the bald man was a small-time leader in the Buffalo Gang, and the other man was a downstream distributor—likely an outsider with some status.
“I’m giving you two choices.
Either get the money together in three days, or use your body parts to pay the bill.”
Mike looked away, left money for the beer on the counter, and exited the bar.
As he reached the door, he heard a dull thud and a scream from behind him, followed by cursing and laughter.
His clearing of the “warehouse” hadn’t just kept The Hand investigating; it seemed to have thrown the local gangs into chaos as well.
The chilly air cleared his head.
Jesse was a rookie, and he himself was also a rookie in the NYPD.
In any environment, when something goes wrong and there’s no clear suspect, the rookie is always the first one under the microscope.
He had to blend into his role as a patrol officer more effectively, establish a solid footing in the precinct, and earn the trust and cover of his colleagues.
As for his “dark cop” side-hustle at night, he had to keep a low profile for a few more days.
By the time he returned home, it was nearly dawn.
Mike entered and checked his security alarms.
He pulled a beer from the fridge and summoned the system interface to check his [Status].
Strength 15, Agility 12, Spirit 12…
Before work the next day, Mike went to a well-known pizzeria and ordered twelve large pizzas.
The morning patrol was more of the same.
Frank seemed to notice Mike was a bit distracted but didn’t ask questions.
They returned to the precinct early for lunch.
The pizzas arrived right on time.
Mike and the delivery driver hauled the boxes into the patrol unit’s office, and the rich aroma of cheese and toasted crust immediately filled the room.
Several officers who were about to head out for lunch stopped in their tracks.
“Hey everyone,” Mike clapped his hands.
“Lunch is on me.
I just moved into a new place yesterday, so consider this a thanks for all the help lately.”
The office went silent for a split second, then someone let out a whistle.
“Whoa, look at the rookie, he’s learning the ropes!”
A white officer in his thirties with a slight paunch walked over and slapped Mike on the shoulder.
This was Sergeant Tom Huggins, one of Mike’s direct supervisors, responsible for scheduling and daily oversight.
He was a typical Irish-American with a ruddy face and a booming laugh.
A chorus of laughter followed.
“I heard you’ve got Chinese blood in you, you should’ve treated us to Chinese food!” someone shouted.
Mike shrugged and gave a wry smile.
“My credit card is about to max out.
I just bought some furniture and didn’t even dare pull the trigger on a power drill I wanted.
Pizza is all the budget allows!”
This resonated with quite a few people.
“Don’t even get me started on credit cards,” another young officer chimed in.
“I saw a sound system I wanted last month, but between the mortgage and the bills, there was nothing left.
Had to pass on it.”
“I’m still paying off my student loans.
Kind of regret going to college…”
The room filled with chatter as they grumbled about living expenses, and the atmosphere warmed up.
Mike put on disposable gloves and started handing out slices, nodding along with their stories.
Sergeant Tom took two slices, bit off a large chunk, and said somewhat muffled, “Alright, stop crying about being poor.
Who in this line of work isn’t?
Mike, thanks for the food.”
He clapped his hands again.
“Finish up and get some rest.
We’ve got a mountain of work this afternoon.”
Mike handed two slices to Frank.
Frank took them and said quietly, “Good work, Mike!”
Mike gave him a wink, letting him know he got the message.
Lunchtime passed quickly.
Everyone cleared away the trash and returned to their posts, heading back to work after the brief respite.
Mike could feel that some colleagues who previously only gave him a polite nod now looked at him with a bit more warmth.
In the afternoon, inside the patrol car, the radio crackled.
“7-Adam-5…
47 Green Street, ‘Quick-Link’ Convenience Store.
Owner reports an armed robbery.
Suspect just fled.
Description is a white male, black jacket…
please respond immediately.”
Frank grabbed the mic.
“7-Adam-5, copy that.
En route.”
He hit the sirens, and the car accelerated toward Green Street.
Mike’s heart rate quickened.
Armed robbery—the suspect had fled, but he might still be nearby.
At the same time, a system notification chimed in his mind.
[Ding!]
[Detected host encounter with armed robbery case.
Triggering side quest: Street Capture.]
[Task Description: Locate the suspect of the ‘Quick-Link’ Convenience Store robbery.
The suspect may be hiding in the western alley district.
The area is filled with dumpsters and discarded furniture, a common hiding spot for transients.]
[Task Requirement: Safely apprehend the suspect and recover the stolen goods.]
[Task Reward: 50 Credits, Precinct Reputation Increase, Attention from the Detective Bureau.]
[Time Limit: 2 Hours]
A side quest!
Mike checked the Glock on his hip and his spare magazines.
The task description mentioned the “western alley district” and “dumpsters and discarded furniture”—it was a very specific hint.
“Staying alert is good,” Frank said while driving.
“Suspect might have a gun.
But remember, our job is to process the scene, not play hero chasing suspects.”
“Understood,” Mike nodded.
“Safety first.”
Three minutes later, the patrol car arrived at the Green Street convenience store.
A few bystanders were already gathered outside, and the owner was gesturing excitedly to the officers who had arrived first.
Frank parked, and the two of them hopped out.
The first responders were Marcus Davis—an officer Mike knew—and his partner.
Davis nodded to them and quickly briefed them.
“Owner says the suspect held him at gunpoint, grabbed the cash from the register and several cartons of cigarettes, then ran west.
It’s been less than five minutes.
We’ve called for backup and are cordoning off the surrounding streets.”
“Anyone hurt?” Frank asked.
“Owner’s fine.”
Frank turned to Mike.
“Let’s check the west side.
Davis, you guys hold down the fort here.”
“Copy that.”
The two got back in the car and drove slowly westward.
Frank tapped the steering wheel, his expression relaxed, seemingly not expecting to make an arrest.
This street was lined with old apartment buildings and small shops, with alleys crisscrossing everywhere.
It was incredibly easy to disappear.
After one block, Frank pulled the car over.
“We’ll need to go on foot soon.
Keep your radio open.
If you see anything, call it in first.
Don’t go rogue.”
“Okay…
uh, wait.
Look over there.
Behind that large dumpster, someone’s acting suspicious.”
Frank nodded, drove another few dozen meters, and stopped.
Frank reported over the radio that they were going on foot and requested backup, then gave Mike a look.
Mike drew his Glock, flipped the safety, and jogged forward, stopping at a corner about ten meters from the dumpster.
Frank followed behind.
The two made eye contact.
Frank patted Mike on the shoulder and whispered, “GO!”
Mike lunged out, weapon raised, shouting, “NYPD!
Come out!
Hands where I can see them!” He moved to the other side of the dumpster, crouching low to avoid potential fire.
Frank also raised his gun, peeking out and shouting, “NYPD!
Let me see your hands!”
There was a few seconds of silence behind the dumpster before a white male in a deep blue hoodie stood up shaking, hands high.
A bulging backpack sat at his feet.
“Don’t shoot!” the man yelled.
“I was just hungry!”
Mike kept his aim steady.
“Slowly turn around.
Get on the ground!
Hands behind your head!”
The man complied with practiced ease, lying flat.
Mike stepped forward, kicking the backpack away.
Scattered cash and cartons of cigarettes spilled out.
“You are under arrest.
You have the right to remain silent…”
As he recited the Miranda rights, Frank arrived.
He used the muzzle of his gun to flip open the backpack further, revealing a handgun tucked between the cigarette cartons.
He smiled instantly.
“Good work, Mike!”