At seven-thirty, the sun was high in the sky.
The police line still surrounded the villa at 147 Pine Street.
The bodies had been taken away, and the crime scene investigation was nearing its end.
The forensics van was still parked at the curb.
Irene Chen was squatting by the villa’s back door, carefully using tweezers to pick up a shard of glass and place it into an evidence bag.
Frank leaned against the hood of the patrol car, finishing the last sip of his cold tea.
Mike stood beside him, rolling his stiff shoulders.
The latter half of the night had been colder than expected; even wrapped in a heavy coat, he felt a persistent chill seeping into his bones after standing for so long.
“We’re wrapping up,” Irene said, a sentence that finally liberated the four patrol officers on the scene.
Just as Mike was about to get into the car, Irene called out to him from behind.
“Officer Lee.”
Mike turned around, looking at her with a hint of confusion.
Irene pulled off her gloves and walked over to him.
She was half a head shorter than Mike, her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.
Her skin was an even ivory white, and her eyes were bright.
“Is something the matter, Officer Chen?” Mike asked.
“You can just call me Irene.” She pulled out her phone.
“There were a few details at the scene I wanted to double-check with you.
Would you mind giving me your contact info?
I might need to follow up for more information.”
Mike nodded and recited his cell number.
Irene typed it in quickly.
“Are you of Chinese descent?”
“Mixed,” Mike said.
“My mother was Chinese, but I never knew them.”
“My parents are from Taiwan,” Irene said simply.
“You have a good eye.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed details like the ligature marks on the wrists right away.”
“Just luck,” Mike said modestly.
“It wasn’t luck.” Irene pushed up her glasses.
“You’re talented.”
She turned and walked back into the villa, her movements crisp and efficient.
Frank let out a whistle from inside the car.
“Whoa, rookie.
You’ve got some charm, don’t you?”
Mike sat in the passenger seat and gave him a wink.
“All in the line of duty.”
“Line of duty?” Frank started the car and pulled away from Pine Street.
“I heard Irene Chen is a top-tier transfer to the precinct’s forensics unit.
Masters in Forensic Science from NYU.
Word is her father is a software engineer and her mother is a doctor—a classic elite family.
A beauty like that is polite to everyone, but she’s the one asking for your number?
Ha.”
“Well, I suppose I do tend to overlook how handsome I am,” Mike joked with a shrug.
Frank gave him the middle finger.
Mike did have a favorable impression of Irene, not just because she was of Chinese descent, but because of the focus and sharp aura she carried.
But right now, he had more important matters to handle.
By the time he finished his handover and returned home, it was 8:10 AM.
Mike collapsed onto the sofa and fell asleep, but as he drifted in a haze, he remembered the spoils from the previous night and immediately jerked awake.
Seeing that it was only a little past ten, Mike got up, double-locked the door, drew all the curtains, and headed down to the basement.
The overhead incandescent bulb and the LED lamp on the workbench flickered to life.
Mike popped the latches and lifted the lid of the case.
Bundles of cash were stacked inside, somewhat untidily.
He took a deep breath and began to count.
Most were twenties and fifties, with a few hundreds mixed in as a nice surprise.
It took nearly half an hour to smooth out the bills and organize them into stacks.
The final count was over seventy-eight thousand dollars.
It was even more than he had estimated the night before.
Mike leaned back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously tapping the table.
To him, this was a fortune.
The original Mike only had less than two thousand dollars in his bank account, and a patrol officer’s take-home pay was only about two thousand every two weeks after taxes.
To rent this house and avoid suspicion regarding his finances, he had even taken out credit card loans.
He definitely couldn’t spend seventy thousand dollars all at once.
A rookie patrol officer suddenly throwing around that kind of cash would absolutely raise red flags.
He pulled out some prepared manila envelopes from a workbench drawer and started sorting the money.
He put five thousand in one envelope for daily cash reserves.
He put ten thousand in another, planning to spend it, but only in installments.
The remaining fifty-plus thousand was split into two manila envelopes, then sealed in a plastic bag and stuffed into a hidden compartment under the workbench.
It was a space he had prepared when he renovated the basement a few days ago; from the outside, it looked like a regular wooden plank.
After dealing with the cash, he pulled out the two guns he had recovered from the villa.
One was a Glock 19, similar to the police-issued sidearm.
The serial number had been filed off—clearly a “ghost gun.” Mike skillfully disassembled and inspected it; it was in good condition and well-maintained, making it a solid backup weapon.
The other gun gave him pause.
It wasn’t a common commercial model.
The lines of the frame were sleek, the grip had a unique anti-slip texture, and the material seemed to be some kind of alloy—lighter than a standard pistol but with a more solid feel.
Most importantly, there was a small line of text engraved on the side of the slide: [STARK INDUSTRIES #107].
Stark Industries Number 107?
Mike picked up the gun and examined it closely under the light.
The serial number format was different from the norm; it was likely a military series.
He tried to disassemble it; the internal structure was more complex than the Glock’s, but the general principles were the same.
So, Stark Industries didn’t just build missiles and Iron Man armor—they made small arms too?
Mike recalled what the bald man had said before he died: “Jack won’t let you get away with this.”
Maybe the Buffalo Gang had military connections?
That would certainly make them a big deal.
“But you don’t even know who I am.
Ha!”
Mike disassembled and inspected the Stark pistol.
The inner wall of the barrel had fine threads, seemingly designed for a suppressor, but the thread size didn’t look like a standard interface.
Mike thought for a moment and decided to wait until he finished this mission before modifying the Stark 107.
For now, he would do a quick modification on the Glock’s rifling.
Mike took a fine diamond-tipped conical grinding bit, clamped it into an electric drill, and ran it at the lowest speed, carefully inserting it into the barrel.
Conditions in the workshop were limited.
Mike couldn’t easily distinguish between the lands and the grooves, so he simply performed irregular, longitudinal light scraping on the interior walls.
This created new, irregular microscopic scratches.
When a bullet passed through, these new scratches would alter the marks left by the original rifling.
The rest was simple.
He used fine sandpaper to polish the firing pin, slightly changing its shape.
Then, he used a fine file to make a few passes on the edges where the extractor contacted the shell casing.
These changes would alter the shape of the indentation the firing pin made on the primer, as well as the scratches left on the rim of the casing during extraction.
This Glock was now a “clean” ghost gun.
Having finished his work, Mike showered, changed into civilian clothes, and headed out.
He drove toward the areas where the Blood Angels were known to be active.
At 4:00 PM, he walked into a bar called “The Black Sheep.” The interior was dim, with only a few scattered patrons.
The bartender was a man with a scarred face who spared Mike a single glance without saying a word.
Mike ordered a beer and sat in the corner to observe.
In half an hour, no one resembling a gang member appeared.
He moved to another bar called “The Furnace,” and even as night fell, the situation was similar.
Even people with distinctive tattoos were rare.
Core members of the Blood Angels were supposed to have “skull with wings” tattoos, and they should be operating or dealing in their own territory.
But as it stood, they were either being extremely low-profile, or they had more private venues—like high-end clubs, or perhaps warehouses and old factories.
Mike finished his beer and left the bar.
His phone rang then.
It was Sarah.
Mike picked up.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?” Sarah’s voice sounded less than pleased.
“Out.
Just finished some business.
What’s up?”
“I heard that the new forensic officer, Irene Chen, asked for your number this morning?” Sarah’s tone carried a clear hint of jealousy.
“Are you two close?”
Mike almost laughed.
Word traveled fast; Sarah had found out on the same day.
“Who told you?
Such gossips!
We’re not close,” he said truthfully.
“The scene investigation needed some follow-up info.
She was just being professional.”
“Professional?” Sarah huffed.
“Why didn’t she ask Frank for his number?
Frank’s the veteran.”
“Maybe because I was the one who spotted the ligature marks on that poor guy’s wrists,” Mike said.
“Sarah, did you call just to ask about that?”
There was a silence for a few seconds on the other end before her voice softened.
“The precinct office is as quiet as a graveyard today.
It’s too boring.
Are you free tonight?”
Mike checked the time.
He had originally planned to keep investigating, but there were no leads at the moment.
Besides, Sarah’s jealous act was…
a little cute.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I know a little bar.
Low crowds, good music.”
“Alright.
What time?”
“Seven.
You coming to pick me up?”
“You got it.”
“See you soon.”
Mike grabbed a quick bite of fast food, then took a cab and appeared at Sarah’s doorstep right on time.
Sarah came out wearing a dark blue dress with a beige trench coat over it.
Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, making her look much softer than she did in her police uniform.
“Waiting long?” she asked.
“Just got here,” Mike said with a smile.
They didn’t drive, instead walking two blocks to a bar called “Whispers.” The storefront was unassuming, but the interior was decorated in a vintage style—dark wood furniture, warm yellow lighting, and jazz music playing in the background.
The two found a seat by the window.
Sarah ordered a Gin and Tonic, while Mike asked for a whiskey on the rocks.
“So,” Sarah said, taking a sip of her drink and looking at Mike.
“Was Irene Chen really just being professional?”
“Really.” Mike held up a hand as if taking an oath.
“I saw her once,” Sarah said, stirring the ice in her glass with a straw.
“In the forensics hallway.
She walks fast, doesn’t look at people, and carries a stack of files.
She does seem like the type you described.”
“Feeling better?” Mike asked with a grin.
“For now.” Sarah laughed as well, giving his shin a playful kick under the table.
“But in the future, don’t show off so much in front of pretty female colleagues.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They chatted about trivial things—gossip from Sarah’s office, Mike’s thoughts on the night shift, and the recent New York weather.
The alcohol helped the atmosphere relax.
Sarah’s cheeks flushed slightly, and her gaze grew a bit dreamy.
Around nine o’clock, they left the bar and took a cab back to Mike’s new home.
Sarah walked to the living room window, looking out at the quiet street.
“This is a nice neighborhood.”
Mike took two bottles of water out of the fridge and handed her one.
Sarah took it but didn’t drink.
Instead, she set the bottle down, reached out to hook her arms around Mike’s neck, and kissed him.
Her lips tasted of gin and lemon…
From the living room sofa to the bedroom bed.
When it was over, they lay side by side, breathing heavily and covered in sweat.
Sarah reached for the water on the nightstand, took a few sips, and after a few minutes of silence, she spoke up.
“Have you heard?
The DEA has an operation going on in Brooklyn lately.”
Mike’s heart skipped a beat, but he remained calm.
“The DEA?
Targeting who?”
“I’m not sure,” Sarah said.
“But my aunt was on the phone at home yesterday.
I overheard a few things.
It seems there’s friction between the DEA and the NYPD brass over jurisdiction on a certain case.
They mentioned gang wars and a new type of drug.”
Mike thought of the white powder and pills in the villa from the night before.
The system had said they were of high purity.
“Anything else?”
Sarah rolled over, propping herself up on her stomach.
“My aunt said there’s a gang leader privately reaching out to city council members, trying to get community support.
I think his name was King, or Kingpin?”
“Kingpin?” Mike frowned, searching his memory.
“That…
Wilson Fisk?”
“Right.
On the surface, he’s an entrepreneur, a philanthropist, the boss of Fisk Industries.
But my aunt says the NYPD and FBI both know he’s poised to become the underground emperor of New York.
They just don’t have the evidence.” Sarah lowered her voice.
“I heard Kingpin is secretly unifying the various gangs.
The Blood Angels might just be one of his pawns.
You should be careful.”
Mike sat up.
“The Blood Angels take orders from Kingpin?”
So the mastermind was that legendary starting-zone boss.
“It’s just a possibility.” Sarah sat up as well, pulling the blanket around herself.
“Kingpin wants to go legitimate and enter politics on one hand, while controlling the underworld on the other.
So he lets his subordinate gangs weaken his competitors, which also clears his political path.
I think most of the gangs that have been picking fights lately have Kingpin’s shadow behind them.
It’s the same over in Manhattan.”
Mike nodded.
He lit a cigarette and took two puffs, but when he saw Sarah cough slightly, he put it out.
If that was the case, he really did have to be careful with the “Gang Homicide” mission.
It wasn’t just two gangs fighting over turf; there was Kingpin manipulating things from behind the scenes, potentially involving the DEA and NYPD.
“This information…” Mike looked at Sarah.
“Your aunt knows all this?”
Sarah shrugged.
“She’s high up in the NYPD; she’s bound to have access.
She isn’t very careful when she talks at home.
She probably thinks she isn’t saying enough for me to understand.”
Mike nodded and didn’t press further.
“Anyway, just be careful,” Sarah said seriously.
“If it really is Kingpin, Brooklyn isn’t going to be peaceful anytime soon.
You’re a patrol officer; it’s easy to run into trouble.”
“I will.” Mike patted her hand.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Sarah smiled and lay back down beside him.
“You’re welcome.
After all, since you’re my ‘exclusive partner’ now, I don’t want anything happening to you.”
She closed her eyes and soon fell asleep.
Mike, however, was wide awake.
He stared at the ceiling.
This New York was indeed more complicated than he had imagined.
And his system missions seemed to be pushing him right into the heart of the vortex.