Nick understood that surviving the shooting did not mean his problems were over.
The era of viral police controversies had not yet arrived, and the dead suspect appeared to be a white man.
Even so, Nick had walked away without a scratch while Joshua Coffey had lost his life.
Someone could still emerge claiming that Coffey had been a loving father, a devoted son, and a generous neighbor who merely struggled with drugs, alcohol, and a habit of carrying an illegal firearm.
His relatives might threaten to sue Nick, the Portland Police Bureau, or the city itself.
Nick had lived in this world for twenty years.
Until today, he had never found credible evidence that creatures resembling werewolves, goblins, or anything else from folklore actually existed.
The transformation had changed that.
While the attractive reporter continued speaking excitedly behind the crime-scene tape, Nick paid more attention to her cameraman.
The man remained calm as he reviewed the footage on the side display of his professional camera.
That reaction troubled Nick.
If the recording had captured Coffey’s face reshaping into something with fur, pointed ears, and rows of sharp teeth, the cameraman should not have been standing there as though he had merely filmed another police shooting.
More sirens approached.
Within minutes, seven or eight patrol vehicles crowded the surrounding streets.
An ambulance arrived behind them, followed by a supervisor’s SUV and members of the crime-scene unit.
Nick’s patrol commander took control first.
Officers expanded the perimeter, separated the witnesses, and blocked traffic from entering the area.
Hank Griffin arrived soon afterward.
Captain Sean Renard pulled up behind him.
Renard was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a controlled expression that rarely revealed what he was thinking.
Even in an ordinary suit, he carried himself with enough authority to silence the officers around him.
Emergency medical personnel examined Coffey but found no signs of life.
After completing the required procedures, they declared him dead at the scene.
Crime-scene investigators photographed the body and marked the locations of every visible cartridge casing.
They also recovered a small .22-caliber revolver lying several feet from Coffey’s right hand.
Two chambers had been fired.
That discovery supported Nick’s account, but the clearest evidence came from the local news crew.
Captain Renard stood beside the cameraman and watched the recording on the camera’s display.
Hank and two supervisors remained nearby while the footage played several times.
Nick could not hear their conversation from where he stood.
He watched Renard’s face instead.
The captain’s usual stern expression gradually relaxed.
When the video ended, he spoke briefly to the patrol commander, then walked toward Nick.
“You handled yourself well,” Renard said.
For once, he addressed him by his first name rather than calling him Officer Burkhardt.
“And you were very lucky.” Nick offered a restrained smile.
Renard’s words were not exactly praise, but they confirmed that the captain had found no obvious fault in his actions.
“Thank you, Captain.” Renard rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment.
“The recording shows the suspect raising his weapon and firing first.
Cooperate with the investigation, follow your union representative’s advice, and do not discuss the details with the media.” “Yes, sir.” Nick studied the captain’s expression.
Nothing about Renard suggested he had seen a man transform into a monster.
He appeared concerned only with the shooting itself.
Had the camera failed to capture the change?
Nick wanted to ask, but doing so would create more questions than answers.
Whatever Coffey had been, discussing it at the scene would accomplish nothing.
Following standard procedure after a fatal officer-involved shooting, Nick was placed on administrative leave.
Renard arranged for Hank to drive him home rather than allowing him to leave alone.
The crime scene no longer required his presence.
Investigators would handle the body, the Kia, the weapon, and every piece of physical evidence left in the vacant lot.
Hank could barely contain himself once they were inside his car.
“Man, how did you do that?” Nick leaned back against the passenger seat.
“Do what?” “Everything.” Hank pulled away from the scene and glanced at him in disbelief.
“I stood behind Renard while he reviewed the footage.
The entire exchange lasted about six seconds.” “Six?” “Five and a half, according to the time code.” Hank struck Nick lightly on the shoulder.
“From the first gunshot until your slide locked open, only five and a half seconds passed.
Renard replayed it in slow motion several times.” Nick stared through the windshield.
Hank continued with growing excitement.
“You fired your Taser, released it, leaned backward while Coffey shot at you twice, drew your Glock, and returned fire before you hit the ground.” “I remember that part.” “That isn’t all.
Your pistol malfunctioned after the first few rounds, but you cleared the stoppage and kept firing before I even realized something had gone wrong.” Nick turned toward him.
“My gun jammed?” Hank gave him a strange look.
“You didn’t know?” Nick shook his head.
The shooting had unfolded too quickly for him to consciously process every movement.
He remembered the useless click beneath his trigger finger and the desperate need to make the Glock fire again.
Everything else had been instinct.
Hank kept one hand on the steering wheel while describing the footage.
“When you fell, your wrist bent at a bad angle.
The slide didn’t cycle properly, and a casing got caught near the ejection port.
You cleared it, chambered another round, and continued shooting almost immediately.” Nick recalled sweeping his hand over the pistol and pulling the slide, but the action felt like a memory belonging to someone else.
Training had taken control while his conscious mind focused on survival.
“At least ten separate movements happened in those few seconds,” Hank said.
“The firearms instructors are going to play that recording for recruits.” “I’d rather they didn’t.” “Why not?
It made you look like an action hero.” Nick ignored that comment.
There was something more important he needed to know.
“Was the footage clear?” “Crystal clear.” “You could see Coffey’s face?” Hank misunderstood the concern.
“You could see the muzzle flash when he fired.
The video proves he shot first, so stop worrying about the investigation.” “I’m not worried about that.” “You should be, at least a little.” “I know you have connections at the district attorney’s office.” Hank grinned.
“I also know several union attorneys.” “One of your ex-wives is a union attorney.” “That divorce was extremely educational.” Nick hesitated before asking, “Did you notice anything unusual about Coffey?” Hank’s expression became more serious.
“What do you mean?” “His face.” “He took two rounds near the head.” “Before that.” Hank looked at him for a few seconds.
“You hit the ground pretty hard.
Are you sure you didn’t get a concussion?” Nick turned away.
Hank apparently had not seen the woge.
“There was nothing strange before he fired?” Nick asked.
“He looked like a homeless drug dealer with a gun.” “That’s all?” “What else was I supposed to see?” Nick fell silent.
Hank interpreted his reaction as guilt over killing another person.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he said.
“Coffey chose what happened.
He ran, pulled a gun, and fired at a cop.” “I know.” “The search team also found a pile of contraband in his trunk.
Drugs, stolen property, ammunition, and enough questionable material to keep detectives busy for days.” Nick nodded without responding.
The evidence did not explain the transformation.
He was certain he had not imagined it.
Coffey’s face had changed twice, and the second woge occurred directly in front of him beneath clear daylight.
Yet neither Hank nor the camera appeared to have captured anything unusual.
That left only one possibility.
Nick had seen something invisible to everyone else.
The promotion party scheduled for that evening was canceled.
Celebrating at the Blue Knight immediately after a fatal shooting would have looked terrible, no matter how justified the incident had been.
If a reporter filmed Nick drinking while Coffey’s family was being notified of his death, the resulting headlines could damage everyone involved.
Laila sent Nick a brief message complaining about the cancellation, though even she admitted it was the sensible decision.
Portland still had relatively little violent crime compared with many major American cities.
A daytime shootout between an officer and an armed suspect was unusual enough to lead the evening news.
The local station repeatedly broadcast the footage captured by its crew.
At home, Nick watched the report from his couch.
The video began as he chased Coffey into the vacant lot.
The cameraman had zoomed in from across the street, producing a slightly shaky but surprisingly clear image.
Nick watched Coffey turn sideways and hide his right hand.
The suspect’s face remained human.
There was no coarse fur, extended muzzle, or pointed ears.
Even when the recording reached the exact moment Nick remembered Coffey woging, the screen showed nothing more than a frightened man pulling a revolver.
The gun rose.
Nick fired the Taser and threw himself backward.
Coffey’s first round passed above his face, followed almost immediately by a second shot.
The rest became a blur of muzzle flashes.
Nick’s Glock stopped cycling after the fourth round.
His hands moved across the pistol, cleared the malfunction, and brought it back into action with almost inhuman speed.
He continued firing until the magazine was empty.
Viewed from a third-person perspective, the exchange looked brutal and intense.
The television station replayed the most dramatic portion several times, though it cut away before showing Coffey’s wounds in detail.
The video spread online within hours.
Commenters praised Nick’s reflexes, argued over police tactics, criticized the number of shots fired, and debated whether Coffey had truly intended to kill him.
Not one person mentioned seeing a monster.
Nick replayed the footage on his laptop and paused it frame by frame.
Nothing changed.
Coffey looked human in every image.
Nick leaned back and rubbed his face.
For the first time since his rebirth, he wondered whether this world had always contained supernatural creatures that ordinary people could not perceive.
That thought should have frightened him.
Instead, relief gradually replaced his unease.
Coffey had fired twice from close range.
One round passed close enough to Nick’s forehead for him to feel its heat.
His ballistic vest might have stopped a .22-caliber bullet if it struck his torso, but it could not protect his head, throat, arms, or legs.
The passive skill obtained from his second movie journey had saved him.
Without Lightning Reflexes, Nick might not have fired the Taser before Coffey pulled the trigger.
He would not have leaned backward quickly enough to avoid the shots or cleared the Glock’s malfunction before the Wesen recovered.
The contest had lasted less than six seconds.
A small difference in reaction time could have left Nick dead in the vacant lot.
He summoned the Magic Movie Ticket into his palm.
The small golden card appeared without resistance.
Its strange patterns reflected the light from the television, but it showed no sign of being charged.
Nick had experimented with countless methods over the years.
Electricity did nothing.
Heat produced no response.
Leaving the ticket in sunlight, moonlight, moving water, and magnetic fields had also failed.
It behaved less like a machine and more like a symbolic key connected directly to his soul.
Even throwing it away was pointless.
Nick had once left it inside a locked storage unit on the opposite side of Portland.
The moment he extended his hand and called for it, the card dissolved from its previous location and reformed against his palm.
It could not be lost because it did not truly exist as an ordinary physical object.
Nick searched the internet for anything related to magic, enchanted artifacts, or travel between worlds.
Most of what he found involved stage performers, modern occult groups, fraudulent psychics, or rituals borrowed from traditions the writers clearly did not understand.
Nothing helped him recharge the ticket.
His desire to enter another movie world was no longer driven only by curiosity or the promise of greater strength.
Nick wanted a healing ability.
Suspended Animation Recovery worked only on him.
He could not transfer its effects to someone else.
A single-use cure would have been enough.
Several years earlier, shortly before Nick graduated from college, Aunt Marie had been diagnosed with chronic leukemia.
Medication slowed the illness and allowed her to function, but it could not completely restore her health.
The treatment carried its own consequences.
Her weight dropped.
Her energy faded, and her hair gradually thinned.
Some days were manageable, while others left her too exhausted to leave bed.
Nick joined the Portland Police Bureau soon after graduation.
Despite his objections, Marie announced that she intended to travel across the country alone.
She had spent most of her adult life working in a Portland public library and raising a child who was not her own.
Once Nick became independent, she declared that her responsibilities were finished.
It was finally time to live for herself.
Nick strongly opposed the idea.
Marie’s condition could worsen without warning, and long drives placed additional strain on her body.
Traveling alone also meant there might be no one nearby if she suffered a medical emergency.
Aunt Marie refused to surrender.
She promised to contact him regularly, report her location every month, and return to Portland as soon as her health no longer allowed her to continue.
Nick eventually gave in.
He understood that locking her inside the house for her own protection would only turn the remaining years of her life into a prison sentence.
During the past three years, Marie had traveled through most of the United States.
Every month, a new postcard arrived.
She sent photographs from national parks, coastal highways, mountain towns, desert overlooks, and small roadside attractions Nick had never heard of.
Some pictures showed her standing beside strangers she had met during her travels, while others captured empty landscapes beneath wide blue skies.
The illness remained visible.
Her face had become thinner.
Her clothing hung more loosely from her body, and medication had caused much of her hair to fall out.
Yet her smile looked more genuine than Nick had ever seen it during his childhood.
He kept every postcard.
Nick opened the drawer beside the couch and removed the most recent photograph.
Marie stood near the edge of a mountain lake, wearing a scarf over her head and raising one hand toward the camera.
The scenery behind her was beautiful.
She looked tired but happy.
Nick traced the edge of the photograph with his thumb.
Pride, fear, gratitude, and helplessness twisted together inside him.
He wanted Marie to enjoy her freedom, but every new picture reminded him that her time might be running out.
The golden ticket remained motionless in his other hand.
Nick stared at its intricate surface.
“Give me one more chance,” he murmured.
The card did not respond.
Still, he refused to give up.
Somewhere among countless movie worlds, there had to be something capable of saving Aunt Marie.
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