The booze hit the floor of Shane’s mind and evaporated.
“The hospital can’t cure him.
That doesn’t mean nobody can.”
Leon’s voice was terrifyingly steady.
“Conventional medicine calling it a death sentence doesn’t mean miracles don’t exist.”
“Miracles?”
Shane’s voice dropped to a growl.
“Who the hell do you think you are?
God?”
“I’m not God, Shane.”
Leon finally raised his hand and pried Shane’s fingers off him, one by one.
“I just happen to know some people.
Through certain…
special channels.”
“You know how it is.
In our line of work, there are always channels.”
Shane staggered back half a step.
He stared at this Asian kid in front of him, mind in chaos.
His rational brain was screaming at him.
This was a scam.
A complete, textbook scam.
A madman in a dive bar spouting nonsense.
But deep beneath the rational brain, in that place that guilt and despair had been grinding down for weeks, another voice was screaming louder.
What if it’s true?
What if it actually is?
“What channels?” Shane’s voice came out rough.
Leon smoothed out his crumpled collar and slid a fresh whiskey across the bar , one for himself, one for Shane.
“Have you ever heard of Traditional Chinese Medicine?”
“Traditional Chinese Medicine.” Shane frowned.
“That stuff with roots and bugs?”
“And Acupuncture.” Leon said.
“An ancient medical art.
Thin needles inserted into specific points on the body to regulate Qi.”
“Qi?” Shane looked like he’d just been told the moon was made of cheese.
“Life energy.
That’s the simplest way to put it.”
Leon didn’t bother going deeper.
He knew exactly how far that conversation would get with a born-and-bred American cop.
He wasn’t here to deliver a science lecture.
He was here to offer hope.
“I know a master in this field.” Leon’s voice dropped.
He leaned forward slightly, the posture of a man sharing something classified.
“A real old monster.”
“He’s not a registered doctor here.
In fact, he’s not legally registered as anything here.”
“Back home, he had a very particular kind of clientele.
Then some messy business happened.
“Right now, what he needs most are two things.
Secrecy.
And money — serious money, enough to keep him hidden and comfortable.”
The story was seamless.
Every word painted the same portrait: a man of extraordinary skill, reclusive and eccentric, greedy enough to be bought, hunted enough to stay invisible.
It explained perfectly why he couldn’t practice openly.
It explained perfectly why Leon had to serve as the middleman.
Shane was quiet.
He picked up his glass and threw the whiskey back in one go.
“So what you’re telling me is…
I get Rick out of that hospital and hand him over to some unknown Chinese old man, who treats him with mystical mumbo jumbo.”
His voice was caught somewhere between fury and something rawer than that.
“Yes.” Leon’s answer was simple.
Clean.
“That is insane!”
“Is it?” Leon kept his eyes level.
“More insane than watching him lie in that bed, waiting for the day a nurse forgets to swap out his IV, and then slowly wasting away?”
Every word landed on Shane’s most exposed nerve.
“The hospital has already given up on him, Shane.”
“They’re maintaining his vital signs and waiting for a family member to sign the paperwork.
You know that.
I know that.”
“You’re gambling your brother’s life on a long shot.” Leon pointed at himself.
“I’m just providing the table.”
Shane’s breathing went shallow.
He stared at Leon , suspicion, fury, desperation , all of it churning, and then slowly, helplessly, collapsing into something that looked like hope.
What was the worst that could happen?
Rick was already the worst that could happen.
The doctors had said his chances of waking up were lower than getting struck by lightning twice.
A long-shot gamble beat an immediate death sentence every time.
“How much money are we talking?” Shane finally got the words out.
Leon knew he had him.
“I don’t know.” Leon shook his head.
“I told you — he’s an old monster.
Unpredictable.
Strange temper.”
“But money is the best door-opener there is.
You pull together as much as you can, and when the time comes I’ll bring it to him myself.
Whether he agrees is going to come down to your sincerity.”
“One more thing.” Leon added it like an afterthought, but it was the pin that locked the whole trap shut.
“This stays absolutely secret.”
“That old man is more skittish than a rabbit.
Word gets out, he disappears.
Shane’s clenched fist slowly opened.
He slumped against the bar like something inside him had been cut loose, all the tension draining out at once.
His mind ran through the images one by one.
Rick flat on his back in that hospital bed.
Lori’s face, red and swollen from crying, every single day.
Little Carl’s eyes , lost, bewildered, searching for something that wasn’t there.
Rick.
Then he lifted his head, and there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there a minute ago.
“Lori.” He murmured it to himself.
“I have to tell Lori.”
“She deserves to know.
She can’t keep going on like this.”
“Fine.” Leon nodded.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Pulling Lori in would anchor the whole plan.
A wife with a critically ill husband and a guilt-eaten partner sitting next to her: what those two could generate together was extraordinary.
“But you make sure she understands it clearly, Shane.”
Leon’s tone went firm.
“This stays between three people.
You, me, and her.”
“One word leaks out, and it’s Rick’s life we’re throwing away.”
“I understand.”
Shane nodded hard , the nod of a man who’d just found solid ground again.
He looked almost alive.
Like something had switched back on.
He pulled a handful of bills out of his pocket and slapped them on the bar, already forgetting to say goodbye.
“I’m going to find her.
I’m going to find her right now.”
He grabbed his jacket, half-stumbled toward the door, and disappeared into the night.
Leon watched him go.
Slowly, the controlled stillness of his expression eased.
The plan was running ahead of schedule.
He’d used Shane’s guilt.
Used his desperation.
Painted him a picture too beautiful to resist believing in.
A picture that was going to paint itself , in about three months.
Because Leon remembered.
In the source material, roughly three months from now, deep into the apocalypse, Rick Grimes would wake up.
Against every medical prediction.
A kind nurse’s care and a stubborn, unreasonable grip on life, and he’d open his eyes.
When that happened, the “miracle” would be credited, neatly and completely, to a TCM Master who had never existed.
And Leon Chen would be the sole architect of that miracle.
Not just the survival stockpile worth a hundred thousand dollars.
He’d walk away with something worth far more: a King County Deputy Sheriff and a desperate wife, both carrying a debt they couldn’t repay with anything less than everything they had.
He drained his glass.
The whiskey burned clean all the way down, settling into a warm, spreading satisfaction.
➤ Next: New “Shareholder”