The next morning, Ethan woke up and, after exercising as usual, went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took out the steak that Proctor had sent him the night before. He sprinkled some condiments to marinate it, lit the gas stove, and placed the pan.
When the pan reached the right temperature, he added a piece of butter, which melted quickly. Then, using tongs, he placed the thick fillet in the pan, which sizzled on contact. The aroma began to fill the kitchen. After a few minutes, he removed the steak and placed it on a plate, ready to eat.
After breakfast, upon arriving at the police station, Alma handed him several documents: the Incident Report Form, the State Supervision Form, and the Firearms Use Form. Ethan scratched his head and struggled to fill in the information. Siobhan, noticing his difficulty, gave him a friendly kick.
—If you're having trouble, just ask Alma for help. Once you're done, buy her a bottle of wine to thank her.—
Ethan accepted the suggestion and tackled the paperwork decisively, heading to the reception to take care of the procedures.
He walked over to Alma, who was organizing some documents. She looked up when she saw him.
—Hello, Ethan. How's the paperwork going?— Alma asked with a sympathetic smile.
Ethan dropped into the chair in front of her desk, frowning at the forms.
—Not as well as I hoped. I'm having some trouble with all this. Can you give me a hand?—
Alma approached with a kind expression.
—Sure, leave it to me.— She took the forms and began reviewing them carefully. —Let's see... you need to complete the Incident Report Form. Just make sure to detail all aspects of the case.—
Ethan watched as Alma filled in some fields quickly.
—Thanks, Alma. I feel like I'm drowning in paperwork. I don't know how you manage.—
—Don't worry, it just takes a bit of practice.— Alma handed him the State Supervision Form.
Ethan nodded with a grateful smile.
—Yes, definitely. Thanks for your help. I owe you one.—
—No problem. I'm always here to help.— Alma continued assisting him efficiently.
—By the way, I like rosé wine.— she added without looking up. Apparently, it was an unwritten rule at the station.
—Ethan, what are you doing here?— Brock asked when he saw him.
—What do you mean?— Ethan looked confused.
—You're on administrative leave. You're not supposed to return to duty until the investigation into the Cole case is over.— Brock replied, picking up a file from the desk. —By the way, do you want the department to arrange some kind of psychological counseling?—
—No thanks. If I need help, I'll let you know.— Ethan, who had slipped out of the office the night before, realized the leave wouldn't last long. As for counseling, he rejected the idea flatly. He saw no need to seek help for something he didn't see as a problem.
—Don't worry, the prosecutor said the matter should be resolved within three days.— Lotus said, patting Ethan on the back.
After driving the patrol car for a few minutes, Ethan decided to go home to change his uniform and car. He felt like he was constantly on duty, which annoyed him. At home, he changed his clothes and reattached his badge and weapon.
Although the weapon in his storage space was more convenient, carrying it at his waist gave him a different sense of readiness. If any of the Moody brothers tried to retaliate, they'd think twice when they saw the gun.
He took his Ford F-150 and decided to buy another weapon. The one he had didn't feel like enough. He drove to Oak Street, to Old Sam's Hunting and Fishing Store.
When he parked and opened the door, a copper bell rang, announcing his arrival. An old man with a white beard and a cowboy hat stood behind the counter. Seeing Ethan, he greeted him with a smile and kept dismantling a weapon. The wall behind him was covered with rifles and shotguns, and the counter displayed pistols and knives.
—Welcome to Old Sam's Hunting and Fishing Store.— the man said.
Ethan approached the counter.
—Officer Morgan, how can I help you?—
The old man smiled. Everyone knew Ethan since the Cole incident. —It's a small town,— he added, noticing the young man's confused expression. —Call me Sam.—
—I'm looking for a gun that's effective and reliable.— Ethan said.
Sam leaned forward, interested.
—In that case, I have just what you need. I've got a Beretta 92X—it's the best I have in stock. And I only have one of these beauties left.—
He retrieved the gun and placed it on the counter with pride.
—This beauty has a Vertec-style steel frame and a Brigadier slide. It weighs only 1,350 grams, which provides maximum stability and reduces recoil.— Sam explained, pointing to the weapon's features.
Ethan picked it up, feeling the weight and balance.
—Looks like just what I need. How much is it?—
—For you, Ethan, I'll give you a good deal—$1,400.— Sam replied with a smile. —I'll throw in a couple of extended magazines, 15 rounds each.—
Ethan smiled, satisfied.
—Perfect. I'll take it.— He also decided to purchase an M4A1 assault rifle, with two extra magazines and two boxes of ammunition. Sam told him he could pick them up that afternoon, as the process was quicker for law enforcement.
—Alright, let me prepare the paperwork.— Sam began filling out the forms. —I promise this Beretta won't let you down.—
Ethan waited, feeling more secure with his purchase. Even though it was expensive, his father's insurance check had left him with several thousand in the bank. Survival came first.
Leaving the store, Ethan still felt uneasy. The weapon he'd bought didn't seem like enough. He couldn't wait for the Moody brothers to strike first—he had to act. He decided to search for a black-market weapon. What he had was only good for defense.
Just then, a BMW roared past him, and a little girl leaned out of the sunroof, laughing. Ethan recognized her: Deva Hopewell, the district attorney's daughter. According to the original story, a Proctor worker named Hanson had organized a rave in an Amish barn, bringing ecstasy to the town's youth.
Is one of Hanson's clandestine labs nearby? Ethan wondered, deciding to follow.
After driving down a remote rural road for over ten minutes, he saw the BMW turn off at a fork. A cloud of dust settled behind the wheels.
Ethan slowed down and drove a few hundred meters before parking in a hidden spot.
He approached a ruined house, crouched down, and watched. The BMW was gone, only a couple of old cars remained. Loud music came from inside. No guards in sight. He approached an open window, pushed it carefully, and climbed in. The music grew louder.
Inside, two people lay on a bed, too high to notice anything. Ethan stepped through the room, accidentally stepping on a slowly spinning vibrator. He kicked it aside with disgust and searched through the scattered clothes. He found some wrinkled bills and a used syringe.
Footsteps echoed outside the door. Ethan noticed a safe left ajar. Inside, he found pistols and magazines mixed with stacks of cash. He took an M1911 pistol, a spare magazine, and a Colt .45 ammo box, and stored them.
He considered taking the money, but decided against it. There would be other chances. He had what he needed. Time to leave.
Back in the car, Ethan lit a cigarette to calm his nerves before driving off.
It was still early, so he decided to go to Milles' restaurant to kill time before picking up his weapons from Old Sam. At the restaurant, Ethan ate a casual lunch. Dalia passed by him for the sixth time. Each time, a "coincidence" occurred.
If a napkin fell, she bent over flirtatiously to pick it up. If tomato sauce stained her fingers, she licked them slowly to clean them.
After finishing, Ethan went to the bathroom. As he entered, he noticed someone following him.
Dalia stood in the doorway, breathing unevenly.
—I came to clean... but it looks like you also need... a little more service.— she said with a playful, nervous smile.
Ethan didn't respond with words. He stepped forward, trapping Dalia against the cold ceramic of the sink. He stared into her eyes, searching for hesitation—but all he found was desire.
Dalia didn't wait. She kissed him fiercely, hands roaming over his body. He responded with equal intensity, his hands gliding along her waist and under her clothes.
The bathroom, once too small, became the stage for their urgency. Clothes fell away. Their bodies collided, desperate to satisfy a long-repressed need.
Moans, gasps, and the sound of skin against skin echoed in the room. The ceramic trembled beneath them. Every movement was filled with passion and inevitability.
When they finally climaxed, they held each other, panting. Ethan stroked Dalia's hair as she rested on his shoulder.
—All the best unspeakable cases happen in a bathroom,— Ethan joked.
—If you're lucky,— Dalia replied with a smile, not moving.
A few minutes later, they dressed in silence. As Ethan prepared to leave, he gave Dalia one last look.
—See you outside,— he said, his usual tone returning, though the fire in his eyes remained.
Dalia nodded, watching him leave. She still felt the heat of his body and the adrenaline in her veins. This complicated things—but for now, she didn't care.
Outside the bathroom, she took a deep breath. The restaurant was calm. As if nothing had happened.
After a while, her phone rang. It was Sam, informing her that the paperwork was complete and she could come pick up the gun.
Ethan returned to Sam's old hunting and fishing store. He bought a few accessories, loaded several items into the back seat of his truck, and headed home.
Once there, he immediately went to the tool shed and pulled out an old wooden table, which he set up in front of the simple shooting range he had previously installed. He carefully placed the Beretta 92X, M4A1, and M1911 on the table in order.
He picked up the Beretta 92X first. The steel body gleamed under the light, its black grips firm in his hand. He inserted a full magazine, chambered a round, and aimed at a thin iron plate not far away. With a muffled bang, a small hole appeared in the metal.
Ethan smiled with satisfaction, feeling the smooth recoil of the Beretta. He fired five more rounds in quick succession, adjusting his aim as he went. The recoil was sharp, but thanks to his enhanced physical condition, he barely felt it.
Setting the Beretta aside, Ethan picked up the fully assembled M4A1. A weapon widely used by the U.S. military, he had seen it countless times in movies—and now, finally owning one himself, he couldn't resist trying it out.
He braced the rifle against his shoulder, adjusted his stance, and aimed at a set of targets spray-painted white on the ground, about twenty meters away. As the muzzle flared, the bullets tore through the air and struck the targets. Despite the firepower, the accuracy wasn't quite as sharp as with the handgun—perhaps due to the lack of skill enhancements.
After emptying the magazine, a soft beep echoed in his mind.
A notification appeared in front of his eyes.
Ethan quickly opened the system panel and noticed that one of his firearms abilities had improved—directly as a result of his training.
Number: Ethan Morgan
Combat Skill: Rookie
You have acquired some practice and show better coordination and control in combat.
Short Firearms Handling: Competent
You have a good understanding of gun handling and can fire accurate shots in a variety of situations. You are able to use the weapon effectively in combat.
Long Firearms Handling: Rookie
You have begun to familiarize yourself with rifles and shotguns, showing basic competence in the use of long firearms.
Dimensional Space: One cubic meter
Skill Points: 0
Mission: None
Happily, Ethan replaced the magazine and, after some more target practice, stored both the Beretta and the M4A1 in his inventory space. Now that the system had generated the skill slot, once he found the corresponding skill book, learning it would be a breeze.
Finally, he picked up the stolen Browning M1911. He carefully disassembled it, cleaned each part with gun oil, then reassembled the weapon. When he aimed at a few scattered cans and fired, the shots were smooth, the grouping tight. He exhaled with satisfaction—the weapon had clearly been well-maintained.
After packing everything up, Ethan went to the tool shed and grabbed a shovel. He slung it over his shoulder and walked into the woods beside the house. The crunch of fallen leaves startled a few small animals into fleeing deeper into the forest.
His property was the only one nearby. Old Morgan had once purchased a vast stretch of the surrounding mountains and forests, enclosing it with simple wooden fencing to keep outsiders away. That isolation now worked in Ethan's favor.
About a few hundred meters from the house, Ethan reached a hillside covered in soft, light-yellow wildflowers. In the golden sunlight, the place looked almost magical. He pressed his boots into the ground—it was rich, fertile soil.
Taking off his shirt, Ethan got to work with the shovel. After over an hour of digging, he judged the pit deep enough. Wiping sweat from his brow, he tossed the shovel aside, climbed out of the hole, and pushed some dirt over the mound to mark the spot. Whistling casually, he made his way back home and jumped into the lake to wash the mud and grime off his body.
Night fell quickly.
Ethan dressed in black sportswear and a visor cap, then drove to Forge's Sugar Bar.
When he arrived, he saw Chief Hood sitting on the barn steps, eating. The bar was lively tonight. As Ethan remembered, Cole's wife was holding a wake here, and the Moody brothers were likely to show up.
He didn't have to wait long. Dex and Marcus soon appeared. They pointed their guns at Hood, who seemed to be trying to defuse the situation. The shouting match ended abruptly thanks to Sugar's not-so-subtle threat, emerging from the bar with a double-barreled shotgun in hand.
Even from a distance, Ethan could hear the brothers continue to shout about revenge. He watched them calmly, taking a sip from his water bottle. He wasn't worried. He wouldn't fall prey to two drunken village fools. Eventually, Dex and Marcus returned to their drinking, and Hood went upstairs to rest after finishing his meal.
Ethan stayed put.
Around 10 p.m., the crowd began to thin. The Moody brothers left in their truck, unaware they were being followed.
Ethan trailed them at a distance. The vehicle eventually pulled up at the Savoy Gentlemen's Club. Once they entered, Ethan parked next to their truck, killed the engine, and waited. Patience was key. The upside of rural towns was the lack of traffic cameras—and people rarely paid attention to anything.
It wasn't until after 1 a.m. that Dex and Marcus stumbled out, drunk, laughing as they made their way to the bushes in front of the truck to relieve themselves.
Ethan scanned the area. Empty.
He lowered the brim of his cap, opened the door, and stepped out. From his inventory, he pulled the wooden stick he'd prepared and approached silently.
The crunch of his boots made Marcus look back, but it was too late. A whistling gust of wind was the last thing he heard before the stick cracked against his skull.
Both went down like sacks of potatoes.
Ethan stuffed rags into their mouths, bound their limbs with rope, and hauled them into the truck bed, covering them with a tarp. He drove off immediately.
Soon, the F-150 arrived at the place he had prepared earlier that day. He pulled back the tarp. The brothers had already regained consciousness and were staring at him, terrified. Their muffled groans rose through the gags as they squirmed helplessly.
Ethan said nothing.
He dragged them out one by one and kicked them into the pit. Then he tossed the wooden stick in after them, pulled the M1911 from his inventory, took a deep breath, and raised the gun.
Bang. Bang.
The shots echoed through the forest, sending a flock of birds into the moonlit sky.
Ethan holstered the weapon, grabbed the shovel, and got to work. Filling in the pit was easier than digging it. He drove the truck back and forth over the mound several times to flatten the soil completely.
By the time he was done, the terrain looked untouched. The flowers, he thought, would bloom even brighter next spring.
Back at the house, he connected the hose and washed the mud off the tires and truck bed thoroughly. When everything was clean, he parked the F-150 back in the garage.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait—and return to work—no longer hunted by anyone.