What Bishop said actually made sense, so Ronick took off the man's handcuffs and locked him back in his cell. Jack just shrugged at that.
Sure, the guy had a familiar face—but this wasn't The Matrix. Jack was an FBI agent, and that naturally put him on the opposite side of someone like a gang boss. In his previous life, he'd read plenty of web novels, and he was sick to his stomach of the way characters would immediately fall on their knees to worship any "big shot" they met, no matter the side they were on. Since arriving in this world, he'd never had the slightest desire to stoop to that.
Real life wasn't a novel. And while things could sometimes get absurd—perhaps even more absurd than fiction—Jack firmly believed one thing: even the love between parents and children had to be mutual, based on consistent give-and-take. Without that, it'd eventually sour. The same principle applied to everything else in life.
Jack was handsome, sure—but he'd been handsome in his previous life too, and he still got screwed over whenever he let his guard down.
As the saying goes, "At forty, one should be free from doubt." Jack had just hit that age before he was thrown into this world. He wasn't slick or jaded, but he did carry a sort of weathered caution with him. Compared to those hot-blooded teenagers who crossed into new worlds at eighteen, he certainly lacked that youthful spark.
If he hadn't had a cheat-like advantage in this life, he probably would've cashed in on Bitcoin, moved to a quiet, safe city—or maybe a well-developed Asian country like Japan or Singapore—and lived out his days in peace.
He definitely wouldn't have become an LAPD officer, emptying magazines in shootouts with criminals, nor would he have joined the FBI, driving a bomb-laden ambulance into Central Park like he did that one time.
Jack didn't have a hero complex. He didn't think having a cheat meant he was invincible. He wasn't trying to turn life into a game, chasing thrills just to feel alive.
On the contrary—he understood this world all too well. Every person he met had a soul, a will, a mind of their own. These weren't just NPCs following scripted routines. This wasn't some virtual fantasy.
Maybe he'd lived a bit too practically in his last life—that was all his limited abilities had allowed. But now that he had power? He could afford to live with a bit more idealism. Maybe even some romance. America didn't have a traditional jianghu, that brotherhood of wandering heroes—but Jack carried one in his heart.
So yeah—Bishop might be a "cool character," and sure, if John Wick himself showed up, Jack would still assess their alignment first. And if they weren't on the same side, he'd be comparing their marksmanship, not asking for an autograph.
What else could he do? In Hollywood blockbusters, FBI agents like him were usually the cannon fodder—sometimes for no reason at all, just to make the hero look good. No one ever stopped to think that those "redshirts" might be someone's dad, or some elderly parent's only child.
Same with the Fast & Furious series. All those innocent drivers caught in those outrageous crashes caused by the main crew? Just collateral damage.
Jack didn't know what kind of plot he'd been dropped into this time, but this world had long since gone completely off the rails. He was used to it.
Still, he could guess that Bishop was probably a major side character—maybe even a protagonist in his own story. But what did that matter to Jack?
Sure, Bishop was right. At the moment, they were technically on the same side. But both Jack and John knew where they stood. They were here to help, and Captain Ronick was the one in charge.
Jasper could rant all he wanted about throwing Bishop out to buy their lives—but if Ronick said no, then it wasn't happening.
Ronick didn't trust Bishop, but he did want to make use of the other three prisoners. Unfortunately, they weren't having it. Even when he told them they were surrounded by a kill team of rogue cops, they didn't get it.
"More of those government-approved thugs abusing their power again? That's between you and your corrupt buddies, not our business. Why don't you be a pal and open this damn cage already?"
That was the red-eyed junkie talking. Jack remembered his rap sheet—he'd been picked up for robbing a fast-food joint with a knife.
In the same cell, the guy who called himself Smiley pulled off his newsboy cap, revealing a buzzcut under the patchy hair. He rubbed his head, then chimed in with that signature rhythmic cadence unique to Black rappers.
"This ain't Smiley's mess—let Smiley go! Set me free, man!"
Ronick touched the key in his pocket, sighed deeply, and turned to leave. He'd planned to let them out to help with the defense, but it was clear now—if he opened those cells, these idiots would bolt straight into a death trap.
Jack didn't bother speaking to them either. He melted back into the shadows near the corridor entrance, quietly preparing for the enemy's advance.
Then came footsteps—fast and urgent—rushing toward the temporary holding area. From the darkness, a hand shot out and covered Alex's mouth.
"Holy crap, you scared me!" she gasped, recognizing Jack's face in the dim light spilling in from the window.
"You came to find me?"
Jack's other hand had landed on her back—soft and smooth to the touch. Only then did he realize she was still in her low-cut, backless evening gown. That was supposed to be her outfit for some New Year's gala she never made it to.
"They sent me to warn you—movement at the front. Nolan thinks it's just a distraction. Says you should be on high alert here too." She patted her chest, trying to calm her nerves.
Jack looked away and nodded. "Got it. You need to get back. This place is about to get dangerous."
He hesitated, then added, "And put a coat on."
The precinct's heat came from a network of steam pipes connected to surrounding factories, so the power outage hadn't cut it off. But once the attackers broke in, it wasn't like they'd politely close the door behind them.
"Understood. Be careful." Alex turned and hurried off. Whether she heard that last part, Jack wasn't sure.
As he watched her graceful silhouette disappear down the hall, Jack shook his head. Of everyone here, she was probably the most unlucky—and the most innocent.
John's warning via Alex had come just in time. Not even five minutes later, Jack heard shuffling from beyond the wall—at least two figures approaching the holding cells.
Gunfire echoed faintly from the front hallway—more than one person, each using suppressed rifles, pouring fire into the front of the building. Bullets shattered windows and ricocheted dangerously inside.
Ronick's preparations were now proving effective. John, Jasper, and Alice had barricaded the front entrance with desks and furniture, then taken cover behind hallway corners and load-bearing pillars.
With the precinct's armory cleared out ahead of its closure, their side had only sidearms—and two shotguns. John and Jasper each had one.
In the face of overwhelming firepower, trading shots from behind a window was suicide. So they'd given up the door and windows, opting instead to let the enemy come inside.
Most of the windows were barred, limiting how many entry points the attackers could exploit at once. The moment they showed themselves, everyone inside would open fire. And in the face of buckshot, no one—not even in body armor—could survive a blast to the face.
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