Just as Jack leaned down again, Zoe pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him.
"Wait," she whispered, eyes narrowing. "Are you sure you're okay? You just killed someone for the first time today, and all I see is you worrying about John."
Jack leaned back, lips quirking into something between a smile and a sigh.
"My heart and my actions are clear as glass. Everything I do is just."
Zoe frowned. "What?"
"Never mind," Jack said quickly, switching back to English. He propped his chin on one hand, his gaze steady on hers. "I'm fine. Apart from… the mess afterward, the gore—I hated that part—I don't regret what I did. If it happens again, I'll pull the trigger even faster."
His voice grew harder. "God didn't kill Selby. God just used my finger to pull the trigger. That bastard dug his own grave."
Zoe rubbed at her temple. "Jack, don't—don't talk like that. At least not in front of your therapist tomorrow. Say that kind of thing and they'll brand you as some vigilante. You don't know how many officers get canned every year for believing they're 'righteous executioners.'"
Jack nodded politely, but in his mind he didn't agree. He'd watched plenty of American TV. Dexter, for example, had pulled massive ratings. And if this world followed TV logic, maybe Miami really did have a blood-spatter analyst named Dexter Morgan.
But what kept replaying in his head wasn't the ethics. It was the rush.
That bullet had sliced past his ear. He hadn't felt fear. No panic. Just an electric, uncontrollable thrill.
He could see it frame by frame: grabbing the M16, bracing it on the wheel, firing through the glass. The chase. The palm trees. The moment Selby's skull exploded like a watermelon—every nerve in his body had lit up with exhilaration.
If he hadn't gone to Zoe's place afterward, he might have gone hunting instead.
This body has something wrong with it, he thought grimly. Some antisocial wiring. Normal people get tunnel vision, shaky hands, trembling legs after their first firefight. Me? I wanted more.
And worse—afterward, he needed a woman to bleed the adrenaline out of his system. What happens if I'm surrounded by men? What happens if there's no Zoe?
Would he break? Would he snap?
The next morning, at the LAPD's EAP Counseling Center, Jack found himself sitting across from a face he recognized—though not from any case file.
Dr. Maureen Cahill. Long black hair, sharp cheekbones, dark, intelligent eyes. A beauty with a quiet intensity, the kind that could make you squirm in your chair without saying a word.
She looked like Jordana Brewster back in her Fast & Furious days—before the weight loss, before the stress. Here, she was glowing.
Jack's first thought: Shit. She's even prettier than Zoe.
Maureen glanced up from the thin folder on her desk, catching his gaze. Jack looked away quickly, studying the office: the tall window, the minimalist furniture, the tea sets in the glass cabinet. Roses in a vase on her desk. Too many to be from just one admirer.
"Can I call you Jack?" she asked at last, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses. "You can call me Maureen. I prefer things a little less formal."
It's starting. Jack's mind flashed red. In his old world, psychology wasn't as mystical as TV made it seem. But here? This was TV-world psychology. If he wasn't careful, she might see right through him.
He forced a smile. "Sure. Jack's fine. And… forgive me, but you're the most beautiful therapist I've ever seen."
Maureen raised a brow, lips twitching. "Oh? You've seen many therapists?"
Jack scratched his head like a nervous boy. "Actually… no. You're my first. Which makes that sound even worse, doesn't it?"
She chuckled softly and let him off the hook. Instead, she opened a cabinet, pulled out a small tin, and asked, "Do you drink tea? I prefer green. Very… Seresian."
Jack froze, eyes lighting up. He took the tin, inhaled. Biluochun. From Jiangsu. Memories stirred deep inside him.
"This isn't the right set for green tea," he murmured, already standing.
Maureen tilted her head, watching curiously as Jack moved to the cabinet. He rinsed cups, scalded the pot, and brewed with the quiet precision of someone who'd done it for years. Steam curled up between them.
Maureen lifted her glass, inhaled the fragrance. Her eyes widened slightly. "Wow… this is—"
"Good tea," Jack finished with a faint smile.
As the warmth filled his chest, he realized something. For the first time since pulling that trigger, the noise in his head was quiet.
(End of Chapter 8)