There was no pain. No flash of wisdom. Just clarity.
It was as if someone had taken a sheet of frosted glass from the world and snapped it away. Suddenly, every detail sharpened: the hum of the refrigerator, the faint hiss of the street outside, the chlorine trace in a glass of water.
Jack sipped, frowned. Hannah's high-end purifier was due for a cartridge change. He shouldn't have been able to taste that.
It reminded him of a movie he'd once seen: Limitless. That pill, NZT48, had made the protagonist unstoppable. This felt the same.
Excited, Jack sprinted to the attic, dug out an old calculus problem from a textbook, and started scribbling. Ten minutes later, he dropped the pen.
"Yeah… nope."
So his brain was sharper. His focus, insane. But raw IQ? Still not genius-level. Math Everest wasn't getting climbed in this lifetime.
Three days of administrative leave later, Jack was back in the grind. Clock in. Patrol. Shoot at the range. Shadow John and Lucy's soap opera from the sidelines.
Their secret relationship was unraveling in slow motion. One night at a dive bar, Jack finally watched the break-up live.
"If it doesn't work, separate for now," he suggested after too many beers. "When your rookie year's over, one of you can just transfer."
They stared at him like he'd just grown a second head. Jack raised his bottle. "Forget it. Let's drink."
He'd barely finished before the wail of an alarm shattered the night. Across the street, three men in zombie makeup burst from a herbal shop, cash box in hand.
"Fuck—LAPD! Don't move!"
Jack was already sprinting, Glock drawn, with John and Lucy on his heels.
Two suspects didn't make it 200 yards before John and Lucy tackled them. The third bolted for the subway, clutching the cash box. Jack followed.
Doors shut behind them with a metallic ding. Jack yelled his badge out loud, but the robber kept running. Jack holstered his Glock—too many civilians in the car—and went in barehanded.
They shoved past startled passengers. Finally, the man stumbled, his loot skidding across the floor and landing at the feet of a thin, pale stranger.
Jack stomped the robber's tailbone, cuffed him, and looked up. The stranger—and the money—were gone.
Next morning, Angela barely raised an eyebrow at his report.
"Either foolish or desperate," she said. "Economy's been rough. Half the beach is homeless now."
But Jack wasn't buying it. His new, sharpened senses had caught a clear glimpse. That man wasn't homeless. Not even close.
Detectives traced him through subway cameras and passed the address to Jack. Their message was clear: You want it? You clean it up.
Chief Gray had already torn into them for losing the evidence. More ammo for his morning roast of rookies.
The address led to a peeling white two-story house. A kid's bike leaned against the porch.
Angela motioned for Jack to cover her, knocked hard. "LAPD! Open up!"
From the back room, the thin white man appeared, hands raised, fear written all over him.
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry!"
Angela drew down, Jack circling to cover. "Hands on your head, fingers interlocked."
The man obeyed perfectly. No weapon. No fight. Just defeat.
"Where's the money?" Jack demanded.
The man's voice cracked. "It's in here." He led them to the living room, where the bag sat openly on the table.
Angela pressed. "Did you spend any?"
"I—I bought groceries. Paid the water bill. We can't go without water." Tears welled. "My wife passed last year. I lost my job. I've never even had a parking ticket before."
Jack's anger faded as quickly as it had come. He pulled out the cuffs, but his hands slowed. This wasn't a thug. This was a man drowning.
Then a small voice floated from the stairs.
"Daddy?"
A boy, five or six, stood barefoot on the steps, wide-eyed.
The man froze, panic in his voice. "Jacob, go back to your room!"
Jack tucked the cuffs away. "It's alright. Let him come."
The boy rushed down, flinging his arms around his father.
The man looked up, broken. "What'll happen to my son?"
Angela's face softened but her voice was steady. "Child Services will step in. Do you have relatives? Someone we can call?"
"My wife's sister," he whispered.
"Then give me her contact," she said firmly. "We'll make sure she gets here. But you need to cooperate with us now. I don't want your boy seeing you in handcuffs."
Jack gave a small nod. "Walk with me."
"Please don't… please." The man's voice broke as he clutched his son tighter.
Angela, hands on her hips, said it flat: "Say goodbye."
The father and son clung together, crying. Jack turned away, jaw tight.
Behind them, the child's sobs echoed through the house, raw and endless.
(End of Chapter 10)