After Jack finished telling Zoe about the pitiful father and son, she kissed him softly on the lips as a reward.
"Little Jack, you really are too kind," she murmured.
Jack sighed. He knew the truth—kindness wasn't the reason. In his past life, he'd lived through hardship too. Without the help of friends, he might never have made it to forty, much less lived carefree.
Helping that father and son wasn't about virtue. It was about his own sense of balance. If he'd been a detective with real authority, he might've just released the guy outright. Jack knew how cruel America's child welfare system could be—they'd rip a kid away from his dad for almost nothing.
Still, he had no illusions. He couldn't change America's economic decline or the slow death of the middle class. He wasn't here to fix society. His only real goal right now was simple: use the system to get stronger, protect the people close to him, and survive long enough to figure out how far this world would let him climb.
But he had a more pressing problem.
After yesterday's gunfight, the same manic rush had returned. That night, he'd taken it out on Zoe with twice the intensity.
He'd even gone so far as to pick up psychology books, trying to find a name for it. He'd leveled up his "Psychology (Introductory)" skill, but still found no clear answer.
When he told Zoe, she just cupped his face, studied him from every angle, and then delivered an answer that left him dumbfounded:
"When I was in the army, we had PTSD. That's all I've ever heard of. Whatever this is? I think maybe God made you too perfect, so He gave you one tiny flaw."
Then her smile turned sly. "Honestly? You don't need to worry so much. If I'm not around and you get like that again, I give you permission to let Hannah handle it."
Jack's heart skipped. He blurted: "Are you serious?"
The bite mark she left on his shoulder answered for her.
"Don't push your luck," Zoe growled. "And if not Hannah, then maybe Maureen. She's been asking about you ever since dinner. If she can't fix your problem as a therapist, maybe she'll find… another way to help you."
Jack could barely contain his grin. American TV worlds. Queens everywhere. He forced himself to look wounded. "Honey, are you doubting me? Sounds like I need another round of treatment."
Zoe rolled her eyes at him, then gasped as his "therapy" swept her away again.
The next morning, Jack sat across from Dr. Maureen Cahill at the EAP counseling center. Of course, it wasn't Zoe's suggestion that brought him here—it was mandatory. The police union required therapy after a shooting.
"Basically, that's it," Jack said awkwardly. "The symptoms stick around until I… uh… release them. And, uh, I'd really appreciate it if none of this went into my file. Someday, if I apply to the FBI, I don't want them thinking I'm some kind of sociopath. Or worse, a nympho."
Maureen wore a simple white dress today, light makeup, and her trademark glasses. She looked softer, almost ladylike. Her legs, bare and smooth, crossed neatly, and her pink-polished toes peeked from cutout heels.
Jack had no idea why the word cute popped into his mind. She was in her thirties. He wasn't some creep. But damn if the whole glasses-and-heels look didn't throw him off balance.
She sipped her tea and adjusted her glasses. "Don't worry. Zoe's my best friend. I'll make you a promise: no notes, no recordings. What we talk about here, stays here."
Jack exhaled in relief.
"Now," Maureen continued, "tell me exactly what you feel in life-or-death situations. Detail the thoughts that go through your mind."
Jack pretended to think hard, though the truth was the memories were crystal clear, like a movie playing in slow motion.
"The first time was on patrol. A suspect opened fire on my cruiser with an automatic rifle. A round grazed my ear, but instead of panicking, I felt this flood of adrenaline. My focus sharpened. My reflexes, even my confidence, spiked. I fired back and killed him. Afterward, I forced myself to look at the body. I felt sick, but no real urge to puke."
He continued, "The second time was yesterday. When I saw him aim at Superintendent Gray, the feeling came back. I knew I couldn't grab my rifle in time, so I drew my Glock instead and emptied the mag. I'd been practicing at ten meters on the range. But that was twenty meters, single shots, and I still hit every time."
Maureen raised an eyebrow, flipping through a report. "You're not exaggerating? The file says you landed all fifteen rounds in under five seconds. Every shot hit center mass."
Jack scratched his head, embarrassed. "Yeah. That's what happened. Honestly, I think it has more to do with… mental focus than anything else."
Maureen leaned back, studying him over her glasses. "And that bothers you?"
Jack shrugged.
Her lips curved faintly. "You're worried about being too calm in combat. But do you know how many officers come to me because they freeze under fire? Most end up forced off the streets. You? You have a gift, Jack. Maybe don't see it as a flaw."
Jack blinked at her. A gift? Or a curse? He wasn't sure yet.
(End of Chapter)