Jack rarely drank, though he'd occasionally sniff a cigar. He'd bought this box of 52-proof Erguotou from a Chinese supermarket for cooking—12 bottles per box, 600ml each.
Hannah had already stolen two bottles over the past few days, claiming the taste reminded her of the potato whiskey her father used to brew back on the farm.
Jack pulled out four beer glasses. John's wound hadn't fully healed, so Jack only filled his glass to the bottom, and did the same for himself. Then, with a solid thunk, he poured Tim's and Hannah's a third of the way, tossed in two ice cubes, and warned: "This is like Seres' version of vodka. Don't drink it too quickly."
They raised their glasses. A proper toast seemed out of place with such strong liquor, but Hannah, craving it for days, improvised: "For being single!"
The others, half amused, half embarrassed, echoed: "For being single!"
As expected, the three sweet-toothed Americans fell in love with the candied pork knuckle. But they didn't neglect the other dishes either. By the end, two bottles of Erguotou were gone, and except for a few scraps of vegetables, the table had been cleared clean by the four carnivores.
John rubbed his swollen belly, guilt creeping into his tone. "My diet plan is ruined. How do you eat like this every day and still stay in shape? Is this the advantage of youth?"
Jack was busy wrestling the bottle away from Hannah, who was already tipsy. Afraid she'd end up returning her dinner, he poured the rest into Tim's glass. "Hannah turned the guest room into a sparring room. Before I got injured, I had to practice Krav Maga with her daily. Living here isn't free. Besides getting beaten, I have to cook, do the laundry, clean the house, and even mow the lawn."
Hannah pouted at the empty bottle. "I can hardly beat you anymore. My coach says I'm ready for the Krav Maga E1 exam in Judea."
Jack rolled his eyes. After countless sparring sessions, the system had long shown his fighting skills as proficient. He guessed that once he pushed his Constitution to 20 tonight, he'd finally be able to pin her down and spank her in revenge tomorrow.
"So, what about you, Tim? Any plans for the future?" John asked.
Tim shook his head, taking a sip. He wasn't used to the liquor's bite, but he couldn't set it down either. "I don't know… maybe only time can fix things. I had an irresponsible father, and all I ever wanted was to avoid repeating his mistakes. I wanted to be a good husband, but in the end…"
Jack ruffled Hannah's golden hair to keep her from opening another bottle. "It's cruel to say, but maybe Isabella was so determined because she knew you too well. She's already in hell—she doesn't want to drag you down too."
Tim sniffed, wiped his eyes, and drained the liquor in one gulp. His voice cracked. "I've thought of that, but… I still love her."
John backed Jack up. "You've been on the streets long enough to know what addiction does. From the moment Isabella left your family, the person you loved was gone. Don't let misplaced responsibility chain your future."
By the end of the night, John managed to bundle a drunken, grief-stricken Tim into a taxi and send him home. Watching the cab disappear, Jack sighed. Gambling with love is just as dangerous as gambling with money.
After clearing the table, Jack noticed Hannah passed out on the sofa, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For all her big talk, her alcohol tolerance was only a few ounces.
He stooped to scoop her up in a princess carry, but the soft body in his arms suddenly stiffened. A fist swung at his cheek, fast as lightning.
"Hannah!" Jack called sharply.
Her blue eyes widened at the familiar voice. Recognition dawned, her body relaxed, and she slumped back into his arms. Like a puppy finding its scent, she buried her head against his neck. Her clenched fist loosened, wrapping around him instead.
Jack sighed, half helpless, half amused. He couldn't tell if her closeness came more from love… or family. He laid her gently on the bed, removed her shoes, tucked her under the quilt, and left quietly.
Her sudden outburst, though, left him thoughtful. Even with his basic psychology training, the signs were clear—classic PTSD. Combined with her guarded, sometimes hostile attitude toward women, it was something he'd long suspected. He'd tried probing before, but she'd always shut down. He was helpless.
Back in his attic, Jack unwrapped the bandage from his calf and used a healing spell to finish the job. Then, he pulled up his system and spent two gold coins, raising his Constitution to 20.
No agonizing pain, no black tar spewing from his pores. Just a tingling—starting in his toes, flowing up his calves, thighs, spine, arms, and neck, converging at his crown. Like his entire body had been rebuilt from the inside out.
He stripped down before the mirror. What stared back was a body like carved marble—perfectly balanced muscles, smooth skin without a blemish. Even the faint scar on his chin had vanished.
He flexed, smirked, and struck a pose. With this body, paired with his mixed-race good looks, if he walked into the San Fernando Valley, half the action movie stars would be out of work.
That night, Jack discovered the true benefits of dual 20s in both mind and body. His required sleep shrank to less than three hours, leaving him with five extra hours every day—for training, study, or simply living.
On the last day of leave, he and Hannah paid a visit to Hunter and Dee Dee again. Without Hunter's gift of the Python, escaping the Bronson Building would've been impossible. (The calf wound was Tim's fault—that didn't count.)
Still, a revolver had its limits. Six rounds, and even with a speed loader, reloading under fire was a headache. Jack was already thinking ahead: one day, he'd need a high-powered semi-automatic, built to punch through body armor.
For now, though, he reminded himself—he was still just a rookie patrolman. Standing out too much could be as dangerous as any bullet.
(End of this chapter)