Dinner carried on with laughter, banter, and more food than any of them could handle. Angela had her arm hooked dramatically around Hannah, sighing and begging for sympathy after being teased half the night. The others chuckled at the sight, enjoying the rare peace after weeks of tension.
Then came the sharp clink-clink-clink of John tapping a spoon against his glass. He rose with mock formality, clearing his throat.
"Alright, listen up," he said, raising his voice above the chatter. "I've got a proposal. How about this—once a month we all get together? We rotate who hosts. Jack here," he pointed with his spoon, "is our head chef. Anyone else brave enough to try can pitch in, but the rest of us will cover ingredients. What do you say?"
"Agreed!" Glasses clashed, voices rose, and the toast rang through the room.
Jack leaned back, savoring the warmth of the moment. It wasn't just about food or drinks—it was belonging, something he hadn't realized he'd been starving for. Cooking, of all things, might end up being the first skill he reached true mastery in without buying it from the system.
He thought about his other progress. To raise pistol shooting from Master to Grandmaster required ten whole coins—an absurd amount. And honestly, he'd already outpaced nearly every cop in the LAPD. Range practice didn't push him further anymore. What he needed was SWAT-level training, tactical drills under live pressure, things well beyond what his salary allowed.
And rifles? Forget it. Professional ranges cost a fortune. His savings—barely two grand scraped together over months—wouldn't last. Guns, ammo, instructors, memberships… it was a luxury for men with trust funds, not paycheck-to-paycheck cops.
Jack rubbed his jaw. Others, like Tim or John, looked like they lived comfortably, houses, cars, families. But peel back the façade and you saw the debt—the bank owned more than they did. It was the American way, maybe, but to Jack, a man who'd seen what real poverty meant, it felt like living one paycheck away from the abyss.
His dream was simpler, sharper. A modest house—just enough space for a king-sized bed, a proper Chinese-style kitchen, and a bathroom with a double tub. A backyard big enough for a punching post, maybe a garden, maybe even a pool one day. Not luxury—stability. A fortress of his own.
But dreams took money. More than a cop's badge could provide.
Later that night, after the guests had gone, Jack was scrubbing the last of the pans when he noticed Hannah hovering near the doorway. Her arms were full, clutching a large box.
She smiled shyly. "Congratulations. Official LAPD officer now."
He dried his hands, curiosity sparking as he took the box. It was heavy. Solid. A weapon, maybe?
"What's inside?"
"Books," Hannah said proudly. "You're always complaining about how expensive English texts are. And I've seen you eyeing Chinese references. So I went to Chinatown and bought some. The shopkeeper swore they're the real deal."
Jack's smile froze. Books? From Chinatown? This girl couldn't read a single character of Chinese. God only knew what she'd been sold. He pictured all those random Americans in LA strutting around with nonsense tattoos in kanji, convinced they meant "courage" when they really said "toilet."
Suppressing a groan, he tore away the paper. On top sat a well-preserved Xinhua Dictionary, Eighth Edition.
He blinked. Genuine. Useful, even.
Beneath it…
Jack's brows twitched. The second book: Friends of Military and Civilian Dual-Use Talents. The third: the exact same, only marked Continuation.
His lips curled. Then twisted. Then stretched into something halfway between laughter and madness. "Oh, this is… incredible," he muttered in his native tongue, ignoring Hannah's confused stare.
"Are they useful?" she asked, doubt flickering across her face.
Jack swept her up in his arms and spun her around before she could finish, kissing her breathless. "Useful? You're my goddess of luck, Hannah. You just handed me gold."
It was the first time she'd ever seen him so undone, his usual steel melted away. Her cheeks flushed, though she was grinning too.
"You haven't sparred with me since your injury. Think you're ready to go another round tonight?" she teased.
"No problem," Jack said, already heading for the stairs. "I'll put these away first."
Up in the attic, he placed the dictionary neatly on the shelf—destined to be decorative. But the two "dual-use" tomes, thick with practical knowledge, went straight to his bedside. They were infamous among travelers like him: encyclopedias of survival, weapons, agriculture, medicine, engineering—all written in plain, usable language.
He remembered when reading psychology texts had given him entry-level skills instantly. These were the same kind of treasure, only broader, deeper. For a man with a system like his, they weren't just books. They were power.
By the time he came back down, he'd already changed into a fitted training outfit. Hannah's spare room had been converted into a gym: padded flooring, walls lined with mats, a heavy bag swaying in the corner, and a training dummy waiting.
Jack stretched his fingers, anticipation coursing through him. With his Physical stat now over twenty, his body no longer lagged behind his perception. Where once he could see his opponent's moves coming but not react fast enough, now his reflexes caught up. Like going from high-ping lag to lightning-fast fiber.
Krav Maga wasn't about beauty or form. It was about speed, pain, ruthlessness. One strike, decisive. Hannah understood that. She'd drilled it into him. Tonight, he'd see just how far he'd come.
The room grew quiet, only the steady sound of breath and the faint hum of the ceiling light between them.
Jack raised his fists. Hannah smiled, sharp and eager.
The fight was on.
(End of this chapter)