It wasn't clear if Americans had a proper concept of "housewarming," but Jack wasn't about to let that stop him. His new home, freshly scrubbed and still carrying the faint scent of sawdust from his carpentry projects, became the stage for a modest yet lively gathering. He'd prepared a feast the way only he could: braised short ribs simmered for hours, roasted chicken with a golden crackle of skin, stir-fried greens spiced with Sichuan peppercorns. The table gleamed with bottles of imported beer and a few contraband bottles of brandy someone smuggled in from a case.
Colleagues from Wilshire Precinct filled the place with noise and laughter. Dr. Scarlett from Central Hospital, radiant even in simple casual wear, chatted with Lucy near the kitchen. Kara, once a traumatized victim, now almost inseparable from Hannah, bounced from officer to officer with the enthusiasm of a cadet desperate to earn her stripes. She'd made it no secret: when she turned eighteen, she would join the LAPD.
Detective Hunter's arrival with his wife turned heads. His reputation preceded him, the kind of man younger officers whispered about in admiration. Even Superintendent Gray seemed to tone down his steel demeanor in the detective's presence. It was a reminder: in this building, rank mattered less than respect earned in the field.
And then came Zoe and Maureen. Two women in tailored evening wear, their presence so commanding it silenced the room for a heartbeat. Colleagues, whether rookies or veterans, instinctively straightened in their chairs, unsure whether to cheer or bow. But within moments, the tension broke. This was Wilshire—formality never lasted long here—and the party resumed with fresh energy.
The next morning came bittersweet. Hannah's last day at Wilshire. Quantico was calling her, and though pride laced every farewell, the mood was heavy. She'd charmed the station in her short time: fearless in the field, kind to victims, and just the right mix of stubborn and sweet to make her impossible to forget.
At her desk, gifts piled up like an altar. Stuffed mascots, engraved mugs, even a framed precinct group photo. But when Jack stepped forward, Hannah's expression softened.
He handed her a small sandalwood figurine, hand-carved in the shape of a giant-headed cartoon doll with an unmistakable resemblance to her. Her lips parted in surprise, and she clasped it to her chest like something irreplaceable.
What she didn't know was that the gift had cost Jack more than late nights carving. He'd burned through materials, wasted hours in frustration, and finally, forced by his perfectionism, spent a precious system coin to raise his Carpentry skill to Expert level. Painful, but worth it.
Hannah tucked the doll away like a sacred charm. "This one's not going on a shelf. This one comes with me."
Their patrol together that day was quiet. For once, Los Angeles didn't feel like Los Santos. No shootouts, no bodies sprawled in alleys—just traffic stops and one ticket for reckless driving. Hannah joked that the city must have been giving her a proper farewell, calm before her Quantico storm.
By the time they returned, dusk stretched long shadows across the precinct lot. Jack and Hannah were still trading quiet banter when John stumbled in with a story too good not to share.
He'd arrested a half-dressed woman at a hotel—Astrid Hesser, blonde, entitled, sharp as a switchblade and just as dangerous. According to John, she'd tried to stab a valet for scratching her car. When he subdued her, her dress tore in the struggle, leaving her glaring and exposed.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "What did you do to her? You looked like a deer in headlights."
"She tried to kill someone," John muttered, filling out the report, "and now she thinks I exposed her on purpose. She told me something will be filed against me soon. Complaints, lawsuits, whatever."
Jack frowned. Something about the name rang a bell, like a subplot from one of the countless American dramas stitched into this world. He made a mental note to be cautious.
Before the laughter faded, Angela appeared, arm slung around Hannah for support. She looked raw, eyes rimmed red, her swagger gone.
"Gentlemen, are you free? I'm drinking tonight. And I don't plan on stopping until I can't feel my heart."
Her tone wasn't playful. It was cracked glass.
Jack kept silent. Ever since deciding to tone down his "central air conditioning" charm, he avoided situations like this. But John, too kind for his own good, asked softly, "What's wrong, Angela?"
"She thought Wesley was cheating," Hannah explained gently.
Angela's eyes flashed at Jack when he muttered, "Got caught snooping, huh?" It was the kind of remark he couldn't resist, but immediately regretted.
"I apologized," Angela said, voice rough. "But he won't forgive me. I think it's over."
The group ended up at their usual bar, neon lights painting the worn wood booths. Hannah, determined to help, ordered top-shelf whiskey. Angela downed it like water, shoulders shaking as her story spilled out.
Her father had walked out when she was young. Her mother raised five children alone, stretching pennies until they screamed. Angela, the only girl, grew up fighting harder than her brothers, a tomboy by necessity, never by choice. Beneath the armor, she admitted, she only ever wanted someone she could rely on. She thought Wesley was that person. That was why she'd clung so tightly.
By the time the bottle was half-empty, her voice trembled between anger and despair.
Across the booth, Jack leaned close to John, whispering, "Do you think she'll pull a gun on us when she sobers up?"
John gave him a sidelong glance. "I'll be fine. But you? You're definitely dead. You were the one who poked at her wound with that smart mouth."
Jack grimaced. His psychology skill was still stuck at entry level, but tonight he'd tested it anyway. He hadn't expected Angela—the tough, tomboyish cop—to bleed out her secrets so easily. And now, he wasn't sure whether to feel guilty… or afraid.
The bar's jukebox switched to an old country tune. Angela, tears streaking her face, raised her glass in a toast no one dared decline.
"To the men who stay," she muttered bitterly.
Jack clinked his glass anyway, the whiskey burning down his throat. For once, he didn't have a clever line.
(End of this chapter)