When Nolan arrived at The Evening Hearth Restaurant, his face tight with worry, a white police car from the Manhattan Precinct was already parked along the curb.
Yellow warning tape stretched across half the sidewalk, cordoning off the entrance.
A fat policeman with a prominent belly stood near the tape, leisurely sipping coffee from a paper cup. Occasionally, he waved away curious onlookers who slowed to gawk at the scene.
In front of the restaurant, several non-staff reporters from unknown tabloid publications crouched in the corner. They shot furtive glances at a Black police officer standing guard, their eyes gleaming with opportunistic hunger.
Nolan jumped off his bicycle and ran toward the Black officer.
"Sorry, officer. I'm family of the shop owner."
"Nolan, right?" The Black officer's expression softened, and he nodded. "Your aunt mentioned you'd be coming. You can go in."
He paused, then added, "But watch where you step, kid. The forensics team is on their way. We need to preserve the physical evidence."
Nolan took a deep breath and ducked under the cordon, stepping through the restaurant door.
His arrival seemed to catch the tabloid reporters' attention. The ones who'd been smoking not far away turned their heads. One of them spat several times in the direction of the Black officer, his face expressionless and hostile.
The Black officer appeared to ignore the provocation, maintaining his professional demeanor. But his hand drifted toward his service weapon, fingers tightening slightly on the grip.
Inside the restaurant, Nolan stopped and surveyed the damage.
His face grew darker with each passing second.
Rows of solid wood tables and chairs lay overturned on the floor. Countless bowls, silverware, and pieces of cutlery were scattered everywhere, many of them completely destroyed. Between the chaotic debris, brass-colored bullet casings littered the ground like deadly confetti.
On the ceiling, dark bullet holes stretched outward in all directions, pockmarking nearly every surface.
For a moment, this didn't look like a restaurant at all. It looked like a building that had just survived urban warfare.
Rage surged through Nolan's chest. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
But he forced his emotions down and walked quickly toward his aunt.
She sat in her usual chair behind the counter, her short hair soaked with sweat, her eyes vacant and unfocused. Her face had gone pale, bloodless. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her rough fingertips had lost all color.
Across from her sat a middle-aged policeman with a brown beard. He appeared to be asking questions about the incident, though his heart clearly wasn't in it. From the moment Nolan entered, the officer checked his watch more often than he actually spoke to his aunt.
"Aunt? Are you hurt?"
Nolan's voice was soft as he put his arm around her shoulders.
His aunt snapped back to awareness. Her eyes immediately reddened, tears gathering at the corners. Her voice cracked.
"I almost... I almost never saw you again."
The fury in Nolan's eyes burned hot enough to ignite the air. He took a deep breath and spoke gently.
"Don't be afraid. I'm here now. Everything's over."
After several minutes, his aunt's breathing steadied. Her trembling subsided.
Nolan raised his head and fixed the bearded officer with a serious look.
"Officer, what happened here?"
"What do you think happened?" The bearded officer frowned, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Just another day in Manhattan. Several masked robbers came in to rob the place. Your aunt tried to stop them. One of the robbers was a rookie, got too nervous, pulled the trigger and shot up the whole restaurant."
He waved dismissively.
"Don't worry, kid. these robbers are usually veterans. They only want money. They won't hurt anyone."
Nolan's anger transformed into something cold and cutting. He laughed, the sound bitter and humorless.
His face darkened as he gestured at the destroyed restaurant around them.
"If this isn't a big deal, then in your eyes, only injuries or deaths count as serious crimes?" His voice rose. "Is this how you police officers work for all the citizens paying your salaries? Does the New York Police Department's failure to do its job mean I should get a tax refund?"
"Sir, I'm just a regular officer." The bearded policeman suddenly stood, already turning toward the exit. "If you think your rights have been violated, you're welcome to take it up with the Mayor of New York."
He walked away without looking back.
"Also," he called over his shoulder, "catching serious criminals is the FBI and Major Crimes' responsibility, not mine. I'm just reminding you out of courtesy that if criminals find a place with easy marks and good money, they'll definitely come back. I suggest you close down for a while."
The bearded officer didn't even seem to care about preserving the crime scene. He waved at the Black officer to follow him as he left.
Nolan's eyes narrowed. He started to move forward, ready to confront the man.
His aunt's hand caught his arm, stopping him.
She closed her eyes, exhaustion saturating every word.
"Nolan, I told you before. Poor people can't get help from these officers. Rich people are the ones they actually serve. Just... forget it. Consider it bad luck."
Nolan's eyelid twitched. He turned to look at his aunt, forcing an extremely stiff smile onto his face.
"Okay, Aunt. I'll listen to you."
But internally, his thoughts ran in a completely different direction.
Consider it bad luck? No. This matter wouldn't end until someone paid the price.
After a moment of silence, Nolan leaned closer and whispered, "Aunt, let me take you home to rest first."
His aunt's eyes showed hesitation.
"The store hasn't been cleaned yet. I haven't even counted the losses—"
"Don't worry. I'll handle everything."
Nolan patted his chest firmly, making a promise.
Seeing his determined attitude, his aunt stopped resisting. She nodded obediently.
The sudden brush with death had shaken her badly. Her usual strength and resilience had crumbled in the face of real violence.
"Take your time standing up," Nolan said gently.
He carefully helped his aunt to her feet. Together, they walked hand in hand toward the exit.
"Hello! Manhattan Internet Radio..."
"This is the New York Star! What do you think about this armed robbery?"
"I'm an intern reporter for the Daily Bugle..."
Suddenly, the tabloid reporters rushed into the restaurant. They showed no respect, no caution. They simply trampled over the physical evidence scattered across the floor, desperately pushing forward for their interviews.
The anger that had been simmering in Nolan's chest exploded into an inferno.
He stepped forward, positioning himself directly between the reporters and his aunt. His hands came up in a ready stance.
Catachan combat posture. Prepared to strike.
Nolan's eyes were bloodshot, veins visible at his temples. The ferocity and savagery of the Catachan jungle radiated from his body like heat waves, primal and dangerous.
The reporters stopped instantly. They exchanged glances, some silent understanding passing between them.
Then they scrambled backward, practically falling over each other to escape through the door.
It was just an interview. No story was worth facing whatever they'd seen in that kid's eyes.
His aunt patted Nolan's tense back, her touch gentle and soothing.
"Forget it, Nolan. Let's go home."
"Be good. Let's go."