The golden Banshee GTS purred to a halt in front of Jax's apartment complex. In this neighborhood—a graveyard of 20th-century brick and faded dreams—the car didn't just stand out; it looked like a landed UFO.
"Check that out," a man muttered from a nearby porch, squinting through the smog. "Either a king just moved in, or the repo man is having a mid-life crisis."
"Shut up, Lou," his neighbor barked. "You've been dodging student loans since the Bush administration. Let the rich people be."
Jax ignored the chatter. He'd lived in the cracks of Los Santos long enough to know that envy was the city's primary export. He led Zona into the dim, flickering light of the lobby.
"You actually live here?" Zona asked, her designer heels clicking sharply against the cracked linoleum. In her world, guys with Jax's skill set lived in Vinewood villas, not rent-controlled relics.
"My old man left it to me," Jax said as they waited for the elevator. "Better than crashing on my uncle's couch and listening to his marriage fall apart every night."
Zona leaned in, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I can't pin you down, Jax. You don't act like the locals. You've got this... edge. Where did you actually grow up?"
"Mainland China," Jax said, pointing to his face as the elevator doors groaned open. "Can't you tell? I'm too good-looking to be one of those local-born guys you see on Lifeinvader."
Zona laughed, stepping into the cramped lift. "Fair point. Most of the guys I know look like they were carved out of wet dough."
The elevator reached his floor with a tired ding. Jax slid his key into the lock, expecting the usual quiet hum of his apartment.
Click.
The door swung open, and both of them froze.
"Is your interior designer a demolition specialist?" Zona asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The living room looked like a hurricane had been confined to fifty square feet. Shards of foam, stray feathers, and shredded fabric covered every inch of the floor. From the bedroom, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed through the hall.
"Burglars?" Zona whispered, tensing up.
Jax didn't whisper. He lunged into the bedroom, ready to introduce a home intruder to his Brute Force.
Instead, he found Bruce standing on the mattress, a shredded pillow clamped in his jaws, shaking it with the ferocity of a wolf. On the floor, the Tiger cub sat perfectly upright, a pair of Jax's gym socks in its mouth, watching Bruce with wide, studious eyes.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Bruce barked—the System-translated speech ringing clear in Jax's ears. "You're doing it wrong, Sarge. You can't use socks for combat training. They're too small. Do you want to choke? Use the cushions!"
Bruce yanked the socks away from the cub. "And seriously, stop chewing the socks. Do you want to taste his feet all day?"
Above them, Big Black let out a series of frantic, warning screeches.
"Quit it, Black," Bruce huffed. "That idiot Jax won't be back for hours. We'll just push the fluff under the bed and—"
"BRUCE!"
The dog's fur stood on end instantly. He tried to scramble for the exit, but his paws found no traction on the hardwood floor, leaving him running in place like a cartoon character.
Jax stepped forward and hoisted the skidding Husky up by his scruff. "I think it's time for a performance review."
"I have a feeling," Bruce muttered, his ears drooping as he looked at Jax's sinister grin, "that I'm not getting a bonus this year."
Smack!
"Awoooo-hoooo!"
Zona, meanwhile, had completely ignored the man-dog discipline session. She was staring at the floor. "Jax! You have a kitten? Oh my god, he's adorable!"
She scooped up the tiger cub. Sarge, who had been ready to defend his socks, immediately melted into a purring pile of striped fuzz the moment Zona started scratching behind his ears.
"Zona, put the 'kitty' down before he decides your hand is a snack," Jax warned.
"Line up! Now!"
The command echoed through the trashed apartment. Within seconds, Bruce and Big Black were standing at attention. Sarge joined them a moment later, looking longingly back at Zona.
"New rules," Jax said, pointing at the cub. "Your name is Sarge. 'General' was too formal for a cat that eats socks. And Bruce?"
The Husky looked up guiltily.
"Every time these two mess up, I'm taking it out of your kibble budget."
"That's a human rights violation!" Bruce protested. "It was the bird's idea!"
Jax looked at the ruins of his home and sighed. "We're staying at the Vet Clinic tonight. This place is an active crime scene."
"I'm in," Zona said, still cradling Sarge. "I want to see if you have any more 'magical' creatures at the office."
An hour later, the Banshee pulled up to the Sterling Pet Hospital.
Under the flickering neon sign of the clinic, a girl no older than nineteen was huddled on the curb. She was dressed in heavy Gothic attire—layers of black lace and combat boots—but her dark makeup was smeared into a mess by streaks of tears. In her arms, she held a small black cat that lay limp and unresponsive.
"Are you the doctor?" she gasped as Jax stepped out of the car.
Jax looked at the girl, then at the kitten. His Super Dynamic Vision flickered on instinctively, noting the shallow, labored breathing of the feline.
"I am," Jax said, his voice dropping the sarcasm.
"Please... please help Tisa. Everywhere else is closed. I don't have anyone else to ask."
Jax unlocked the glass doors and gestured her inside. "Bring her in. Let's see what we're dealing with."