Inside the clinic, the hum of the fluorescent lights felt clinical and cold. Jax, now in a white lab coat and mask, moved with a surgical grace that betrayed years of repressed muscle memory. On the table, the small black kitten lay under anesthesia, its tongue lolling out in a drug-induced stupor.
"What happened?" Jax asked, his hands already palpating the cat's ribcage.
"I was out at the park this afternoon, and we were just walking, and then—"
"Skip the fluff," Jax interrupted, his eyes fixed on the feline. "Just the facts."
"It was kicked," the girl whispered, her voice cracking. "By some guy in a suit. He didn't even look back."
"Understood. Wait in the lobby."
Jax ushered her out before she could protest. He didn't need tears near an open incision.
Outside, the Goth girl slumped onto the plastic bench, burying her face in her hands. Her heavy black eyeliner, already ruined by the Los Santos humidity, ran down her fingers in dark streaks.
"Hey," Zona said softly, sitting beside her and offering a travel pack of tissues. "He's the best. If anyone can fix your cat, it's him."
The girl took the tissues, wiping the charcoal smears from her cheeks. "Thank you," she sniffled, looking up at Zona with wide, weary eyes. Zona stared back, a flicker of recognition crossing her mind. She'd seen this face before—probably at some dull charity gala or a high-end showroom.
The minutes ticked by until the 'In Use' light dimmed. Jax walked out, snapping off his latex gloves.
"She's fine. Single broken rib, minor internal bruising. I've stabilized her." Jax walked to the front desk, scribbling on a clipboard. "She stays here for forty-eight hours for observation. You can pick her up then."
"Thank you, Doctor. Seriously." The girl reached into her leather shoulder bag and pulled out a thick roll of bills, thumping them onto the counter. "This is all the cash I have on me. If it's not enough, I'll bring more tomorrow."
Jax looked at the stack. It was thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. Three grand for a rib wrap.
"It doesn't cost three thousand to tape a cat," Jax said, peeling off ten bills and sliding the rest back. "Keep the change for her recovery food. High-protein, wet-only."
"Just take care of Tisa," she said, waving as she jogged out the door into the cool night air.
Zona watched her go, her eyes narrowing. "Jax, that wasn't just some kid. That's the daughter of the man who owns Premium Deluxe Motorsport. One of the biggest tycoons in the city."
Jax paused, his eyes gleaming. "Is that so? I guess I should have charged the full three thousand."
"If you were a million in debt like me, you'd appreciate a good tip," Jax added, though Zona just rolled her eyes. To her, a million dollars was a rounding error in her father's monthly accounts.
The next morning, the clinic was quiet until the familiar trill of the phone shattered the peace. It was Michael. He sounded like a man drowning in a sea of family drama.
"Jax, I can't make it," Michael groaned. "Jimmy's in some mess with a bike, and Tracey's... well, being Tracey. Look, I need you to go meet an old friend of mine. Lester. He's expecting a 'professional' associate."
Jax looked at the address in Murrieta Heights. He knew Lester Crest—the paranoid, brilliant architect of every major score in Michael's history. Meeting him wasn't an invitation; it was an initiation.
"He wants to meet me?" Jax asked.
"He asked for you specifically, kid. Don't keep him waiting. He gets twitchy."
Beside him, Zona was checking her own phone, her expression grim. "My dad called. He wants me home now. Apparently, Uncle Martin has a big mouth."
"He told your dad about the 'boyfriend'?"
"Most likely," Zona sighed, rubbing her temples. "But don't sweat it. My dad is... well, he's a businessman. He's reasonable until he isn't. Just don't get shot by a paranoid hacker in the meantime."
Murrieta Heights.
Jax pulled up to a weathered, single-story house that looked intentionally invisible. It was the kind of place people drove past without ever truly seeing.
As he stepped onto the porch, a high-definition camera whirred to life in the corner, its lens tracking his every movement like a sniper's scope. Jax looked directly into the glass and waved.
"Mr. Crest? Michael sent me. Said you had a problem that needed a specialized set of hands."
Inside the dark, screen-lit room, an obese man in a plaid shirt sat in a customized wheelchair. Lester leaned forward, his eyes widening behind thick glasses as he scanned the monitor.
"Unbelievable," Lester muttered, his fingers flying across a keyboard. "The resemblance is eerie. He's the spitting image of his old man."
He leaned into a microphone. "Wait a moment. And don't touch the plants."
The electronic lock disengaged with a heavy clack. The door creaked open just an inch. Jax pushed his way inside, stepping out of the Los Santos sun and into the lair of the Mastermind.