John stood in front of the mirror, examining the wound. The subcutaneous armor and bullet hole stitching were completed, and there was a faint pain. The newly treated area had a slight color difference.

"Great job, Doc. Thanks, the anesthetic's got my head spinning. Help me ease these symptoms; I've still got a truckload of spoils to deal with."

The armored car was parked at the storage center, like leaving a funds card on a park bench.

Barry said there's no rush, nothing will happen no matter how long it's left, but John was in a hurry for the new shop's opening. Mr. Vito's retirement party was coming up, needed to quickly handle this trouble.

Ryan crossed his legs, his eyelids drooping, his bald head reflecting in the dimly lit basement, looking at him with a gaze that seemed to say the world and himself had decayed to death.

"In a hurry to die? A night's sleep won't bring the sky crashing down. Cops aren't much good, and as mercenaries, risking your life for the ECPD will get you laughed at."

"I work for money. When the new shop opens, you can come eat at a discount."

John chose to skip the topic.

Everyone has their own story.

He couldn't judge Barry's actions as a crooked cop, just like he couldn't change the doctor's impression of the police.

John sat down beside Ryan, flipped an empty glass, and while pouring himself a drink, remotely activated the Bolago Club's member services.

He first checked the garage information to ensure Barry had returned the motorcycle to the apartment.

Vehicles with installed smart modules can be summoned remotely.

John called for the Alloy RCH to pick him up at the clinic.

The motorcycle driving itself over would take some time; only the TV was left making noisy sounds in the clinic, occasionally accompanied by the light clink of metal ice against glass.

This time, robbing the armored car smashed the motorcycle; it was still uncertain whether it was damaged.

Repairs would be another expense.

Daily living, member season fees, vehicle repairs, equipment replacements, firearm maintenance and ammo consumption, emergency medical supplies, and urgent surgery costs...

John's eyes gradually lost focus.

He lightly tapped the edge of the glass with his finger, hesitated for a moment, then said with a certain resignation.

"Sorry, Doc, I don't have enough money to pay the surgical bill, but once I finish this job, I'll cover the tab immediately."

"Heh."

Ryan let out a bitter chuckle.

The smile disappeared in an instant.

His eyes, like fallen shell casings, cooled in an imperceptible process, numbly reflecting the basement's light tubes and the TV screen.

"Mercenaries all like owing money to doctors, only settling up when a job goes smoothly."

Ryan murmured softly and, without waiting for John to react, turned his head to ask him.

"Do you have an ECPD internal bounty account?"

"...Uh, Yep."

It took John a few seconds to realize what Ryan was saying.

Barry had given him an internal account recently, linked to the ECPD's internal system, where he could receive bounties by providing proof of kills.

"Then I won't need to lend you my old account."

"You have one too? F*ck, is this stuff all over the place? I thought it was pretty badass."

"Then pretend I didn't say anything, but remember, claiming bounties only covers losses, don't ever dream of becoming a bounty hunter; it'll get you killed. Bounties can't accurately measure someone's skill."

Ryan chugged his drink, furrowed his brows thinking, considering if there was anything else to advise.

"Oh right, don't collect the money yourself."

"I've already done that. Does it matter?"

"One screw-up might not kill you, but it's best to hire a middleman to claim bounties. That's a tried-and-true practice."

Ryan stood up, bracing on his knees, grabbed the bottle, and while passing the operation table, paused the clinic's service.

"I advise you not to screw yourself over tonight; either get in touch with other doctors... I'm planning on drinking myself unconscious."

John stayed seated, waiting for the motorcycle.

He spoke to Ryan's back.

"Maybe you'll die of alcohol poisoning before I kick the bucket."

"Yeah, thanks for the blessing. Now, get the f*ck out—"

The doctor waved him off and vanished at the door.

[Eden City-South District Storage Center Edge]

The interdistrict bridge spanned over the water.

The night wind pushed the sea waves to churn up trash and debris, rubbing against the embankment with a rhythmic strange noise.

The city's colorful neon lights smashed onto the black water surface, turning into shattered dreams.

The storage center was exceptionally quiet at night.

A few long strip lights covered with glass shone, with insects darting in and out of the supporting steel bars.

There were often illegal transactions here, so rarely would any homeless people spend the night.

The peace was broken by the roar of a motorcycle; the sound of tires crunching over gravel came gradually closer, followed by an oval-shaped beam of light entering the interior road.

Whoosh—

John lifted the unlocked roller shutter door and saw the armored car he'd fought to reclaim with his life.

The smell was somewhat intense.

Knight's body was still inside, the pool of blood spreading across the entire cargo compartment, even seeping onto the ground; all those black velvet bags were soaked.

There was inner layer protection; the artworks remained unharmed.

Most of the iron box's contents were paper documents, the rest being—encrypted separation chips, funds cards of varying amounts, and stored clients' collectibles.

John rummaged for a while before losing patience.

The documents were all business data or confidential information, and the separation chips were heavily encrypted, while violent Black Light reading them would result in irreversible loss.

The remaining artworks, even with sky-high price tags in the corner labels, wouldn't net more than one percent if a mercenary hurriedly cashed them out.

The luxury goods market and its audience are quite limited.

If confined within Eden City's limits, the flow paths were basically clear.

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