chapter 1

A police car cruised down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, New York. Rookie officer Link sat behind the wheel, gripping it firmly. As a trainee, even getting to drive a police car was a privilege. Sitting in the passenger seat beside him was Detective Rami Beron, his instructor. However, today, Rami was in plain clothes, observing silently.

During the one-year internship, instructors spent one day in plain clothes, allowing trainees to patrol independently and handle all incidents they encountered. This typically occurred near the end of the internship, serving as a test. Many trainees faltered here, ending their aspirations of becoming full-fledged police officers.

Link, however, remained calm. He followed the familiar patrol route he had been assigned for months, adhering to protocol. Luck seemed to be on his side; no calls came in, and he encountered no traffic violations.

As he approached an intersection, the light turned red. Link stopped behind a Ford sedan. With a practiced hand, he entered the car's license plate number into the onboard computer. Random plate checks were standard procedure. The sheer number of vehicles on the road meant that many were either unregistered, stolen, or driven by wanted criminals.

His screen displayed an unusual result: no information on the vehicle. That was a red flag.

Rather than react immediately, Link waited for the light to turn green before following the sedan. Once they had enough space ahead, he activated the siren and lights.

"Woo woo..."

The driver of the Ford responded quickly, turning on the signal and pulling over. Link mirrored the movement, positioning his vehicle strategically to shield both the stopped car and oncoming traffic.

Maintaining caution, he unfastened his seatbelt and stepped out, his right hand instinctively resting near the holstered Glock 19 on his hip. He had two spare magazines secured at his left waist. Approaching the car from the driver's side, he used the vehicle's B-pillar as cover while his instructor took position on the opposite side.

The driver had already rolled down the window and was holding out a driver's license. Link now saw the driver clearly—a Black woman in formal attire, suggesting a professional occupation.

Rather than immediately taking the license, he leaned slightly to make eye contact.

"Ma'am, I stopped you because this vehicle does not appear in the police database. I need to verify its status."

As an officer, he had to provide a reason for the stop.

The woman remained composed. "Why did you check my license plate number?"

Her question was pointed. If Link didn't justify the check adequately, she could accuse him of racial profiling.

Still unfazed, Link replied, "Random check. While waiting at the light, I ran the plate of the vehicle in front of me, which is common practice. Officers frequently conduct these checks to identify unregistered vehicles, stolen cars, or individuals with outstanding warrants."

She nodded but continued holding up her license.

"Is this your car?" Link asked.

"No, it's a government vehicle," she answered. "It belongs to my workplace."

"Understood. May I see your license?"

Only then did he accept the document, studying it briefly before returning to his patrol car to run her details through the system.

As he suspected, she was a prosecutor for the local court. However, the headquarters still found no record of the vehicle. Link requested a secondary check with the court, which confirmed that the sedan was a confidential government vehicle.

That settled it.

Returning to the car, he handed back the license. "You're free to go, ma'am."

"No issues, then?" she probed.

"The court has verified the vehicle's status," Link replied smoothly. "You're clear to proceed."

"Understood. But I reserve the right to report this." Her tone was measured, but Link sensed the underlying irritation.

"That is your right, ma'am," he acknowledged before turning away.

Throughout the entire exchange, Rami Beron had remained silent. As they got back into the patrol car and resumed their route, Link refrained from asking for feedback. He figured that if there were issues, he would know soon enough.

Their shift ended at 8:00 PM. As soon as they returned to the station, the captain called them in.

"Tell me exactly what happened today."

It appeared the prosecutor had indeed made a call.

Link provided a concise account, and then Rami corroborated it. The captain listened attentively, his expression neutral.

Once they finished, Link added, "The plate check was conducted at the intersection by XXX. The traffic camera footage should confirm everything."

The captain nodded. "I know. You're both dismissed."

Link didn't ask about his performance. That was up to Rami to report. As long as he wasn't fired the next day, he figured he had done fine.

Indeed, there were no immediate consequences. Soon after, Link was officially recognized as a full-fledged officer. However, he was reassigned—to the West Midtown Precinct, better known as Hell's Kitchen.

Many officers would have seen this as a punishment. The precinct was infamous for gang activity, organized crime, and frequent violence.

But Link? He didn't complain. He didn't request a review. Instead, he simply packed up his locker, folded his uniform neatly, and left with a slight smirk.

Hell's Kitchen.

A dangerous place, full of criminals and chaos.

And the perfect place for someone like him.