chapter 4

The Internal Affairs Department didn't have many questions. They mainly verified the on-site situation and compared it with the investigation results to determine whether Link had lied.

Killing gang members wasn't a big deal as long as the procedure was legal, and not all the casualties at the scene were caused by Link. According to his report, he had controlled the situation outside—an already difficult feat for a single officer.

Under normal circumstances, this could have been a public relations win, but given the high number of deaths, it was best to keep a low profile. The union and lawyers offered their assistance, but Link declined; his procedures were flawless.

More importantly, he wanted to establish his authority—both within the West Midtown Precinct and in Hell's Kitchen. If people recognized his strength, it would prevent future trouble and make investigating cases much easier.

After the questioning, Link headed to the locker room, removed his police uniform, and hung it up neatly in his locker. Beneath it, he wore a white cotton T-shirt that clung to his well-defined muscles. A pair of dark blue jeans and brown Martin boots completed his outfit.

Standing at 1.85 meters tall, Link had a lean yet athletic build—his muscles toned rather than bulky. He strapped on his X-shaped underarm holster, securing his Glock 26 under his right arm while tucking two spare magazines on the left. Finally, he donned a brown leather jacket, pinned his police badge to his belt, and grabbed a helmet from the closet.

He didn't drive a car. Instead, he preferred his motorcycle.

Meanwhile, in the Irish gang's headquarters, tempers flared. A meeting was in progress, and the mood was far from pleasant.

Today's operation was supposed to be a success. They had planned meticulously, catching their rivals off guard. Before making their move, they had even kidnapped the other gang's girls to weaken them further.

Yet they had failed—miserably. More than thirty men were dead, significantly weakening their forces.

"Just one cop?" one gang member growled.

"Yes," another confirmed. "According to the officer we bribed, it was a single Chinese-American cop. He was just officially transferred."

"He deserves to die. I want all his information. I'll have him dead in three days."

The Irish gang wasn't the only one seething. The Russians were just as furious. Their operation had been ambushed, and a single police officer had wiped out their last remaining men.

They weren't sure which enemy to prioritize, but one thing was clear: they needed to reclaim the kidnapped girls first. Those women were their cash cows. Without them, business couldn't continue.

Link was placed on administrative leave for a few days, but it was just a formality. The situation was straightforward, with no suspicious elements.

Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, casting a warm glow on the bed. Link squinted, then stretched, letting the sunlight bathe his body. It felt good, but he didn't linger. He had plans.

He was going house-hunting.

Having transmigrated into this world, he felt no attachment to his current home. It was old, outdated, and required too much upkeep for a single person. More importantly, it was in Queens, far from his new precinct in Manhattan.

A high-rise apartment in Manhattan with housekeeping services sounded much better—though it wouldn't be cheap.

He had a few hundred thousand dollars saved up, though a large chunk had gone to inheritance taxes, which he still grumbled about. If necessary, he'd take out a loan. Worst case, he'd go to Las Vegas on vacation, win a fortune, and pay it off.

For now, he'd check out apartments. That didn't cost anything.

After breakfast, he hopped on his motorcycle and rode to Manhattan. He had scheduled an appointment with a real estate agent, who was already waiting for him at the office.

"Mr. Link, I've prepared a selection of apartments for you."

The agent, eager to close a deal, had gathered multiple listings that matched Link's requirements. Each included photos, floor plans, and details about the neighborhood.

Link appreciated the efficiency. It saved time.

The options varied—some older, some brand new—but all were top-floor apartments. Prices ranged from a little over a million dollars to tens of millions. Link ignored the numbers and focused on features.

One listing caught his eye. The top-floor apartment's living room ceiling was made entirely of glass.

The building was eighteen stories tall, with two elevators and three apartments per floor. The top-floor units shared a rooftop space.

The layouts differed in size. The smallest—ideal for a single person—featured three bedrooms, two living rooms, three bathrooms, and a kitchen. The master bedroom even had a walk-in closet.

Storage space was a given.

The main entrance opened into a spacious living room, where sunlight poured through the glass ceiling.

The apartment was still under construction, meaning buyers could customize certain elements. Private renovations weren't allowed; all units were designed and completed simultaneously.

Buying property in Manhattan wasn't simple. Even after purchasing, residents had to abide by strict homeowners' association rules. Selling later required approval from the association, limiting resale options.

Still, that glass ceiling was tempting.

Link held up the listing. "Can I see this one in person?"

"I really like the glass ceiling. If possible, I'd like to check out the rooftop as well."