You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

After sending the message, Leon tried to stretch his body a bit.

He slightly tightened his waist and abdomen.

The expected excruciating pain did not occur; there was only a slight pulling sensation and the tingling and itching sensation that comes with wound healing.

He lifted his hospital gown and took a look.

Underneath the thick gauze, the wound appears to have begun to scab over.

"A constitution of 15 points... that's practically cheating."

Lyon sighed inwardly.

A penetrating laceration of that severity would require an average person to stay in bed for at least two weeks without being able to get out of bed.

But now he feels that apart from being a little weak and unable to do strenuous exercise, he can move around normally without any problems and can go directly to complete the discharge procedures.

"Ding-dong."

My phone vibrated; Alex had replied—incredibly quickly.

"You came back to life? You're really tough. Since you're not dead, you should pay me compensation for emotional distress caused by what happened last night."

Lyon thought for a moment and sent a message:

"Stop complaining about being poor. How much did you make from all that stock that was scattered on the ground last night?"

The dialog box displayed "Typing...", then paused for a long time, seemingly engaged in some complex internal struggle, before finally sending an ellipsis followed by a number.

"..."

"Less than ten thousand dollars."

"It's equivalent to a month's worth of sales. But my back is about to break."

One night, ten thousand US dollars.

The sale of corpses is incredibly profitable; even a low-level corpse collector can make a considerable profit.

"You've made a fortune, why aren't you going to sleep?"

"Look at the time!"

Lyon glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 9:30 a.m.

This kid has been working all night, and he's still not dead yet?

A few seconds later, Alex replied with a message that made Leon feel suffocated:

"Sleep my ass."

"I'm at school. There's an 8 AM class, and the old professor has very high expectations for Asians, you know? He's too strict, but I'm not that good, so it's easy for me to fail."

"Dude, I just finished moving a corpse, and now I have to listen to some bullshit theory about cell division. I feel like I'm about to split apart myself."

Just as Lyon was about to reply, a new trending topic on Twitter popped up.

After Hayes's grotesque photo went viral, the FBI's Seattle office's public relations department's survival instincts were practically overflowing.

Normally, if this were done by a regular agent, the FBI would have already claimed it was done by a "temporary worker" or "personal behavior during leave."

But Hayes is, after all, a senior agent; his rank is what it is, so a complete break isn't so easy.

So, these federal geniuses came up with a set of phrases that could be considered for the best joke of the year:

[FBI Statement Regarding Joint Operation in Seattle Industrial Area]

"...Regarding the videos and images circulating online recently, the FBI hereby clarifies:"

Agent Richard Hayes's physical contact at the scene of the operation was an excessive and inappropriate reaction under extreme pressure, and a serious violation of the code of conduct for federal law enforcement officers.

"The Federation has never authorized or endorsed any absurd theory of 'using secondary impacts of the palm to promote wound healing or boost morale'."

"We reiterate that there is no hostility between the FBI and the Seattle Police Department (SPD), no declaration of war, and no federal airstrikes. We remain committed to strengthening federal and local cooperation..."

"Agent Hayes has been suspended pending an internal investigation, and we will thoroughly investigate this matter..."

"ha."

Lyon couldn't help but laugh out loud when he saw these words.

Whether Hayes is reassigned to another position, sidelined, or faces lawsuits depends on his connections and influence, and whether anyone is willing to protect him.

But as he watched, the smile on Leon's face gradually faded.

He turned off his phone screen, and the black screen revealed his face, which was now known throughout Seattle.

"well……"

Leon tossed his phone onto the blanket, put his arms behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling.

I'm a little tired.

Things seem to have gone a bit off track.

His original plan was simple: use the system to score points, become stronger, save money, accumulate resources, and then find a suitable opportunity to disappear quietly like a ghost.

In order to earn more points, he kept getting involved in major events without ever considering what would happen if he became famous.

But now?

Look at the reporters waiting outside the window, then look at the Seattle hero being hailed as a god on my phone.

He has now become the focus of attention, a super mascot used by Seattle City Hall and the police department to deflect attention from their problems.

If he were to suddenly announce his intention to emigrate at this point, it would not just be a matter of personal choice; it would be a slap in the face to Uncle Sam.

The CIA, FBI, NSA, and even higher-level agencies will be watching him like mad dogs.

"What the hell is this...?"

Lyon rubbed his temples, feeling that his future was bleak.

While fame can bring short-term privileges and money, it takes a long time to cultivate and solidify it into a resource that can help one extricate oneself from trouble.

"Forget it, let's just take it one step at a time."

He turned his head and glanced at the ward door. Lily hadn't returned yet; she was probably out buying breakfast or had been stopped by a nurse to sign some papers.

On the bedside table, there was a fruit knife and a half-peeled apple.

The apple peel hung in mid-air, and the flesh had turned slightly yellow due to oxidation.

That's what Lily just shaved.

Lyon reached out and hovered his fingertips above the apple for two seconds.

The image of the blonde girl's adoring and loving gaze flashed through my mind, along with Bob's exasperated cry, "Stay away from my daughter!"

Although he wouldn't mind having something happen with pretty girls, his current situation is surrounded by whirlpools and undercurrents.

Getting too entangled with a corrupt cop who could be wanted by gangsters, targeted by the federal government, or even defect in the future is not a good thing for Lily, an outsider.

Bob is finally close to retirement, so let's not give him any more trouble.

"Thanks, but I won't eat this apple."

Leon withdrew his hand without touching the apple.

He threw back the covers and sat up nimbly from the bed.

Apart from a slight pulling sensation at the wound, there was nothing seriously wrong.

He reached for his boots by the bedside, ready to put them on and leave, even planning to skip the discharge procedures altogether.

however.

Just as he slipped one foot into his boot, before his buttocks had even left the edge of the bed...

"Click."

The sound of the doorknob turning rang out.

Lyon froze instantly, stuck in an extremely awkward position as he put on his shoes.

The ward door was pushed open.

Lily walked in with a cheerful expression, carrying two paper bags that smelled enticingly good. Judging from the packaging, they contained bagels and hot coffee from a famous shop downstairs.

"Lyon! Look what I bought..."

Her voice stopped abruptly.

Lily stood at the doorway, watching Leon, who had one foot on the ground and was clearly in a "I'm going to run away" posture. Her smiling face instantly fell.

Leon remained bent over, picking up his shoes, and stared at Lily for two seconds.

Then, with remarkable ease, he pulled his feet out of his boots and casually slipped back into bed, even pulling the blanket up to cover his stomach.

Good morning.

Leon leaned against the pillows, blinking weakly.

"I was just... trying out the height of the bed. You know, doing some rehabilitation exercises."