novelraw Chapter 2 Raccoon City Police Department Officers
Chapter 2 Raccoon City Police Department Officers
Li En slumped in the chair.
His back sank into the chair back, polished smooth by countless former officers, and his pupils reflected the cold light of the screen.
Below the search bar are rows of tabs.
Stark Industries stock chart.
Press release from Osborn Group's drug launch event.
Xavier Academy for Gifted Youngsters, that strange brochure that always advertises continuous enrollment but never specifies the admission criteria.
There were also a few blurry reports about spiders in Queens, with pictures so blurry they looked like they were taken through frosted glass.
The logic he came up with earlier is perfectly adequate for the normal world.
The protagonist discovers something suspicious about the deaths of his family members, follows the clues to a certain power, and is then driven to the brink of despair by them.
This kind of thing is a standard occurrence in various detective games.
As long as we find the mastermind behind this and take targeted precautions, we can live a peaceful second life.
But this is the world of superheroes.
Mind control, chemical brainwashing, consciousness overwriting, and telekinesis are used to directly pull someone by the neck and stuff them into a noose.
In this world, there are countless ways to make someone quietly hang themselves.
Even without a supervillain, a street thug with superpowers is enough to completely erase a police academy graduate's survival instincts.
Li En rubbed her temples.
My head is throbbing with pain right now, and every pulse from the vein in my temple feels like it's hitting the inside of my bone.
Not going to investigate?
If you don't investigate, you'll die even faster.
If the opponent can make a move once, they can make a move a second time.
Li En is still wearing the same face, the same police badge number, and the same file. If the murderer hears even the slightest hint, he will do it again.
Next time, it might not be hanging; it might be jumping off a building while on patrol; it might be a gun inexplicably pressed against one's chin.
He needs to know who the other party is before they make a move.
My neck is starting to hurt again.
It wasn't psychological; it was a real burning sensation. My skin felt hot on the surface, and underneath, it felt like needles were pricking me.
Li En loosened his tie, hooked his fingers around the collar and pulled it outwards, but the heat still wouldn't subside.
He frowned, stood up, walked through the corridor, and turned into the bathroom in the far corner.
This bathroom is the furthest from the cells, so at least it doesn't smell so strongly of smoke.
He walked to the sink, unbuttoned the top button of his uniform, and pulled his shirt collar open to both sides.
A dark red ligature mark was reflected in the mirror, running horizontally above the Adam's apple and completely encircling the neck.
The color has darkened, and some areas around the edges have a faint purple tinge, which are traces of blood stasis spreading after the subcutaneous capillaries ruptured.
Judging from its thickness, it should be hemp rope, about the thickness of an index finger. Its rough surface is what leaves these uneven abrasion marks on the skin.
Li En rolled up his sleeves.
There were no scratches or injuries on his forearm.
Pulling up the trouser leg, there were no marks of bumps or bruises on the calf or knee.
My hands ran over his entire body; his chest, abdomen, and back were all firm, toned muscles, without any bruises or sprains from fighting.
My heart sank.
Lee Eun, who graduated first in his class from the police academy, did not fight with anyone on the day he died.
There was no struggle, no resistance, not even an instinctive reaching for the rope.
He simply hung himself up there.
This is execution.
The killer is a superhuman.
The probability is extremely high, almost equivalent to confirmation.
Moreover, it's not the kind of thing that involves brute force to break into a house and take action; it's more like psychological hypnosis or physical manipulation.
While still sitting in the office, my mind was no longer my own. I quietly walked home, picked up the rope I had prepared in advance, draped it over the door frame, and rested my chin on it.
He was fully conscious and aware of everything throughout, yet he couldn't even lift a finger.
This clean approach is not the work of street thugs seeking revenge.
This means someone has been watching him for a long time, figured out his routine, and may even know what he's investigating.
The cause of death of the parents and sister.
His application file for the police academy.
The form from three months ago in which I voluntarily applied to be transferred to the Manhattan branch.
There is a line connecting these clues. The predecessor followed this line for a long time and finally caught up with someone else's vigilance range.
The other party cut off the investigators.
If they know Li En isn't dead, they'll only be more ruthless next time they come.
Li En touched the pistol at his waist.
The Glock 17 has a 9mm caliber, a 17-round magazine, and an effective range of 50 meters.
However, the distance at which a hit can be guaranteed during pressure shooting is within twenty meters.
Going any further requires luck and muscle memory.
His right hand was gripping the gun handle, his thumb and forefinger resting on the grip's anti-slip texture, while his index finger rested naturally on the outside of the guard.
He didn't even think about these movements; his hands just went into position on their own.
Muscle memory is still there.
The thousands of times I drew my gun on the training field were worth it.
Most people with the ability to manipulate minds cannot physically withstand bullets.
Unless it's a body-enhancing type, a nine-millimeter bullet entering the chest cavity will still kill you.
The key is that he has to draw his gun before the other party speaks and pull the trigger before the other party activates their ability.
This means he must know what the other person looks like and be able to identify the target in advance.
information.
What he lacks is information.
Li En turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face with her hands.
The cold water dripped down his chin and into his collar, finally easing the burning sensation on his neck.
He looked up at his mixed-race face in the mirror, buttoned up his shirt one button at a time, and tightened his tie to cover the mark left by the strap.
I walked back to my desk.
He typed Iron Man into the search bar.
The pop-up messages were all about trade information related to steel smelting and industrial machinery.
Several Pennsylvania steel companies, a Detroit steel mill, and a side story about Tony Stark attending a charity dinner.
He knocked on Spider-Man again.
Several recent reports in Queens have included photos of prisoners hanging upside down from streetlights, their bodies wrapped in some kind of white rope-like substance.
The media is still using the term "suspected vigilante," and the name "Spider-Man" hasn't been officially confirmed yet.
Without him, there would be no classic red uniform.
The earliest report was published three weeks ago.
Li En remembers someone saying online back then that the world's disasters began with the appearance of Iron Man.
After that, one major event after another occurred, so densely packed that it was suffocating.
Tony Stark is currently just a rich second-generation heir who sells arms.
Spider-Man still lives on in the media press releases, seemingly just two words.
The window of opportunity is still open.
But the ability user who killed him is still around.
Li En closed the webpage, opened the folder in the police station's internal system, and began to search through it layer by layer.
He meticulously reviewed every piece of information left by his predecessor, including police dispatch records, patrol logs, case files, and even files related to his family.
Scroll to the last page and your finger rests on the mouse.
No.
The recycle bin is empty.
Either the original owner never left any information on the police station's computer, or someone cleaned it up for him.
Given his level of caution—he didn't even let his colleagues find out about the autopsy report—the former is more likely.
The real investigative data is hidden in personal belongings.
There should always be something in the house: notebooks, newspaper clippings, USB drives, envelopes stuck to the bottom of drawers, and so on.
Li En took out his wallet from his pocket and opened it.
A little over 120 US dollars, an apartment key card, and a driver's license.
The address field reads 301 Clinton Garden Apartments.
He remembered this place; he had passed by it during patrols. It was in that old residential area across from West 48th Street.
Just as I stood up, Bright walked over from the other end of the corridor, his face bearing the same helpless expression I had seen a few hours earlier.
"Officer Lee Eun, the injured man from the car accident jumped out of the ambulance and was hit and killed by a truck."
"He stole that Infiniti."
"According to the bureau's records, he's a repeat offender."
Li En draped his coat over his arm and said calmly, "Whether he was a criminal or not, at that time, he was just a wounded person."
Brett's gaze lingered on Li En's face for a few seconds, just as it had at the scene of the car accident—complex, hesitant, and carrying a certain weight.
Finally, he nodded.
"I'll write the report. You can go home now."
"Thank you for your help."
After saying this, Li En secretly breathed a sigh of relief; this answer should have passed.
"Wow, you're in luck."
Brock walked by and casually patted his shoulder, his hand landing heavily and perfunctorily.
"Luckily, that kid jumped out of the car and died."
Li En turned to look at him: "Brock?"
Brock turned his hat upside down, put his hands on his hips, and walked out the door with his belly sticking out.
The leather shoes stomped firmly and powerfully on the terrazzo floor.
"Evenings are for adults, newbie, go home and watch TV."
Li En stood there, staring at the closed door.
He could sense that Brock's attitude towards him was acceptable during the first half of the patrol today.
Although he doesn't talk much, he's at least willing to say he'll take you to see the real world.
After that car accident, his attitude plummeted, and he no longer even offered to give someone a ride home after get off work.
The problem arose when he rushed in to save people.
They saved a car thief.
In this neighborhood, saving the wrong person is probably more serious than not saving anyone at all.
Li En casually put on his coat, pushed open the police station door, and walked towards Clinton Gardens Apartments.
West 53rd Street, past Eighth Avenue, begins to change on both sides of the road.
Several streetlights were broken, the sidewalk was cracked, and black garbage bags, left behind some unknown day, were piled up in the corner of the wall, soaked and rotten by the rain, and no one had taken them away.
He paid no attention to the street scene, walked quickly, turned two corners, and stopped in front of a drab gray building.
This is the Garden Apartment.
There are at least ten households on each floor, and the exterior walls are peeling off in patches, revealing the rusted red bricks underneath.
The windows were the old-fashioned sliding windows, and several panes of glass were covered with yellowed newspapers.
This building is at least fifty or sixty years old; in any city, it would be one of those buildings that should have been renovated long ago.
Li En pushed open the rusty iron door in the lobby and walked into the corridor.
The stairs are made of wood, and they creak when you step on them, each step sounding like it's counting down for the whole building.
He went up to the third floor, took out his key, and opened room 301.
I touched the light switch by the door and pressed it. The light bulb flickered twice before turning on, filling the whole room with a dim, yellowish light.
Li En stood in the center of the room and looked around.
The living room was completely empty, without even a sofa.
A folding dining table was placed against the wall, with only one chair next to it.
There were no paintings on the walls, no carpet on the floor, and not even a potted plant on the windowsill.
The living room is less than 20 square meters by appearance.
The bathroom is on the right, and the bedroom is on the left.
Pushing open the door, you see a two-meter-long bed taking up most of the room, with a cabinet at the head of the bed and a tall wardrobe against the wall.
Including the kitchen and bathroom, the entire house is 40 square meters.
This size is more than enough for one person to live in.
He first pulled out the drawer of the bedside table.
Several extra-large 0.01 mm boxes, a bottle of aspirin, half a strip of cold medicine, and an unopened toothbrush.
He pulled the drawer out completely and turned it over; there was nothing stuck to the bottom.
Turning around, I opened the wardrobe. There were two plain T-shirts, two sweatshirts, an old trench coat, and several pairs of jeans stacked on the shelf.
He reached out and tapped each piece of the wardrobe's inner wall, the sound of his knuckles striking the wooden board dull and consistent.
There are no hidden compartments or secret doors.
Next to the wardrobe were two moving boxes. When I opened them, they were full of old police academy textbooks and training logs.
He flipped through the pages one by one. There were some notes in the textbook, written in neat handwriting, and the content was all the key points of the class.
A medical examination form was tucked into the training log; all indicators were normal, and there was no other tucked-in form.
It's impossible to have nothing at all.
It's impossible for someone who spent an entire semester investigating the cause of a family member's death, graduated first in their class, and voluntarily applied to be transferred to the Manhattan branch office not to leave investigation materials at home.
Unless someone comes after his death and takes everything away.
or……
He hid the documents in a place that is usually out of sight.
bathroom.
That's how it's portrayed in movies.
Waterproof bags in toilet tanks, sealed boxes under washbasins, and on ceiling shelves.
Li En walked towards the bathroom, grasping the doorknob with her right hand.
A surge of electricity shot up from the base of my spine and straight to the back of my head.
It's not a metaphor; it's a real, tangible electric shock that crackled and exploded up my spine, making my scalp tingle.
He remained where he was, still holding the doorknob, without moving.
After waiting for about ten seconds, nothing happened.
There was no explosion, no door breaking, no shadows flashing past the window, and no strange noises from next door.
He turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped into the bathroom.
My vision was instantly swallowed by darkness.
It's not the kind of darkness you see in a bathroom with the lights off; it's a complete vacuum of darkness, where there's absolutely no light source and you can't even see your own fingers.
Before he could react, the darkness suddenly shattered, and light flooded back into his eyes.
Li En's eyes widened.
He was sitting in the driver's seat of a car.
Outside the windshield, it was pouring rain, and the wipers were scraping back and forth across the glass, blurring the street scene.
The raindrops pounded on the roof of the car, making a dense and rapid sound, each drop like a small stone hitting a piece of metal.
A second time travel?
He was stunned for several seconds before his gaze finally met the rearview mirror inside the car.
A strange face was reflected in the mirror.
He had short hair parted in a 4/7 ratio, and his jawline was a bit sharper than his usual one. His eyes and brows showed signs of fatigue from not having slept well.
He recognized the face.
He suddenly turned his head and scanned the inside of the car.
A stack of documents lay scattered on the passenger seat, the kraft paper cover slightly damp from the rain.
He grabbed it and opened it. The first page had the heading of an official form printed at the top, along with a few lines of black typewriter text.
Raccoon City Police Department.
Police officer ID: 42718.
Name: Leon S. Kennedy.
……