Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Li En did not drive.

The reason is simple: he can't!

His predecessor could, but he cannot.

He had the "driving skills +1" attribute on his person, but he hadn't yet touched the steering wheel to verify its effect.

Even if he knew how to drive, Block wouldn't give him the car keys.

He walked south along Eighth Avenue, past West 42nd Street, where the buildings on both sides of the road began to shrink.

The five-story brick building became a three-story building, and the three-story building became two rows of connected row houses.

The graffiti on the exterior wall was layered on top of each other, with the newest line of purple spray paint bearing the code name of a certain gang.

The letters were crooked and twisted, and before they were fully dry, they were covered by another line of black.

There weren't many people on the sidewalk.

At this time, most people who work in the east have already taken the subway.

The remaining three types of people are easy to identify.

The first major category is people who have just arrived in Manhattan, New York.

Although they found jobs on East 42nd to 46th Streets, around Times Square, they couldn't afford the high rents there.

Despite being in Manhattan, the Hell's Kitchen area, starting from West 36th Street, has rents that are only one-fifth of those in the East Side.

These people will live in cheap apartments for six months, save enough money to move to the east, or they will stay and become one of the other two categories if they don't save enough money.

Hell's Kitchen has a port, and even someone like Lee En, who knows absolutely nothing about the details of the superhero world, understands what that means.

Ports represent wealth, but also the need for a large workforce.

And all of these people working at the port are from the lower classes.

They do one of the hardest jobs every day, yet they only receive meager compensation.

This led to the proliferation of numerous gangs and all sorts of reckless individuals.

This port nurtures the entirety of Manhattan, and its darkness.

The second category is dockworkers.

Their distinguishing feature is not in their clothes, but in the way they walk.

Shoulders slump forward, waist thrusts back, and the soles of the feet slam down simultaneously when they land, each step carrying the relaxed feeling of having unloaded a heavy load.

These people have worked a full night or a full day at the port, and now they're going home to sleep, or to the bar to exchange their meager hourly wage for whiskey.

The third type of person won't come to you.

They leaned against the wall, squatted under the fire ladder, or sat on overturned plastic baskets.

His gaze pierced the shadows, lingering on the pedestrian for half a second to decide whether it was worth standing up.

Poisonous insects, gang errand runners, and those who have just been released and haven't found a place to stay yet.

These people don't provoke those in uniform, but they also don't avoid them.

In their eyes, the dark blue police uniform is just a piece of furniture on the street, in the way, but not worth taking a detour for.

Li En walked through them, his right hand hanging at his waist, three fingers' width away from the gun handle.

No one dared to stare at him for long.

Their gazes swept over him, touched his face, and immediately recoiled, landing on the opposite sidewalk or the awning overhead.

After he walked away, those gazes would slowly and tentatively regroup and fall on his back.

Li En didn't turn around, his gaze constantly scanning the surroundings.

According to the profile, the enemy is a hunter.

The hunter will not look away.

He will stare straight at you, from beginning to end, watching you walk by, watching your back disappear around the street corner, the expression in his eyes will not change.

She took on the case of the missing child because she overheard the woman saying that Cortel had suddenly become strange.

He wanted to try and see if he could find the enemy by following this lead.

His gaze swept across the sidewalk.

A young man in a hoodie leaned against a fire hydrant, his hat brim pulled low, but he looked up, his gaze passing over the brim, watching a stray cat across the street.

Two middle-aged Black men squatted in front of the grocery store, holding paper cups in their hands, talking with their heads down, and no one was looking at them.

A white man in overalls walked out of the alley, backlit, squinting as he lit a cigarette, taking three tries to get it to light.

No.

Li En refocused her attention and continued walking, her hands remaining at her sides.

He can draw his gun, aim, and fire in 0.8 seconds.

As long as the opponent doesn't have the kind of ability that can take effect instantly regardless of distance, the chances of winning are very high.

Unfortunately, they did not encounter the hunter they had imagined on the road.

It takes five blocks to get from the police station to West 37th Street; in his previous life, he would have been out of breath halfway there.

My breathing is still steady, and my calf muscles are only slightly sore.

At the end of West 37th Street, which borders the Hudson River, the air is filled with a smell of rust and diesel fuel.

The truck drove past, its chassis chain dragging on the ground, sending sparks flying.

My mom's general store is located on the side of the road.

It was a two-story gray brick building. The first floor was a shop, and the curtains were drawn in the windows on the second floor, so you couldn't see inside.

A faded sign hangs above the store, white with red lettering, two letters are missing, and the four characters "Lao Ma Grocery" are crookedly nailed to the wooden board.

A layer of dust had accumulated on the tin eaves under the sign, and when the wind blew, the dust fell down.

Li En pushed open the door.

A copper bell hung above the door frame, its tinkling sound echoing three times as it struck the metal plate.

The shop was dark.

Two rows of shelves stretched from the entrance to the very back. The left row was filled with hardware tools, screwdrivers, wrenches, and spools of wire. Some of the packaging was dusty and felt fuzzy to the touch.

The row on the right contains snacks and daily necessities: potato chips, canned goods, shampoo, and several bags of expired bread, tied with rubber bands.

At the very back is the counter, the wooden surface polished to a shine, with chipped edges.

Behind the counter sat a black man, bald, his scalp gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

He was wearing a dark gray T-shirt, the collar hanging loosely over his collarbone, his eyes fixed on the small television in the corner of the counter. The program on the screen was very quiet, the volume too low to hear clearly.

When Li En walked in, the man's eyes were still on the TV when he spoke first: "Find what you want yourself, don't even think about robbing me."

The voice was soft, and the tone was flat.

Li En walked to the counter and stood still.

"Turk Barrett?"

The bald man shifted his gaze from the television.

His eyes were a deep color, and his pupils were shrunken into tiny dots as he stared at Li En for two seconds.

His left hand slid down the counter and disappeared beneath it.

Hidden under the counter was a shotgun, its muzzle pointing towards the front of the counter, with a finger wedged outside the trigger guard.

Barrett did not draw his gun.

He looked Li En up and down, then grinned, revealing a smile that wasn't exactly warm.

"Isn't this the new Officer Lee En?" His voice was half an octave louder than before. "What brings you to my little shop? Please let me know if you need anything."

Li En's gaze lingered on his face for a second, then pressed down, aiming at the gap at the edge of the counter.

Barrett's body stiffened slightly, the smile on his lips remained, but the muscles around his eyes tightened a little.

Do you know me?

"Haha, officer, you're joking." Barrett raised his right hand from the table, palm open. "If you don't even know this, how are you going to survive in this area?"

His left hand was not removed.

Lee took out a photo of Cortel from his pocket and slapped it on the table.

The movement was subtle; the photo made a very soft thud when it hit the ground.

Then he placed both hands on the table, fingers spread, pressing against the edge of the wooden tabletop.

Barrett glanced down at the photo.

He reached out his right hand, brought the photo closer, and tilted his head to look at it for two seconds.

Then he raised his head, his expression had changed, his eyebrows were raised, his eyes were widened a little, and the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down.

"Officer, I haven't seen this child before."

Li En pushed the photo forward a little more. The boy in the photo was wearing a gray hoodie, had very short hair, and was smiling at the camera, showing his upper row of teeth.

"His name is Cortel," Li En said softly and slowly.

"He's fourteen years old and has never been to a police station. He comes home for dinner on time every day. He went out yesterday and hasn't come back. His mother is very worried."

"Let me know if you have any news."

"My partner, Brock, sent me to find you."

Barrett tapped his fingers lightly twice on the table.

"Officer Lee Eun."

"I know you're Officer Brock's partner, and I also know that you called an ambulance for the Scorpion Gang on the street before."

As Barrett spoke, his gaze toward Lee became even more wary.

If Li En hadn't meddled, that member of the Scorpion Gang wouldn't have been hit by a car and killed.

If it's just a car accident and you get injured, at worst you can just get a few stitches and that's it.

I don't know if Officer Li En in front of me did it on purpose.

Having spent years in Hell's Kitchen, Barrett certainly knew what kind of cops were stationed there.

Those who couldn't fit in have already been transferred away.

Therefore, in his eyes, Li En was a very ruthless guy.

"I just really don't know anything about this child."

Li En looked into his eyes.

There was no panic or guilt in those deep brown eyes.

"Barrett, he's just a kid."

Li En held up the photo again, pointing to the young face on it.

"He and his mother depended on each other for survival. The woman was in poor health, and if her son died, she wouldn't live much longer."

Barrett's gaze lingered on the photograph.

Li En placed the photo back on the table, pressed his knuckles against the edge of the photo, and did not push it again.

He lowered his voice, as if he were talking to someone he had known for a long time.

"Put yourself in their shoes. If your child went missing, would you want someone to help you find them?"

A very soft sound came from under the counter.

Barrett removed his finger from the trigger and stared at Lee for a few seconds.

"You can go and take a look at the harbor area on 12th Avenue."

"They're hiring over there recently, that kid probably went there to work."

Li En nodded, put the photo in her pocket, and turned to walk towards the door.

Barrett's voice came from behind, the volume returning to the level it had when he first entered:

"Officer Lee, you might not be very welcome over there."

Li En didn't turn around; she gripped the doorknob and pushed it out.

The copper bell rang again, its sound muffled twice behind the closed door, and then fell silent.

Barrett sat behind the counter, pulling his hand out from underneath.

There is a red indentation on the palm of my hand, which is the groove of the gunstock.

He turned his palm over to look at it and rubbed it on his trouser leg a couple of times.

He turned around, took a cell phone from the shelf under the counter, and dialed a number.

The phone rang three times, then I answered it.

"Hey, the police might be coming by in a bit, so be careful."

"Yes, it's that new guy, Brock's partner."

Barrett's voice returned to its previous casual tone, as he propped his feet up on the counter, the soles of his shoes rubbing against the glossy finish of the surface.

"Leave that kid Cortel to the Ironheads."

The person on the other end of the phone said something else.

Barrett chuckled.

"After all, they're police officers. Wouldn't it be better if something happened on Iron Head Gang's territory?"

pat.

He placed his phone face down on the table and turned up the TV volume.

……