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

On Second Avenue, the air was filled with a pungent smell of burning rubber and the sweet, fishy odor of evaporating coolant.

A black Cherokee crashed into the rear of a silver Mercedes, scattering bumper fragments all over the ground.

The Cherokee's owner was a burly black man wearing a dirty hoodie, who was waving an aluminum baseball bat and smashing the Mercedes' windshield like a madman.

Fifty meters away, old Bob was squatting behind the door of the patrol car. Under his slightly tight uniform shirt, his protruding belly was pressing against his duty belt, making it seem like he was having some difficulty breathing.

His not-so-neatly trimmed gray beard still had a bit of frosting left from the donuts he had just eaten.

He's 52 years old this year and has spent 20 years navigating the streets of Seattle. He's long since learned how to cower like an old turtle when danger strikes.

"Bob, shouldn't we...shouldn't we stop him? He's already smashing the windshield!"

The newcomer Miller, standing next to him, was trembling.

He was only twenty-two years old, and had graduated from police academy less than three months ago. His face, still covered in acne, was filled with terror.

One hand was firmly pressed on the grip of the Glock 17, while the other hand rummaged through the various equipment pouches on his belt, checking if the handcuffs were still on and then trying to pry open the safety on the stun gun.

"Don't worry, child."

Bob slowly pulled a piece of chewing gum from his pocket, popped it into his mouth, and calmly shook his head as he looked at the burly man waving a baseball bat in front of him.

"Miller, that guy weighs at least 190 pounds, and he's armed."

"If we rush over there now and he gets startled and pulls out a .38 rifle from his waist, tomorrow's headlines will be 'Two heroic police officers died in the line of duty'."

"I'll be able to receive my full pension in three years, and I don't want to lose my life to a high-dose addict before then. I'd rather let him put in some effort first."

Just then, Lyon's familiar voice, tinged with a hint of flippancy and teasing, came through the radio.

Upon hearing the voice, Bob's half-closed eyes suddenly brightened, and he replied into the walkie-talkie with a sigh of relief:

"Oh, Lyon? Thank goodness, you've come at just the right time."

After hanging up the call, Bob turned around and looked at the new recruit who was still frantically checking his handcuffs and baton. His expression became slightly more serious.

"Listen, Miller. In a place like this, 90% of the time, guys who can pull out a baseball bat and smash someone's car after a crash are on drugs."

Miller swallowed hard. "So we have to wait for reinforcements?"

"It's not just about providing support; the key is who's coming to see us."

Bob glanced into the distance and saw the patrol car weaving recklessly towards him. He gave it a friendly smile.

"It's Leon Vance who's coming. As long as he's here, our compensation applications will most likely just sit in the drawer collecting dust."

Miller frowned and asked in confusion:

"Vance? I heard he'd been on extended leave? He wasn't there when I went to the station."

"That's administrative leave, kid. That's two different things."

Bob lowered his voice, adjusting his belt as he skillfully pulled the anti-snatch clip on his service holster, making a crisp "click" sound.

"Remember this: in Seattle, if you encounter a jerk who won't put down his gun even if the police shout themselves hoarse, Lyon is the kind of partner you'd most like to have."

"He has blood on his hands; he's killed three or four unlucky guys in the past two years. He's the kind of ruthless guy who has blood on his hands and can calmly shove a bullet into a suspect's chest."

"In the SPD, these kinds of people are the most reliable as long as they don't go to jail."

"Back then, those bastards in the Ministry of the Interior swarmed around him like flies for six weeks, and in the end they could only admit that every shot he fired complied with the principle of escalation of force."

Miller was stunned, gasped, and looked again at the patrol car speeding towards him around the corner, his eyes filled with awe.

Just then, Bob suddenly stopped talking, glanced at Miller's chest, and asked seriously:

"Hey kid, is your body camera on?"

Miller glanced down and answered somewhat flusteredly:

"Oh, not yet, I was too nervous and forgot..."

"Great, don't open it yet."

Bob let out a long sigh of relief, and his greasy yet amiable expression returned to his face.

"Listen, this is the first lesson I'm teaching you: never let a body camera record you showing admiration or respect for a cop who has killed someone."

"That would make those scum in the Ministry of Internal Affairs target you like sharks smelling blood, and then they'd bankrupt you. These kinds of private gossips are best kept to yourself."

As he spoke, Bob patted Miller on the shoulder, gave him a kind, elder-like smile, and reached out to straighten his tie.

"Alright, now, take a deep breath and turn on the recorder. We're going to get to work. Now that he's here, all we need to do is help him out and write that pile of damn paperwork and reports."

As Miller's chest recorder beeped, Lyon's patrol car screeched to a halt less than five meters behind them.

Lyon pushed open the car door, his left foot stepping onto the waterlogged asphalt road, his thick tactical boots making a dull thud.

At the same time, the system's task notification sounded.

[Mission: Handle the violence in front of the Seattle Trust Bank]

[Reward: Justice Points, varying based on participation and event severity]

He glanced at the burly man not far away, who was wildly swinging a baseball bat and spitting out some unknown sticky liquid, and couldn't help but roll his eyes inwardly.

"Look, free America, happy every day."

He raised his hand and pressed his fingertips hard on the body camera on his chest.

With a soft "beep," the green light indicating "under surveillance" began to flash.

This means that from this moment on, every move he makes and every witty remark he utters will become material for the Ministry of the Interior and those shrewd lawyers to dissect and study repeatedly.

"Hey Bob, stop posing there."

Lyon crouched down, using the patrol car's hood as cover, and moved closer to Old Bob. "What's the plan? The part besides waiting for me to collect the body."

Bob wiped the sweat from his brow, pulled out the yellow and black Taser, and wiped his palms on his trouser leg.

"Same as always, Leon. I'll use the stun gun, and you'll provide me with deadly cover with the Glock."

"This bastard looks like he's taken at least half an ounce of fentanyl or something. My hands are shaking like a newly sobriety drunk. If anything goes wrong, I'll only trust your marksmanship."

Leon glanced sideways at Bob's gun barrel, which was trembling slightly with tension, and then at the pale-faced, fresh-faced newcomer next to him, who looked as if he might vomit at any moment.

"Fine, since you're the senior."

Leon deftly unlocked the guard on his Glock 17 holster, leaning slightly forward.

"Miller, stop staring at the suspect's ass. Turn around and look around, especially at the homeless people in those tents."

"If anyone pulls out a phone or weapon and approaches, shout immediately, understand?"

Rookie Miller nodded hastily, "Understood, Officer Vance... Officer!"

"Walk."

Lyon gave a low shout, and the two men quickly approached the center of the conflict from a tactical angle.