BONUS CHAPTER: 200 PS goal reached.
2 more bonus chapters if we can somehow, through some miracle, reach rank 10.
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[Brooklyn General Hospital – Recovery Room 4B] [1:24 AM]
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they had better things to do.
Rosa sat on the edge of the bed, arm braced, jaw tight, eyes locked on the doctor stitching up the bullet graze on her bicep. She didn't flinch or blink. Just stared at the stitching like the pain was beneath her. The bullet had barely kissed her, but stitches were stitches, and this doc had the gentleness of a sledgehammer.
The doctor wiped the blood away.
"You're lucky," he said. "Clean graze. No muscle damage."
"I'm not lucky," Rosa replied flatly. "I'm efficient."
The doc put a little pressure on the wound while stitching. It hurt her. But Rosa simply made a mental note to punch the wall.
Raymond leaned against the doorframe, casually sipping a can of ginger ale. The plastic straw stuck awkwardly between his split lip and a faint smirk. His knuckles were still bruised, a bit of dried blood flaking off one.
Rosa stared at him.
"How the hell are you even standing upright?"
Raymond glanced over. He blinked. "What?"
"You got elbowed in the throat. Kneed in the ribs. Punched in the face. That Russian bastard tried to break you in half. And you're just... chilling? Drinking soda?"
He shrugged. "It's diet ginger ale. Zero sugar and calories. But I think they are adding some synthetic shits to make it sweet and fun fact, there's zero ginger in it. All synthetic flavouring. Still, fun to drink."
"Not what I meant."
The doc tugged her last stitch a little tighter than necessary. Rosa didn't flinch.
Raymond leaned back a little, legs stretched out, one ankle over the other like he was poolside.
"Okay. So to know the truth, you need to know my origin story," he said as he walked to her. He dragged a chair and sat before her.
She raised an eyebrow. "Hit me."
He glanced around the room like he was checking for bugs. Then leaned in slightly.
"About four years ago, I got caught in a chemical factory explosion."
Rosa frowned. "What?"
"Yeah. Some mafia idiots were cooking a new kind of drug. Like... Breaking Bad meets Willy Wonka. They didn't label anything. Whole place went up like a barbecue hosted by Satan."
Rosa blinked.
Raymond continued, dead serious.
"I got launched through a window, landed in a tank full of radioactive meth-sludge or whatever the hell they were cooking. Smelled like burnt tacos and glue. Passed out for three days. Woke up in a morgue."
Rosa stared.
"Fully healed," he added, tapping his chest. "Since then? Super stamina. Ridiculous endurance. I heal crazy fast. No scars. Basically Deadpool but sexy and scarless."
Rosa blinked again.
"You're telling me... you're a superhero."
He sipped his ginger ale. "Technically, a side effect. I don't do capes. Chafe too much."
"Uh-huh."
"I can also eat expired sushi and not die. So, y'know, bonus."
"Right."
"I once got hit by a Prius. Full speed. Broke the car."
"Any weakness?"
He raised a finger. "Fun fact: I can survive three bullets to the chest, but I pulled a hamstring getting out of an Uber last week."
Rosa bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
The doctor paused on his way out, clearly unsure if he should call security.
Rosa just stared at him.
The doc ran away.
"You're a lunatic."
Raymond shrugged. "I like to think of it as 'uniquely gifted and mysteriously immortal.'"
Rosa chuckled, shook her head, and winced as the stitches pulled tight.
Raymond leaned closer, looked at the wound. "Nice stitching. That's either going to heal perfectly or leave a badass scar you can use in bar fights."
"Guy poked me like he was trying to sew a couch cushion."
"You want me to do it next time? I'm great with needles and knives."
"I will shoot you."
"You already did. Six years ago."
"Still tempted."
They fell into silence for a second.
"Hey," he said.
She turned her head slightly.
"You good?"
She nodded. "Yeah. You?"
"Super."
Another pause.
She broke it first. "Next time you decide to fight a Russian war criminal bare-knuckle, maybe do it with your shirt on. Amy was eating you up with her eyes."
"No promises."
They sat in silence again. This time it wasn't heavy.
"So, you wanna get out of here, maybe grab some drinks before the Captain gives a long lecture, and I'm pretty sure medals are in order," Raymond said as he stood up and threw the can into the bin at the end of the room. "Yeah! Perfect shot."
He looked at Rosa again.
"I'm buying."
...
[Brooklyn Dive Bar – 2:03 AM]
The place was a hole-in-the-wall with a broken jukebox that only played '90s grunge and one flickering neon sign that read Cold Beer like a threat.
Rosa sat at the bar, leather jacket still on, boot tapping lightly against the stool. She had a double shot of tequila in front of her and a glare that kept strangers away.
Raymond was sitting beside her with the ease of a man who didn't care about personal space or the fact that he still had blood on his knuckles. He held a short glass of vodka and something vaguely lime-colored.
The bartender looked at him. "You sure you don't want that on the rocks?"
Raymond sipped. "Why would I water down courage?"
Rosa raised her glass. "Tequila. No ice. No salt. No bullshit."
They clinked. Drank.
Raymond licked his lips. "Burns nice. Like battery acid with ambition."
Rosa smirked. "If it doesn't hurt, it's just juice."
"Spoken like someone who drinks like a hitman."
"Flattery's not gonna get you out of buying the next round."
He motioned for another vodka and another tequila. The bartender looked tired. Like he'd been stuck in this bar since 1983.
Raymond leaned closer. "So, what do you do for fun? Besides intimidating bar stools."
Rosa shrugged. "Motorcycles. Knives. Horror movies with actual gore."
Ray nodded. "Respect. I'm more of a 'stealth video games and setting people on fire in virtual reality' kind of guy."
"Explains the calm sociopath energy."
Ray sipped again. "I'm feeling generous. Wanna go to a shooting range tomorrow?"
Rosa looked sideways. "That supposed to be a date?"
"No. It's a duel with snacks."
"Good. I don't do dates."
"Perfect. I don't do commitment."
They drank again. The jukebox skipped and restarted Everlong for the fourth time.
Raymond leaned his elbow on the bar. "Tell you what. Shooting contest. One-on-one. If you win, I'll never bring up the shooting again and bury the hatchet. You can sleep peacefully, knowing your pride is untouched."
"And if I lose?"
He smiled. "Then you kiss the spot you shot..."
Rosa raised an eyebrow. "How many?"
"Five kisses. In your favorite bikini."
"Two kisses."
"Three kisses and a lick."
"One kiss and a lick."
"One French kiss."
"Deal." She accepted without thinking, then she realized. 'Huh?! What the...' She stared at him for a full five seconds. "Dang!"
Then she tossed back her tequila.
"Deal."
Raymond knocked his vodka back and grinned. "Haaa. Better wear camo. I'm not going easy on you."
She smirked. "You better wear armor. I shoot to kill."
They stared at each other.
...
...
[Nine-Nine Precinct – 9:30 AM | Bullpen]
The squad was still groggy with adrenaline hangover and post-crisis exhaustion, but every pair of eyes was laser-locked on one spot:
Captain Holt's office.
The blinds were half-closed.
The man inside stood stiff-backed behind his desk, arms clasped. A mug steamed beside a neat stack of folders.
Across from him sat Raymond White, hands folded, spine straight, as if waiting for a verdict, or giving one.
Jake whispered, "I feel like we're watching a mafia trial."
Amy didn't blink. "More like an HR department interrogating Jason Bourne."
Boyle whispered, "This is so hot."
Everyone turned.
Boyle clarified: "I mean tense! It's tense! Like... emotionally attractive tension."
Rosa mumbled, "Kids."
Gina was playing on her phone without a care in the world.
Terry said nothing. But he was watching just as hard.
[Captain Holt's Office – 9:32 AM]
The door was closed, but it might as well have been made of glass. Every move, every tilt of the head inside was under microscopic scrutiny from the bullpen.
Captain Holt stood motionless, his face unreadable as always.
Raymond sat across from him, calm and upright.
Holt spoke first.
"You saved over ninety civilians yesterday. No fatalities. No friendly fire. No hostages lost."
He let that sit.
"You neutralized the armed hostiles. Identified the undercover criminals within the civilian group. You disarmed an international mercenary. Took down a criminal cell operating with military-grade hardware. And stopped a city block from going up in flames. Rosa helped, but from her explanation, you did 90% of the work."
Raymond said nothing. He just waited.
Holt's gaze sharpened.
"That kind of outcome doesn't come from instinct. Or training alone. It comes from experience. High-level, classified, borderline-impossible experience."
He stepped closer to the desk, fingers lightly touching the folder in front of him.
"I would like to assist you further. But to do that, I need more than what I currently have. I need to understand who I'm helping. What your mission entails. And how far this goes."
Raymond's eyes dropped to the mug on Holt's desk. Steam curled. He tapped his fingers once on the armrest.
"You heard what Sidorov called me."
"Ghost."
Ray nodded. "One of many names. That one just stuck. Especially in Eastern Europe."
Holt tilted his head slightly.
"You'll find some information on me in the black archive. Access code Bravo-Charlie-Zero-Seven. Enough to satisfy curiosity. But nothing that violates my clearance."
Holt's expression didn't change, but his shoulders eased a hair.
Raymond added, "Don't go too deep. It'll trigger protocols. Not even your badge will stop the red line if it lights up."
"I'll tread carefully."
Holt sat on his chair and leaned forward.
"And Rosa?"
Raymond allowed a faint, tired smirk.
"Don't worry about her. We made a deal. Hatchet's buried. No lingering ghosts between us."
Holt gave the smallest nod. The kind of nod that said everything.
"Now, I'm going to interrogate our Russian friend. Would you like to join me? But it's gonna be kinda bloody," Raymond said as he stood up. "So, I hope you are ok with that."
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