At 7:50 AM, Carlos parked his car in the back lot of the 78th Precinct, a bag of freshly finished yogurt dangling from his mouth.
Frank was already leaning against the driver's side door of the patrol car, tightening the lid on a silver thermos.
"I hope you brought your brain today, rookie." Frank pulled open the car door and shoved the thermos into the cup holder next to the driver's seat. "We need to start doing some real work."
"No problem, I just stayed up a bit late. Also, I brought coffee." Carlos had bought two iced Americanos on the way.
"Oh! There's one for me too? Thanks!" Frank took it with a look of pleasant surprise.
Amidst their banter, the patrol car drove out of the Precinct and merged into the morning traffic of Brooklyn.
Frank reached out and turned up the volume on the center console's radio.
"7-Adam-12, respond to 145 Metcalf Street, domestic dispute. Caller reports a drunk husband causing a disturbance."
"7-Boy-3, code 30, intersection of Kings Highway and Union Street. Jewelry store alarm triggered. Need you to investigate immediately."
"All units be advised, code 91, a blue Honda Accord with a partially covered license plate is heading west on Union Parkway, related to this morning's convenience store robbery..."
Through the car radio, various codes and numbers were transmitted from the dispatch center.
Carlos frowned, trying to decipher the information represented by the codes. The second one meant robbery, and code 91 meant a vehicle involved in a case?
"Forgot everything you learned at the academy so soon? It's fine, don't expect to remember it all in one day." Frank held the steering wheel with one hand and took a sip of coffee with the other. "I never went to the academy, but I took the entrance exam back then. Some things felt impossible to remember at the time, but after a few days on the streets, you'll feel like you can't forget them for the rest of your life!"
As Carlos was reflecting on those words, the radio crackled again, this time calling them directly: "7-Adam-5, please respond."
Frank immediately keyed the mic: "7-Adam-5 receiving, go ahead, Dispatch."
"7-Adam-5, please proceed to Lafayette Street and Hollander Plaza to handle a traffic accident. Two-car fender bender, no reports of injuries. Code 78-31."
"7-Adam-5 received, en route." Frank put down the mic and swung the steering wheel left to make a U-turn. "This is our day-to-day legacy—acting as referees for two idiots who don't know how to drive."
The scene was exactly as Frank had predicted.
An old Chevrolet and a Camry with a dented door were squeezed together at the intersection. The two drivers stood by their cars, faces red and necks bulging as they accused each other.
The police car pulled over, and the two of them got out. Frank patted Carlos on the shoulder: "Be patient."
Carlos took a deep breath and stepped forward, flashing the police badge pinned to his belt.
"NYPD! Gentlemen, calm down."
He used his body to separate the two men, who were almost nose-to-nose. "I'll make this quick, so stop arguing. You're blocking the whole road."
Following the procedures he learned at the academy, he checked both parties' IDs, examined the scene for marks, and recorded the vehicle information and statements from both sides.
One insisted the other ran a red light; the other adamantly claimed the first was speeding.
No surveillance cameras, no witnesses—a dead-end case.
Frank leaned against the patrol car's hood, hands resting on his belt. As Carlos approached, he reminded him, "Don't forget the scene sketch. Also, ask if that Camry has a dashcam, though I bet it doesn't."
In the end, Carlos could only file a simple traffic accident report, stating that liability could not be determined for the time being and suggesting they resolve it through their respective insurance companies.
The two drivers drove off, cursing under their breaths.
"How does it feel, future Great Detective?" Back in the car, Frank asked with a smile.
"More... draining on my patience than I imagined."
Carlos rubbed the space between his eyebrows and buckled his seatbelt.
"Welcome to the NYPD!"
Frank started the car and patted the steering wheel. "Remember, even in the most boring dispute, someone could suddenly pull out a gun."
The car turned onto a highway ramp leading toward Brooklyn Heights, and the spectacular skyline of Lower Manhattan came into view without warning.
"I'll show you something different, rookie, so your impression of New York isn't just gangs and trash cans." Frank nodded his chin forward.
It was a cluster of unique skyscrapers. Among them, two buildings of vastly different styles caught Carlos's eye. One was a sleek, futuristic spiral tower with a massive "Stark Industries" sign at the top; the other appeared brooding and ancient, with Gothic spires and a giant "OSCORP" lightbox at its peak.
"That's Stark Industries, and the Oscorp Industries."
Frank noticed Carlos's gaze and spoke with his usual sharp tongue: "One sells the most advanced missiles to the Military, and the other spends all day behind closed doors tinkering with gene and chemical crap that no one understands. I heard the old geezers at Oscorp are in a major internal power struggle lately; their stock price has dropped so much even their mothers wouldn't recognize it."
Carlos nodded absently.
Stark Industries... Tony Stark should still be traveling the World right now, enjoying his life as a weapons dealer and playboy, completely oblivious to his impending fate.
And Oscorp... Norman Osborn is likely trapped in board meetings and his family's hereditary disease, struggling to survive. The madness of the Green Goblin has not yet descended upon this city.
To Frank, and to the vast majority of New Yorkers on the street, those were just two office buildings of famous companies, names that occasionally popped up in the television news. But Carlos knew that within those seemingly calm buildings, a storm capable of overturning this ordinary World was brewing.
But for now, they were just part of the city's skyline.
"What does that have to do with us?"
Carlos withdrew his gaze, his tone flat and emotionless.
At least for now, it was irrelevant.
"Haha, well said!" Frank was amused and laughed. "While those billionaires are drinking champagne on the top floor, we're smelling the freshest piss in the street corners. We and they live in two completely different New Yorks."
A moment later, the patrol car drove down the highway ramp and re-merged into the chaotic streets of Brooklyn, leaving those skyscrapers far behind.
The radio broke the silence again, and this time the dispatcher's voice seemed to carry a hint of urgency: "7-Adam-5, code 10-10."
Frank's expression instantly became serious as he quickly grabbed the radio: "7-Adam-5 receiving, please provide location." He then lowered his voice to explain to Carlos, "Gang activity. Stay sharp."
"Roosevelt Avenue, outside the 'Old Place' pool hall near 9th Street. Reported gathering of over ten gang members, possibly armed. Please proceed with caution. Other units are being dispatched for backup."
"7-Adam-5, copy that."
Frank put down the radio and suddenly flipped on the roof sirens. The patrol car's engine gave a low growl, and the vehicle began to accelerate.
"Check your gear, rookie. Chamber a round in your glock, but keep your finger off the trigger until I give the order." Frank's voice was no longer lazy; it had turned cold. "We're not going in for counter-terrorism; we're just controlling the situation and stopping those little punks from escalating things. Remember, protect yourself and wait for backup."
"Got it, Frank!"
Carlos instinctively touched the glock in his holster while glancing at the desert eagle in his system space, feeling a full sense of security.
When the patrol car screamed up to Roosevelt Avenue, the crowd outside the "old spot" pool hall scattered like startled birds. The dozen-odd kids in colorful hoodies, buzzing only moments before, broke apart like startled flies and vanished into the tangled alleys, leaving behind nothing but flattened cigarette butts and red-spray-painted insults.
Frank killed the engine but made no move to step out.
Carlos stayed in his seat as well.
Backup units arrived with lights flashing, and the scene was quickly locked down. If not for the litter and the lingering smell of weed, you'd never guess anything had happened.
'See that?' Frank shut off the wailing siren and slouched back. 'Classic Brooklyn ending. They know the cavalry's coming, we know what they did. Nobody's dead, so we give each other a little face, pretend nothing happened, and everybody stays safe. Bullets don't pick sides—nobody wins if the guns come out.'
The would-be crisis melted away under that unspoken truce. Carlos nodded, face unreadable. 'Learning experience.' Inside, he felt a twinge of disappointment.
Handling routine calls like this was a dead end—and earned him zero credit from the System. He'd hoped the disturbance might trigger something, but the moment the sirens sounded the whole crew evaporated, just like on TV.
The next few hours were textbook: patrol, answer jobs, settle two neighbor disputes, then a shoplift at a bodega.
As Carlos clicked the cuffs on a scrawny addict who'd stuffed his pockets with junk, a system prompt rang in his head.
[Ding!]
[Host has completed multiple routine police actions and gained basic familiarity with the profession.]
[Side-story module unlocked. Side quest system now available.]
Carlos's pulse jumped. He kept his face neutral, climbed into the passenger seat, and the moment Frank pulled away he sank his mind into the interface.
Sure enough, beside the main mission list a new scroll icon glowed: Side Stories.
He brushed it with a thought and a line unfurled:
[Side Quest: The Lost Pocket-Watch]
[Source: Old Joseph's Obsession (triggered by host)]
[Description: Precinct resident Old Joseph claims a silver-plated pocket-watch dear to him was lifted during yesterday's street brawl. He swears it was a teen in a green jacket, but has zero proof. The watch is worthless except for the memory of his late wife.]
[Objective: Recover the watch for Old Joseph (method open)]
[Reward: 50 points, Old Joseph's favor, small Precinct rep boost.]
[Failure penalty: none]
[Time limit: none]
No coercion, no penalty, no deadline—basically a repeatable grind instance he could take or leave.
The realization brightened his mood.
So the System wasn't just a slave-driver; it was also nudging him, giving him room to grow.
Turns out even routine calls could spark missions.
They booked the scrawny thief.
Only twenty minutes left on shift.
Frank waylaid Carlos in the Precinct lobby to shoot the breeze.
Carlos trailed along like a rookie, studying how the old hand worked the room. His personal phone buzzed; an unknown local number. He hesitated, then answered.
'Hey, Carlos —it's Sarah.' A crisp, familiar voice.
Carlos blinked. He hadn't expected her to call.
'Sarah—what's up?'
'Nothing big. Saw you in the lobby. Heard you guys handled the Roosevelt mess? Brief mentioned 7-Adam-5.'
'Looked worse than it was,' Carlos said.
'Frank's rubbing off on you, huh?' Her tone went lazy, flirty. 'Better than filing reports behind a screen, right?'
Carlos caught on fast: the former queen bee was bored stiff making coffee and shuffling paper.
He stepped outside, trading small talk about classmates and nothing in particular.
As the shift neared its end, Sarah tossed out, 'Precinct's got no decent bar. There's a motel on the east side—clean enough. We know each other… interested?'
The invitation was blunt.
Carlos weighed it: Sarah had pull, worked intel, could be useful—and a no-strings partner beat lonely nights.
'Okay,' he said. 'Let me tell Frank. Ten minutes—meet me across the street. I'll buy you a burger.'
'Thanks,' she whispered. 'I prefer sausage—yours.'
The line went dead, Carlos's ears burning.
Nine-thirty that night, in a dim motel room, two robes draped over the bed.
They skipped the pleasantries—efficient and familiar. Afterwards, casual as friends:
'Good thing we never said breakup—would've been awkward calling,' Sarah laughed.
Carlos kept his face neutral, still processing.
'But we agreed it can't be like before. Ground rules.'
'Yup—full disclosure time.' She sounded pleased; his performance had clearly scored.
'Three clauses? Just partners?' Carlos asked.
A weird arrangement, but going back to couplehood felt worse—and he had missions ahead.
Yet cutting ties felt wasteful—Sarah was pretty, half-Latina, with the soft features European eyes liked, and her sweat didn't smell.
'Exactly. We stay out of each other's lives,' she said, kissing his cheek.
'Fine—but if one of us gets serious with someone else, we speak up. I don't share.'
'Wow, big guy—you really like me!' she teased.
Carlos shrugged. 'I don't like sharing a pet dog; same idea.'
Sarah punched his arm. 'You're the dog, macho man. I'll make you unable to walk!'
Carlos surrendered at once—showing up with a limp would be all over the Precinct by morning.