Chapter 41: You Still Have the Nerve to Show Up at Work?

Hearing the murmurs from a few reporters from smaller newspapers, the journalists from New York’s more prominent media outlets sitting in the front row exchanged glances, as if they had already guessed what Veronice was about to do next.

Sure enough, as soon as Veronice finished speaking, the female agent who had been standing in the corner of the conference room immediately picked up the remote and switched on the television mounted high on the front wall.

The screen was tuned to the New York News Channel, replaying the scene over and over: the criminal, Fraser, aiming a pistol at Roan, only to be taken down by Roan with a ballpoint pen.

“Oh my god!”

“Is this real?”

It was the first time the reporters from the smaller newspapers had seen this footage. They gasped in astonishment, as if the very air in the room had turned cold.

Even the reporters from the well-known media outlets in the front row, though they had already seen the footage before coming here, could not tear their eyes away from the screen now that it was playing again. The expressions on their faces were a spectacle in themselves.

And no wonder—taking down an armed criminal with nothing but a pen was like something straight out of a movie. Coupled with Roan’s cold, handsome features, anyone seeing that clip out of context would believe it was a scene from a new Hollywood film.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press.” Seeing the vivid reactions on everyone’s faces, Veronice’s lips curled into a slight smile, though she quickly composed herself and continued calmly:

“This is the actual footage of our FBI agent taking down the serial killer. The killer’s biological evidence matches perfectly with the samples collected at both crime scenes… Therefore, I now officially announce:

The serial dismemberment case discovered today in Queens, New York, was solved within five hours by the FBI, and the perpetrator was shot dead!”

The room fell silent for a few seconds before erupting into chaos. The reporters surged forward toward Veronice, shouting over one another:

“Chief, is it really true that it only took five hours? Were you already investigating the suspect before the news broke?”

“Chief, what do you have to say about the agent in the video speeding in the course of duty?”

“Ma’am, what’s the name of the agent with the pen? He looks so young—does he have a girlfriend?”

Veronice didn’t rush to answer. Instead, she turned her gaze to the live camera, her lips curving once more as she silently mouthed:

“Thank you.”

No one knew exactly whom she was thanking.

But Bruosen, watching from home, was certain it was meant for him.

Thanks to his help, Veronice had seized the spotlight and taken her career to new heights.

In his private apartment, Bruosen’s face darkened as he watched the scene unfold. He hurled his glass to the floor in frustration.

The next moment, his phone suddenly rang. Seeing the caller ID, Bruosen’s pupils contracted, but he answered anyway.

A hoarse voice came through the receiver: “Bruosen, you went too far this time.”

“Sir, I…” Bruosen’s face was grim, and he was about to explain when the voice cut him off:

“Tomorrow, I’ll be announcing the formation of Investigation Team Fourteen. As the new group chief, you’ll be in charge of this newly established team.”

With that, the call ended abruptly, giving Bruosen no chance to respond.

“A group chief with only one newly formed team under his command—this hasn’t happened in the New York branch of the FBI for over a decade.” Staring at the phone, Bruosen let out a bitter laugh—he could already imagine the looks he’d get at tomorrow’s meeting.

He took several deep breaths to quell his anger, then picked up the shattered glass, filled it with liquor, downed it in one gulp, and then left the living room for the bedroom.

A muttered list of names echoed from the hallway:

“Veronice, August, Roan Greenwood…”

—

“Veronice has quite a capable subordinate.”

Far away, at FBI headquarters in Washington, an elderly white man in a suit watched the press conference on TV, sipped his drink with a sardonic chuckle, and pressed the phone at his side:

“In the morning, I want all the information on that agent from the television on my desk—right at the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

—

Roan was unaware of everything that had happened the previous night.

After driving Lacey to the “Flame Queen” bar in just twenty minutes, and with her help, he’d failed to meet any of the women whose numbers were on the business card—they’d all been lured away by Lacey herself.

Still, with his unremarkably handsome face, Roan managed to befriend the bar’s female manager.

He’d been busy all day—didn’t he deserve a little enjoyment?

With this thought in mind, he slept straight through until two in the afternoon the next day.

The sun hung low in the sky when Roan finally opened his eyes in the manager’s lounge above the “Flame Queen” bar in Manhattan.

Immediately, he felt a twinge in his lower back.

Hissing in pain, he disentangled the arm draped over his neck and the leg wrapped around his waist, gingerly supporting his back as he got out of bed and staggered into the bathroom with a grimace.

“This was a miscalculation!” He turned on the shower and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—his usually ordinary face now looked faintly haggard.

His eyes widened in sudden realization: “Roan Greenwood was never a drinker—how could I have forgotten that!”

Once he’d finished washing up, Roan left the bathroom, dressed, and glanced at the still-sleeping, alluring figure on the bed. Without hesitation, he turned and left the room, shaking his head in self-mockery.

“To think a little drink and pleasure would leave my back aching... No more. From today on, I must get into better shape—and give up alcohol, too!”

In the bar’s parking lot, Roan found his SUV and set off toward the Jacob Federal Building.

While waiting at a traffic light, he opened the system interface he hadn’t had time to check last night.

[Performance Rating: Excellent]
[Number of Loot Boxes Obtained: Four]
[Open Loot Boxes?]

“Open them!”

Watching the crude, browser-game-style animation as the boxes opened, and seeing the word “Excellent” in the rating, Roan suddenly realized:

“A ‘Good’ rating earns three loot boxes; an ‘Excellent’ rating gives four… So it’s cumulative.”

[Loot boxes opened]
[Stamina Potion x1. Strength Potion x1. Agility Potion x1. Sensory Potion x1.]

He rubbed his still-aching back and glanced at the three stamina potions in his system inventory. Without hesitation, he took one out and gulped it down.

It was tasteless, but after a few seconds, a strange sensation spread from his abdomen to every part of his body.

Initially, Roan was disappointed not to have received the hemostatic potion he wanted most.

But after drinking the stamina potion and feeling his aches vanish in a blink—his back no longer sore, his legs no longer tired, ready to take on ten men at once—Roan’s eyes lit up.

“This is amazing!”

So stamina potions were the real treasure!

The SUV soon arrived at the Jacob Federal Building. As Roan left the parking lot, he ran into Lacey, who was just returning with coffee. He raised his hand and greeted her with a smile.

“Good afternoon, Lacey.”

“Roan?” Lacey’s face showed her shock at seeing Roan so full of energy, especially knowing whom he’d been with last night. “You… you can still come to work?”

Roan immediately bristled. Who did she think she was underestimating?