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

Seattle, October 10, 10 a.m.

The sky was overcast and damp, with a chill that sent shivers down your spine.

Leon Vance sat in a Ford Crown Victoria patrol car, a black AR-15 rifle mounted on a tactical gun rack between the front seats.

He was biting into a burrito with an excessive amount of cheese.

This stuff is high in calories, enough for him to run a marathon. Seattle's weather is terrible, and if you don't eat well while working here, you'll start to question the meaning of your hard work.

He glanced down at his duty belt.

Hanging on it were a walkie-talkie, a Taser, magazine pouches, handcuffs, a Glock 17 rifle, and an extendable baton, weighing a total of fifteen pounds.

Wearing this thing for a long time is like having a lead weight wrapped around your waist. Half of the officers in the Seattle Police Department (SPD) suffer from chronic lumbar muscle strain, and Leon felt that he was not far from that point.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

He is twenty-six years old this year, and the features of his face in the mirror are so sharp that they look like they were carved from granite.

Deep, steel-gray pupils, a high-bridged nose, and short, dark brown hair trimmed to an extremely short length.

But only Lyon himself knew that inside this strong, six-foot-two-inch body lived a soul from a parallel world in the East.

In his memory, his hometown in that world was safe and clean. He didn't have to worry about being robbed by a homeless man pointing a rusty needle at his neck when he went out for a late-night snack at two in the morning.

And now, he is on Third Avenue in Seattle.

Just fifty meters outside his car window, three drug addicts wrapped in tattered blankets were marking telephone poles as if no one else was around.

"Damn America," Leon muttered, brushing the crumbs off his uniform.

He silently recited a sentence in his mind.

[Enhanced Law Enforcement Justice System]

A pale blue, semi-transparent light screen instantly appeared on his retina.

Name: Leon Vance

[Position: Seattle Police Department (SPD) Patrol Officer]

[Rank: Elite Patrol Officer]

[Four-dimensional attributes:]

[Strength: 15 (Your punches can make a bull question its existence, and kicking open a reinforced door is like piercing a sheet of paper)]

Agility: 14 (Your reaction speed and gun-drawing skills surpass those of ordinary elite patrol officers)

[Physical Constitution: 14 (Durable, cold-resistant, and even able to filter some toxins from inferior industrial products)]

[Willpower: 16 (The core of shooting accuracy. Your hand remains as steady as a mountain when bullets are flying around; as long as you're not dead, your consciousness won't easily drop out.)]

[Current Skill:]

Pistol Shooting: LV4 (Professional Elite. You are as familiar with pistols as your own fingers, and you never miss a shot within 50 yards.)

Rifle Shooting: LV4 (Professional Elite. Whether in a patrol car or in open terrain, you can accurately eliminate threats at medium to long range.)

Police Special Driving: LV3 (Professional level. Capable of handling most complex car chase situations and high-speed obstacle avoidance)

Urban Close Combat: LV3 (Professional Level. Proficient in strangulation, grappling, and rapid suppression techniques)

[Function Description: Earn "Justice Points" by completing on-site tasks. Points can be used directly to enhance basic attributes or exchanged for high-level skills and equipment in the shop.]

Remaining points: 0

LV3 means you can make a living in your field with this skill, while LV4 means you are an elite who has been tested in real combat.

Lyon's current strategy is simple: hone his skills and then invest all his precious points into attribute enhancement.

Although you can exchange points for skills directly in the system shop, the prices are ridiculously high.

When he couldn't sleep at 2 a.m., he repeatedly browsed the official website of the "Immigration Bureau" in the East.

That behemoth known as "Donglian" was very similar to his homeland in his previous life, both culturally and geographically, except that the immigration threshold was despairingly high compared to his previous life.

For a white patrol officer tasked with tidying up the streets of Seattle, getting back to work is as difficult as climbing a space elevator with his bare hands.

He needs money, a huge amount of money, and a pledge of allegiance that would get him special permission from the Eastern Union to become a citizen, as well as skills or something else of value.

Save money, earn points, become stronger, and then leave this quagmire of fentanyl and bureaucracy.

This is Lyon's current life goal.

"1-Lincoln (single-person patrol vehicle)-14, reporting your location." The vehicle's onboard computer (MDT) flashed.

Lyon reached out and pressed the intercom.

"1-Lincoln-14, patrolling near Third Avenue and Park Street, a street full of junk waiting to collect government aid to buy drugs, signal 10-4 (understood)."

Just then, a red highlighted entry popped up on the MDT screen.

"Attention all units, there has been an 11-82 incident (traffic accident with altercation) at the Seattle Trust Bank on Second Avenue. The caller reports that one party is armed. The nearest unit is requested to proceed immediately."

Lyon's expression changed, and he immediately pulled the alarm.

"Ugh—!"

The piercing electronic howl instantly shattered the monotony of the neighborhood.

"1-Lincoln-14, en route, estimated arrival time in three minutes."

The tail end of Seattle's morning rush hour hadn't completely disappeared, and the streets were completely jammed with private cars.

Lyon abruptly turned the steering wheel, and the heavy Ford Crown Victoria let out a disgruntled tire screech as it spun a flamboyant S-shape through the narrow gaps in traffic.

They squeezed through the gap between the two Teslas.

Hey! Do you even know how to drive?!

A middle-aged man wearing black-rimmed glasses leaned out of the car window, his face flushed, and gave Leon the middle finger at the back of the head.

Leon glanced at the shrunken figure in the rearview mirror, and instead of getting angry, he couldn't help but chuckle softly.

"Hey man, you should be glad the Seattle Police Department didn't equip their patrol cars with ramming corners."

He's not in the mood for any "police and civilians are one family" rhetoric right now.

For him, if he arrived late, his colleagues who arrived earlier would control the scene or subdue the suspect, resulting in a pitifully low participation rate during the system's settlement, and he might even be directly judged as having failed the mission.

This feeling is like when you were playing an online game in your past life and watched as a random team was about to steal the first kill of the BOSS.

"Damn it, please don't arrest him before I park the car."

Lyon steered with one hand on the wheel, while the other hand rapidly switched gears on the control panel next to the gear lever, the engine humming and vibrating in the cabin amidst the roar of low gears.

"1-Adam (two-seater patrol car)-12, confirmed arrival at the scene. The caller reported that one party was wielding a baseball bat and may be carrying a concealed firearm."

As Lyon listened to the car number coming through his headphones, two faces quickly flashed through his mind.

Today, Bob's car number should be 1-Adam-12.

Bob is a typical Seattle veteran who has been in the police force for almost twenty years and is still a patrol officer.

That guy's car was always stuffed with unfinished donuts, his business skills were as bad as a leaky roof, his only redeeming quality was that he was fairly loyal, at least he never reneges on his debts when treating someone to a meal at a bar.

His partner was a rookie who had graduated from police academy less than three months ago, and it was said that he couldn't even memorize the full body search procedure.

"That bastard Bob..."

Lyon muttered to himself, his eyes growing sharper, "If he were handling the scene, he'd probably be hiding behind the car door waiting for backup right now."

This is good news, meaning the BOSS hasn't been defeated yet.

As the car rounded a sharp bend, the iconic granite facade of the Seattle Trust Bank came into view, along with a patrol car parked diagonally in the middle of the road, its lights flashing blue and red.

Lyon grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the call button:

"1-Lincoln-14, I have arrived at the Second Avenue intersection and request access to the live channel."

"Bob, save me a spot. I don't want to park two blocks away!"

A burst of static came from the radio, followed by Bob's slightly panting voice, sounding as if he had just finished a 50-meter relay race:

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