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

Lyon snapped out of his reverie and looked out the window.

The car was driving right past the 3rd Avenue extension near Pioneer Square, on the edge of Seattle’s notorious slums and one of the city’s ugliest scars.

Although it was a weekday during the day, the sidewalks on both sides of the street were still crowded with people.

Several people dressed in tattered clothes were standing on the roadside in an anti-gravity posture, their upper bodies bent down to their knees, their bodies swaying precariously, but they just wouldn't fall.

This condition is usually caused by fentanyl inhalation.

The potent opioids blocked their pain perception and nerve control, plunging them into a zombie-like state somewhere between wakefulness and coma.

Next, it was another homeless man who was closest to the roadside.

Lyon could see that there was a hole the size of a bowl in his calf, revealing blackened bone and rotting flesh that was still oozing pus.

Moreover, because of Lyon's excellent eyesight, he could also notice some rice-like things wriggling in the wound, seemingly dancing disco.

But the homeless man remained oblivious, still tightly clutching the plastic tube he used to smoke.

Those are typical symptoms caused by "Tranq" (a veterinary sedative thiazide), a new type of drug that has become popular in the last year or two.

This stuff is even more potent than fentanyl.

It can cause a person to lose consciousness instantly, becoming limp like a puddle of mud. Even more terrifying, it can lead to severe vasoconstriction and muscle necrosis, and open wounds such as skin ulcers and abscesses can form as a result.

Then, in order to relieve the pain, they had to keep re-inhaling, which further hindered blood flow, making the wound even more difficult to heal and eventually leading to more severe ulceration.

"This is the taste of freedom."

Lyon watched this scene and sighed.

He understands these people.

I truly understand.

Having served as a patrol officer for so long, he had witnessed far too many once respectable middle-class individuals fall into this abyss.

Perhaps it's just back pain caused by a work injury, and the doctor prescribed an excessive amount of painkillers (opioids); perhaps it's because you lost your job and couldn't pay your mortgage, so the bank foreclosed on your house; or perhaps it's because damned health insurance doesn't cover some kind of chronic illness.

In the highly atomized United States, if you fall down, very few people will lend you a hand.

What's even more disheartening is that a significant portion of these people did nothing wrong; they were probably living positive and fulfilling lives, or at least doing well.

But understanding is one thing.

As a normal person who just wants to live a good life, Leon has no desire to have any physical contact with such scenes.

That's why he was in such a hurry to find Raymond to move houses.

It wasn't just to protect against sniper shots from gangsters.

It is also to escape this kind of spiritual pollution.

He really didn't want to wake up to this hell on earth every day.

This kind of environment can subtly erode a person's will, making you feel that decadence and chaos are the norm.

This is also why Leon ultimately had to leave.

Even if he rose to Sterling's position and moved into a walled, secure upscale neighborhood, it wouldn't change the fact that the country was rotting at its core.

You live in a gated community of the wealthy, drive a bulletproof luxury car, and go to a members-only supermarket, keeping these "zombies" out of your sight.

But they are still there.

Like an elephant in the room.

This sense of disconnect suffocated Leon; he didn't want to be the king of the garbage dump.

"Drive faster."

Lyon looked away.

"I don't want to stay in this place for even a second longer."

……

Seattle City Hall, backstage lounge.

The decor here is a million times better than that musty, sweaty police station.

The thick carpet swallowed up footsteps, the air was filled with the scent of expensive fragrances, and the light in front of the vanity mirror was so bright that it was hard to open one's eyes.

Lyon sat in the soft leather swivel chair, looking at himself in the mirror with a bit of boredom.

Because he "unreasonably" discharged himself from the hospital yesterday, the press conference originally scheduled for tomorrow had to be urgently moved to this morning.

The mayor was eager to pull out Lyon as a fig leaf to cover up the mess in the North District and couldn't wait a moment longer.

"Don't move, darling, let me see your face."

A red-haired female makeup artist, wearing an overdose of perfume and a low-cut tank top, was standing close to Leon, waving a powder puff under his nose.

She was probably around thirty years old, with heavy makeup, exuding the air of someone who had spent many years in nightclubs, and an undisguised thirst for sex.

"I said, beautiful lady."

Lyon leaned back, avoiding the somewhat pungent smell of perfume:

"What kind of makeup are you planning to do for me? If you don't mind, I prefer something more natural."

"Naturally? Oh, dear, the mayor's office specifically instructed me to do so."

The makeup artist chewed gum, but her body leaned against Leon's legs, almost touching his nose with her two mounds of white flesh.

"They want you to look... well, worse."

"For example, make the face a little paler, the eye circles a little darker, and it would be best to add some bruising effect to the cheekbones."

"That way, those reporters will think you've survived a near-death experience, and those housewives will feel sorry for you and shed tears."

As she spoke, she took a dark-colored contouring pen and was about to shove it into Leon's face.

"Stop."

Leon raised his hand to block her wrist, not with much force, but with great determination.

"I almost died the day before yesterday."

"These injuries are real; you don't need to add any more drama for me. I'm a police officer, not an actor going to the Oscars. Leave this effeminate battle-worn makeup to the pretty boys."

The makeup artist paused for a moment, then chuckled, her body going limp as if she had no bones. She casually placed her hand on Leon's shoulder and pinched his trapezius muscle with her fingers.

Wow...that's unique.

Her eyes, painted with exaggerated eyeliner, stared intently at Leon. She licked her lips and spoke in a flippant tone:

"I like tough guys like you. You're right, scars are a man's badge of honor."

"However... since we don't need to wear makeup, and there's still some time before the press conference starts, and there are no security cameras in this room..."

She leaned close to Lyon's ear:

"Perhaps we can do some other relaxing exercises? Hmm?"

Lyon felt the warm breath on his ear, but his heart remained unmoved; he even felt a little like laughing.

He'd seen plenty of women like that.

Typical public facilities.

He had absolutely no interest in this kind of stuff that had changed hands countless times.

I appreciate your kindness.

Leon reached out and gently pushed her away a little:

"But I'm seriously injured right now, and the doctor advised me not to do any strenuous exercise. Maybe next time, when we go to a nightclub, I'll treat you to a drink."

"Tch... boring."

The makeup artist pursed her lips, about to say something more witty.

"Click".

The door to the lounge was pushed open from the outside.

Director Sterling strode in, wearing black high heels and carrying a blue folder.

Today she wore a sharply tailored gray business suit, her hair was up, and she looked capable, sophisticated, and aggressive.