A week later.
Lake ended his leave, which had been publicly explained as medical leave for a work-related injury.
Early morning.
Lake yawned. "I suddenly feel like maybe not going to work isn't so bad."
I really must have been out of my mind.
Lake drank his coffee and thought to himself that he had a perfectly free profession but had chosen not to do it properly, instead going out to find a part-time job—and one that required him to get up in the morning, at that.
Wasn't making money by killing people better? Or was I simply born to be an office worker at heart?
Lake shook his head.
His girlfriend, Maureen, came down from the spiral staircase and happened to hear what Lake had said. She rolled her eyes. "Where on earth did you get that doctor's note?"
Lake grinned. "That's a secret."
He had bought the note.
For three hundred dollars, he had obtained a genuine medical certificate issued by a surgical authority at New Amsterdam Hospital, the designated hospital for the NYPD. The moment he took it to the precinct, his week of recuperation leave for a workplace injury was approved.
Remember the little nurse who had helped patch Lake up after the apartment explosion?
Well.
That little nurse had sold it to Lake. It should have been about a week ago. The day after Maureen caught Lake faking his illness, he received a call from the little nurse.
The little nurse opened with the unmistakable tone of an underground transaction.
"Sweetie, want to buy a leave slip? Genuine article, no imitations—one hundred dollars back for every fake. I can even write in the recommended recovery period according to your requirements. Want one, sweetie?"
"..."
Lake had done the math at the time. A leave slip that let him take a week off cost about three hundred dollars, while his daily wage was roughly one hundred and fifty dollars.
A great deal.
He could lie at home and make nearly four days' wages for free.
So Lake had bought one on the spot and saved the little nurse's phone number as well, in case he ever needed her services again. According to the little nurse, as long as it fell within the hospital's sphere of business, she could handle it—including customized CT images. She even handled health examinations for retirees and could help increase their pensions by nearly a thousand dollars a month in injury and illness subsidies.
Lake had been utterly amazed.
He went outside.
When Lake drove up from the underground garage to street level, his girlfriend, who had been waiting at the entrance to the building, tightened her scarf and got into the passenger seat.
The weather had already begun to turn cold in November.
However...
Two months had passed since September, and the citizens of New York City were gradually moving on from the September incident. The cleanup at the World Trade Center was still ongoing, but compared with the mood during those previous two months, it felt as if the gloom were gradually lifting.
Of course.
November also brought the downfall of the former mayor of New York.
His downfall had been inevitable.
The World Trade Center incident during his term had already doomed his reelection bid. Then there was last month's Textile Factory incident. Good grief, a mayor actually had ties to an organization of assassins? He had to step down. There was no room for discussion.
Although the former mayor had claimed before reporters and the media that he, too, had been deceived, it was useless. The public only saw that he had taken money from an organization of assassins before becoming mayor.
So...
About four days ago, the mayor had stepped down in disgrace. The newly appointed mayor was someone familiar.
No.
He was familiar to Lake's downstairs neighbor, Cassel. The mayor was a fan of Cassel's books, so when they had dinner yesterday, Cassel had smugly asked whether he should introduce Lake.
Lake had spat all over Cassel's face.
Did he need connections?
I was the strongest connection there was.
NYPD headquarters.
Maureen looked at Lake from the passenger seat. "Aren't you going in?"
Lake shrugged. "I'm heading over to the 33rd Precinct."
"What for?"
"I have something to take care of."
"Okay."
After waiting for his girlfriend to get out, Lake started the car again and drove toward the 33rd Precinct.
Wesley was still being held at the precinct.
Lake had always kept his promises. Since he had promised to give Wesley an ordinary life, Lake would ensure that this most basic condition was met.
Of course.
If Wesley did something stupid himself, that would no longer be his problem.
What Lake had promised Carlos was that he would not let the Textile Factory take Wesley away, nor let Wesley face the disaster of imprisonment or death. Beyond that, there was nothing else.
Half an hour later.
Lake parked at the 33rd Precinct and walked straight inside. After greeting a detective he was on good terms with, he saw Wesley in the holding cell, looking somewhat haggard after spending a week there.
Wesley had been having a terrible time these past few days.
He had thought his life was about to change completely. Instead, before he had even become an assassin, he had become a criminal suspect. Worse, he had already been locked up there for several days.
It wasn't that Wesley hadn't considered getting a lawyer. He had money—there was a hundred thousand dollars the Assistance had transferred to his bank account.
But...
When he tried to find a lawyer, the detective here had told him one thing directly: Think it through. Once you got a lawyer, the case would truly proceed through the legal system.
Wesley hesitated.
And then...
He stayed there until now.
"Cough, cough."
"...You?"
Lake stood outside the holding cell, watching Wesley raise his head toward him. Noticing the expression in Wesley's eyes, he smiled. "You seem to hate me quite a lot."
Wesley said nothing, but his body language made that undeniable.
Lake let out a dry laugh.
This really was an innocent fool.
Never mind that the Assistance had been planning to train Wesley to kill his father, Carlos. Just consider one thing: did he really think being an assassin was glamorous?
Did this guy think reality was a video game? Anyone with average intelligence wouldn't choose to become an assassin.
Of course.
Lake was the exception.
"You can go."
"..."
Lake looked at Wesley, who was pretending to be dazed, and said flatly, "I promised your father that I wouldn't let you enter some bizarre profession where you might walk in today and die tomorrow. So after you leave, take care of yourself. I'll only help you this once. Next time, you're on your own."
As he spoke.
Lake looked at his friend, the detective at the 33rd Precinct, and shook his head. "What are young people thinking these days? They have perfectly good jobs, yet they want to become assassins?"
His friend looked at Lake speechlessly. "You're not that old either."
Lake shrugged. "I'm thirty."
His heart ached. He was almost old enough to start losing his hair, yet he still hadn't pulled the SSR-level ageless body. What use was an immortal body by itself?
Agelessness and immortality together would be the true Golden Legend.
Wesley, listening to the two of them singing the same tune outside, asked uncertainly, "I can really leave? Then... what about the case?"
Lake and his friend exchanged a look.
The next second.
They burst out laughing.
Before you continue