Detective Richard Roberts breathed a sigh of relief when Captain Mike Thompson cleared the scene. Though he lowered his weapon, Roberts kept it in hand, watching Sean warily. Captain Thompson's weathered face showed subtle disapproval - he'd seen many hot-headed young officers like Roberts come and go over the years, their sharp edges gradually smoothed by experience.
"Need these for evidence?" Sean asked casually, removing his bloodstained shirt and pants before holding them out.
"Give them here," Roberts snapped, taking the clothes with a rigid expression. As Sean turned toward the bathroom, Roberts couldn't help adding, "Hey, you—"
"Don't worry," Sean cut him off with a wave, not bothering to look back. "I'll leave the door open so you can watch me shower."
In the bathroom, Sean let the water cascade over him, wincing as it hit the wound on the back of his head. The sharp pain felt oddly satisfying - a reminder that everything was real. The situation was still surreal: he had died, yet here he was, somehow resurrected in the body of Sean Rockefeller. Their memories and emotions had merged completely, as if their souls had fused into one.
'Since this is America,' he thought, 'I am Sean K. Rockefeller now.' The 'K' stood for king - a private joke connecting to his former surname.
As for the shooting... Well, gang warfare and automatic weapons were just part of life here. It was quintessentially American - the air thick with both freedom and gunpowder. Sean closed his eyes, savoring this new reality. Nothing could have suited him better.
In the living room, Roberts turned to Thompson. "Captain, don't you think he's acting strange? This wasn't just some random shooting - we're talking about a full-on firefight. No ordinary pizza shop worker could take a bullet to the head and just walk home. And staying this calm during police questioning? The victim was a known gang member. I'm telling you, this guy's connected!"
Thompson settled into a chair, his expression neutral. After thirty years on the force, he knew every criminal operation in Newark. The dead man - Daniel "Big Truck" Williams - had been a local gang leader. This had all the hallmarks of a professional hit, likely the work of the Salamanga family. They'd been operating for decades with iron-clad procedures. The hit team would already be out of New Jersey.
As for Sean... Thompson's instincts told him the young man wasn't a gang member. But everyone had their secrets, and right now, those secrets weren't relevant to the case.
Sean emerged from the bathroom looking refreshed, quickly pulling on clean clothes. "Shall we? Since you didn't call an ambulance, I suppose we'll have to head to the hospital first."
"At the station, we'll see how smug you are," Roberts growled.
"I think you're misunderstanding something," Sean replied smoothly. "I'm a pizza shop employee who just survived a shooting. As a taxpayer who's experienced severe trauma, I believe I have the right to medical attention first."
"You don't look traumatized to me."
"Only a doctor is qualified to make that assessment." Sean moved to lock his apartment door. "Now, shall we?"
Later that evening, a man in a worn suit arrived at Sean's apartment building. His rectangular face was creased with worry lines as he knocked on Sean's door. After getting no response, he tried the neighbor's apartment.
"Hello, I'm Saul Goodman, Sean's attorney," he introduced himself, presenting a business card. "Do you know when he usually returns?"
The neighbor examined the card. "Normally around ten, but you should try the police station. They took him in earlier."
Saul thanked him and returned to his battered Suzuki, which coughed out black smoke before lurching toward the station. Whatever trouble Sean was in, Saul intended to be there to handle it - whether Sean had called for him or not.