67. Detective’s Fate, Shadows Ascend

When the police car pulled up in front of the bar, the crowd that had been gathered to watch the spectacle quickly scattered, revealing two men engaged in a one-on-one brawl.

They were both young, dressed fashionably in flared pants and black tank tops, but their faces were bruised and bloodied. Several pools of vomit at their feet gave off a foul stench, and between them lay the bar’s neon sign, its circuitry trampled and sparking with electricity.

“LVPD! Stop what you’re doing and stay right where you are!” Thomas announced as he stepped out of the car, one hand resting on his holster as he approached.

Dean followed close behind like a dutiful partner, his expression unreadable as he discreetly scanned the two men and the surrounding crowd for any sign of weapons using his special perspective.

The taller boy cursed under his breath, his face twisted with resentment, but he obeyed and stood still. The other, clearly frightened, a flash of panic in his eyes, turned and bolted toward the end of the street.

“I’ve got him—he won’t get away!”

Without waiting for Thomas’s command, Dean dashed off like the wind, as if responding to a challenge. His agility was not just for show: at full speed, he became a blur in his police uniform, darting across the hard pavement.

The fleeing suspect made it no more than twenty meters before Dean caught up from behind, tackling him to the ground.

He twisted the suspect’s arm, pulled out his handcuffs, and snapped them on. He swiftly frisked the man for weapons and secured the situation—his efficiency flawless, every movement fluid and precise.

But there was no applause.

By the time Dean returned to the patrol car, the crowd had vanished. Thomas helped him secure the other suspect in the rear cage, then slid into the driver’s seat and began his radio report.

“Al99 reporting: incident resolved. We are transporting two suspects back to the station.”

On the drive back, neither Dean nor Thomas spoke a word.

After booking the suspects and locking them in the holding cell, Dean let out a long sigh of relief. The entire ride, the two prisoners had squabbled like fighting roosters, making his ears ring.

“What was with those two?” Dean asked Thomas.

“They were both after the same girl—started fighting out of jealousy. The girl ran off long before we got there. And the one who tried to run had been using something,” Thomas replied, then clapped Dean on the shoulder. “By the way—nice work. Your takedown moves are more polished than some of the old-timers’.”

“But there’s one thing I have to point out…” Thomas’s tone shifted, the friendly smile fading from his round face. “You made a serious mistake just now. You chased after the second suspect without waiting for my order. If he’d had a deadly weapon, you could’ve put yourself in grave danger.”

“They’d been fighting for a while. If he had a weapon, he’d have used it by now,” Dean replied. Before he’d rushed in, he’d already called forth his “Shadow” as a shield and checked for weapons with his special perspective—nothing could have gone wrong.

“Don’t make assumptions like that…” Thomas shook his head, got into the car, and said, “Unless you’ve searched him yourself, never let your guard down because of a gut feeling.”

“I’ve seen promising young officers, full of ambition, lose their lives because they were careless—falling on their first assignment and meeting a detective’s fate before their time.”

Thomas gripped the steering wheel, a distant look in his eyes, his face somber.

“Alright, I promise I won’t act on my own next time. I’ll follow your lead,” Dean said, patting his chest in assurance.

“I’m glad you don’t mind my nagging.” The clock had just struck nine as Thomas pulled back onto the patrol route.

“By the way, Thomas, you mentioned the ‘detective’s fate’ earlier. What did you mean by that?”

“It’s an inside joke among officers—a sum of all the things we go through, tinged with a bit of tragedy… don’t take it too seriously,” Thomas said, his gaze lost in the darkness beyond the window.

“In our line of work, some get so wrapped up in their careers, obsessed with solving cases and catching criminals, that they neglect their families… and end up living out their days alone.”

“Some are killed in the line of duty by violent criminals, their lives cut short.”

“Some are injured on duty and left with lasting scars, tormented by pain for the rest of their lives.”

“Others, under the crushing weight of the job, turn to drink or drugs, and eventually destroy themselves.”

“What we call ‘the detective’s fate’ is that most of us don’t get a happy ending.”

No happy endings.

A cold night breeze drifted in through the window.

Dean thought over these words, then shook his head with a smile.

“That’s too pessimistic, Thomas. Aren’t you an exception? You’ve found the true meaning of life, you have a beautiful wife and a brave, lovely daughter, and a reliable patrol partner like me. What’s your secret?”

“Haha, that secret’s for Gretchen alone. Of course, if you become my son-in-law, I’ll tell you too.”

“Careful, if you keep joking like that, I might take you seriously.”

…

With the seasoned and good-natured Thomas as his mentor, the patrol shifts became far less dull.

“Al99, 350 North 18th Street. Caller reports harassment,” the radio suddenly crackled.

Thomas turned the car around and soon reached the address.

“Dean, wait in the car this time.”

“Yes, sir!”

The patrol car stopped outside the yard.

Thomas got out and entered, immediately spotting a ragged homeless man in a filthy black coat, hair wild, banging on a door and shouting,

“Ma’am, just five more dollars so I can have a meal! God bless you!”

Dean, watching from the car, couldn’t help but wince as Thomas called out,

“LVPD! Sir, you’re trespassing. You are violating the law. Step away from that door, now!”

The homeless man glanced back at him as if seeing the devil, then turned back and banged on the door even harder, pleading,

“Ma’am, please open up! Help me!”

“Hands up! Step back now!”

Thomas drew his sidearm, gripping it with both hands and aiming at the homeless man’s back.

“Stop what you’re doing!”

The safety clicked off.

“Ma’am, open up! Please!”

Thomas’s warning and the man’s desperate cries echoed through the yard.

Dean tensed, quietly summoning his Shadow to guard Thomas from several meters away, half expecting a tragedy to unfold.

But without warning, the homeless man spun around, dropped to his knees, and thrust his wrists toward Thomas, his face flushed as he shouted,

“Arrest me! Please arrest me! I’d rather go to jail than starve to death!”

“Damn it! Lunatic,” Thomas muttered, snapping the cuffs on and loading the man into the back of the car.

The stench made Dean wrinkle his nose, but the absurdity of the situation nearly made him laugh.

…

The usual routine followed—reassure the homeowner, file the report, bring the suspect to the station.

“What was his deal?” Dean asked.

“The lady gave him some spare change on her way home from work. He decided it wasn’t enough to buy a meal, so he followed her all the way from downtown, demanding more,” Thomas replied, shaking his head at the sheer oddity.

“Extortion by panhandling?” Dean grinned. “Are crimes by the homeless common in Las Vegas?”

“Not compared to the gangs. Most of them aren’t criminals—they’re just people ruined by the casinos, driven to desperation,” Thomas said, then added, “You’ll see all sorts of strange cases, but never let your guard down. Always watch their hands and protect yourself. You never know when one of these lunatics might pull a gun.”

“Understood.”

…

After that, the radio stayed silent until eleven.

At the station, Dean changed into civilian clothes and got into his Bronco, waving goodbye to Thomas outside the window.

“I’m always on call—if LVPD needs me, just let me know. As long as it’s at night, I’m available.”

“You’re sure? No other volunteer’s ever worked this much. Most show up once or twice a month at most,” Thomas said, baffled by Dean’s enthusiasm for the dull AP assignments. “To be honest, no matter how dedicated a volunteer is, even after ten years, they’ll never make officer.”

“I know. Please, just keep me in mind.”

…

In the days that followed, at Dean’s request, Thomas arranged daily patrols for him.

LVPD was always short-staffed; cheap volunteer labor was never unwelcome.

Word got out about the eager young guy, and the precinct started scheduling him out through next month without any need for promotion.

They were so pleased with such a diligent volunteer, they even discussed increasing his stipend.

The extra money nearly covered Dean’s monthly living expenses of two or three hundred bucks—his savings remained untouched.

Within a week, Dean had accompanied four different officers on patrol, encountering all manner of minor incidents—domestic disputes, fights, drunken disturbances, traffic violations, and more.

Two cases left the deepest impression. The first was an elderly woman reporting her pet missing; Dean found the cat, long dead, under her bed.

The second was someone claiming they were being watched, convinced they could hear surveillance devices in their home. Dean discovered the noise was coming from their ancient plumbing.

These bizarre cases opened Dean’s eyes and allowed him to make full use of his “god’s-eye view” for investigation. Any lost pet missing less than three days—he could find it. He was fast becoming the LVPD’s pet-finding specialist.

Unfortunately, these cases were too trivial for the system to award him experience points.

But the week wasn’t without its rewards: under the influence of the spirit board, his “Shadow” quietly advanced.

Six a.m., at home. Dean finished meditating and a message flashed before his eyes:

Shadow of the Past, lv0 (100/100)
Upgrade?
Yes
Shadow of the Past lv0 → lv1 (0/200)
Your mental strength increases: 14.3 → 14.8

…

“What? My power levels up and I only get 0.5 mental strength? That’s less than a third of what I get for fighting or shooting!” Dean felt the surge in his mind, puzzled, but soon leaned back and closed his eyes.

Ten minutes later, he opened them, a glint in his gaze.

The “Shadow of the Past” leapt from the spirit board, circling the room in a flurry that sent the curtains fluttering.

Then it dropped down and took form before him—a figure dark as ink, its once-blurred features now showing a faint glimmer of humanity and intelligence in its eyes.

“What’s changed since you leveled up?” Dean asked, circling the Shadow barefoot and communicating telepathically.

“I…my consciousness is clearer,” came a hoarse, awkward voice in Dean’s mind.

The higher the level, the more complex a ghost’s personality.

Time for an experiment!

Dean dumped a handful of colored pens from a cup onto his bed and instructed, “Pick up all the green pens.”

In less than three seconds, a breeze swept across the bed, and a dozen green pens floated up and landed at Dean’s feet.

But the Shadow hadn’t touched them directly.

“Not just smarter, but a new ability too?” Dean asked, delighted.

“I can move objects telekinetically, to a certain extent,” the Shadow explained.

Dean tossed a pen to it. “Now, use this pen to write your name.”

“My… name?”

The Shadow hesitated, then used its telekinesis to scrawl “Dean Lu” in shaky letters on the paper—like a child just learning to write.

Dean had it read a passage from a book telepathically. Success—the Shadow’s intelligence had increased from that of a five- or six-year-old to, perhaps, a nine- or ten-year-old.

With greater intelligence, it could understand more complex commands, making it much more useful.

“Can you read my thoughts?” Dean asked, a bit wary.

“No, unless you tell me directly.”

Dean grinned, relieved.

…

“Now, fetch all the novels from the bookshelf.” The Shadow complied, and with a wave from three meters away, one thick book after another floated over and landed before Dean.

Dean picked one up thoughtfully. “So this telekinesis… it’s just raw psychic power.”

He experimented, directing the Shadow to move, throw, and attack objects at a distance.

The results were disappointing. Right now, the telekinesis was about as strong as a nine- or ten-year-old boy’s full effort. Unless it wielded a deadly weapon at a vital spot, it could barely do more than give an adult a jolt.

Control was coarse and shaky; even moving a pencil cup made it tremble like someone with palsy. The range hadn’t increased either—its power extended no more than seventeen or eighteen meters around Dean.

For now, the new telekinesis was just a party trick, good for parlor magic at best.

Dean could only console himself that it was a good start. As the Shadow’s skill level rose, so would its telekinetic strength—someday, perhaps, he’d be able to rip off ceilings or snuff out fires, like Alexander Raphael.

He went on to test the Shadow’s physical strength, speed, duration, and operating range, but was disappointed again.

The 0.5 boost in mental strength brought only a slight improvement, but leveling up barely affected these four attributes.

“So, skill upgrades only increase the Shadow’s intelligence and expand its abilities.”

…

From then on, Dean’s daily Shadow training changed: less time spent on fighting and shooting, more on precision telekinetic tasks—boiling water, mopping floors, chopping vegetables, manipulating the spirit board, throwing knives.

He was having the time of his life.

…

Mid-September, Thursday night.

Dean joined Thomas for another night patrol.

“Dean, you should enroll in the police academy. It’s only six months, and as long as your grades aren’t terrible, LVPD will probably hire you—and the department will cover your tuition,” Thomas said, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Dean, who declined.

“It’s not about the money…” Dean looked at Thomas, who’d been so earnest in his advice, and said gently, “I’m not sure I want to be a cop.”

“Are you serious?” Thomas’s cigarette slipped from his fingers.

“Al99, 130 West 9th Street. Death reported,” came a sudden voice over the radio.

“Al99 received,” Thomas replied, sitting up straight and gripping the wheel.

Dean’s heart raced with anticipation. It was the first time he’d encountered a death while on patrol. This time, surely an event would be triggered!