BATTER 10

The Chief had expected Baron to be truly furious at this point. He had even prepared a plausible set of compromises and comforting phrases in case Baron exploded over this treatment. Instead, Baron let out a long, wheezing breath, like letting go of an untied balloon. Then, he shrugged with a resigned smile.

“Well, if you’re going that far, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

The handsome face, smiling through knitted dark brows, actually looked quite refreshed. The curve of his eyes was bright and airy.

“I’ll put my standing comedy debut on hold for now. Honestly, I’ve got a bit of an—how should I put it—unexpectedly shy side, hahaha. Since I won’t be using your stories as material anymore, just don’t give away my desk while I’m gone. Capiche? Haha. Well, I’ll be on my way.”

The Chief, who had been trying to calm him down, was left looking even more bewildered as he waved him off. Baron gave a playful salute and left the Chief’s office. Even as he pulled the door handle, his eyes and mouth were draped in a light, lingering grin. Once the door clicked shut and the Chief was alone, he spat out the words he’d been holding back.

“Ugh, creepy bastard.”

When he stepped out onto the central staircase near the Chief’s office, Baron ran into Detective Sanchez. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Liz was discharged, so it had been a while. The man had grown quite gaunt since they last met.

“Hey, Sanchez…”

He reached out to grab Sanchez’s shoulder by way of greeting. Sanchez, however, pulled his stiffened shoulder away with a look of blatant discomfort. Baron pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pocket without breaking his smile. It was a natural flow. Baron smirked as if nothing was wrong.

“I’m heading out for a three-month break.”

“I… I see.”

“I’m just worried everyone’s going to be bored to tears without me.”

“…”

Sanchez remained consistent, offering nothing but awkward silences and avoiding eye contact. Baron went quiet and looked down at him. His quiet gaze rested on Sanchez’s pointed shoulders. When the man hunched his naturally angular shoulders, they looked even sharper. Baron tried to reach out again to grab those jagged shoulders as if to lean on him. This time, Sanchez swatted the move away with the back of his hand and glared at Baron.

“Senior Liz almost died because of you, Detective Lin.”

Baron blinked twice, his face still maintaining that languid smile. Sanchez continued, articulating each word precisely.

“Whether you’re actually a spy or whether you’re the one who pulled the trigger—we don’t know that yet. But that much is true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Because it was the truth, Baron admitted it without excuses. Then he followed up immediately.

“That’s why, when I catch the guy who did it, I’m going to blow his head off first.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a long, sinewy arm—like a jungle snake—wound around Sanchez’s neck in a hug. Baron whispered softly into the ear of the reflexively coughing Sanchez. His voice was mellow, like the breath of someone drifting off to sleep.

“Want to go blow it off together? Hmm, Detective Sanchez?”

When he looked down afterward, Sanchez looked completely repulsed. Knitted brows, distorted eyes, and jaw and mouth muscles stiffened with a slight gap. Somehow, he had expected that face. No matter what it is, when a prediction hits the mark, one can’t help but feel a strange sense of pleasure. Baron laughed and withdrew his arm.

“Just kidding.”

As soon as the arm around his neck was released, Sanchez hunched his shoulders even tighter and increased the distance between them. He was as quick as a sewer rat avoiding a boot or a broom. The gaze he threw back was as stinging as a needle.

“Get your head straight.”

Those were Sanchez’s parting words as he left the scene. Get your head straight! Honestly, he’d heard that phrase quite a lot. It was a line that could probably serve as the catchphrase of Baron Lin’s life. Baron raised both eyebrows as high as they would go and then let them drop. That was always his answer.

Leaving the police department, he didn’t head for his neon-lit home; instead, he drove toward the Lower City. He hummed curses directed at the disciplinary committee to the beat of the punk rock music blasting from the speakers.

“Rot in hell! You god—damn committee bastards.”

Humanity’s mechanical children were more skilled than their masters in every way, yet the roles of judgment and legislation were still handled by humans. In the early days of android commercialization, protests over unemployment due to mechanization were constant. New versions of Luddite movements were updated again and again, but eventually, AI and androids like Clever Jerry established their place in every corner of society.

“Rot in hell! You dog—like prosecutors.”

Humans who were more incompetent and ignorant than machines born with pre-programmed life goals still managed to support themselves and survive somehow. Essentially, it wasn’t that the machine’s versatility threatened the worker’s job. Baron bobbed his head to the rhythm and slowly lowered the car’s altitude. This was after the prosecutors, the committee, and the federal government had all rotted in hell within the song. The familiar scenery of the overpass gradually drew closer.

Baron didn’t park immediately but circled the vicinity slowly in the air. This kind of behavior would probably serve as evidence for suspicion, too. Would he look like a suspect returning to the crime scene? How typical. Baron simply laughed and turned off the speakers.

He formed a more typical hypothesis. ‘There is a collaborator within the police department.’ The Neon Leon executives, who were under strict surveillance, had consumed unidentifiable drugs disguised as a meal. The capsules provided to suspects for such situations were strictly managed from transport to delivery.

It wasn’t something that could be achieved by someone simply sneaking into the department temporarily. If the deduction of a collaborator was true, it made sense why they had closed this ambush case so quickly.

Was it a delusion? An excessive leap? Was it overconfidence in a police security system that was as busy as it was incompetent? Baron’s fear did not lie in becoming a failure or a madman. If his thoughts were truly nothing more than a delusion or a leap, he needed a witness to prove it. A witness, an observer. The “Angel” with shining blonde hair and cool skin, rarely made of real bone and muscle. Right now, Baron was looking for an angel.

If one were to look for a task as tedious as finding a person in the Lower City, it would be akin to turning an anthill upside down to find a single worker ant that bit your foot and ran away. Even if he found him, the chances were high that he wouldn’t cooperate with a testimony. Reporting the wrongdoing of a fellow resident was essentially whistleblowing, and such people were often branded traitors and punished. Even without opening his mouth, simply saving a dying cop was enough of a betrayal. Unless it was truly an angel or an idiot, there was no way he could be found easily…

“Oh?”

As he completed about half a circle around the overpass, his dark brows shot up. Something whitish was sitting near the spot where he had collapsed that day. It looked like a pile of junk stacked haphazardly, but Baron felt a strange sensation, like a transparent hook piercing through his collarbone. He kept his eyes fixed on that pale shape and recited a command.

“Tess, put the current dashcam footage on the main pad.”

Immediately, the real-time footage was shared to the main pad, which emitted a bluish light. Baron used his fingers to zoom in on the area where the pale, vague form sat. He could see slender arms and legs, and light golden hair. It wasn’t a pile of junk or a trash bag. It was the figure of a person huddled sitting down. In an instant, an uncontrollable excitement made Baron’s pupils dilate into black pits. He realized he was smiling and gripped the steering wheel tight.

Baron slowly lowered the car, wondering if the assailants had found the witness first to make an example of him and then used the corpse to set a trap. Even after he parked the car on the ground, there was no sign of a rain of bullets. He didn’t turn off the engine and checked to see if his pistol was properly loaded. Weapon in hand, he stepped onto the ground. The wet, rotting, dead earth gave off a foul stench.