Jimmy slowly searched each corner and behind every piece of equipment. Since it was afternoon and the light was adequate, Jimmy didn't need to use a flashlight to search.

Suddenly, he heard a scraping noise, probably the sound of something heavy being dragged. Jimmy headed toward the direction of the noise.

There was a semi-open factory building ahead, with a roof on top and surrounded by corrugated metal sheets, leaving a few meters wide passageway. The sound seemed to be coming from inside.

Jimmy pressed against the corrugated metal wall, carefully checking from left to right. Once he was sure it was safe within his field of view, he dashed in and hid behind a piece of equipment.

The noise had stopped, and now he couldn't determine the position of the other party. Jimmy didn't peek out to look; instead, he was attentive to his left and right, then listened intently. Suddenly, a black shape appeared on his left; Jimmy, quick-eyed and fast-handed, immediately fired toward it and then ducked to the other side.

Jimmy didn't know if he had hit his target; now his heart was pounding fiercely, his mind highly focused. He slightly peeked out to check and saw no one on the floor. He took out a spare magazine and loaded it, since the previous magazine was more than half empty. For safety, he decided to switch to a full one.

Jimmy looked around, and there was a square block of wood next to him. He picked it up and threw it to the side; it hit the ground with a clap, followed by two gunshots—the suspect was in the location he had first spotted.

Jimmy had only practiced shooting; this was his first real confrontation. Protecting himself was his first priority; surviving until the end was how to win.

He looked left and right; the suspect hadn't changed positions, probably waiting, like him, for the other to make a move. Jimmy pressed the talk button twice on the walkie-talkie. Sam, who was outside, immediately entered the factory when he heard the signal. Pressing the button twice indicated that the situation was critical and that it was important to remain silent. Sam reached the outside of the factory, peeked quietly through the entrance, and spotted the suspect through the gaps in some debris.

Sam raised his pistol and aimed through the gap. The space was tight, leaving a chance, but not a high one, of hitting the target. Sam thought it was worth trying; after aiming for a few seconds, he fired two bullets consecutively. Both shots hit the debris instead.

Although Sam didn't hit his mark, he gave Jimmy a much-needed distraction. The suspect hurriedly moved out from hiding, quickly dashing to another spot for cover. Jimmy took advantage of his movement and fired a few more shots, still missing.

This time, they weren't back to back. Jimmy reported the suspect's location directly through the walkie-talkie, and the two of them cautiously approached from different sides.

Jimmy put away his pistol and drew out his M686. In target practice, the revolver had a much higher accuracy rate than the pistol. For him, at such a close range now, the advantage of having more bullets in a pistol was outweighed by the 2-on-1 situation; hitting the target was crucial now.

Jimmy leaned against the debris, listening for any movement from the other side. Then suddenly, he felt as if he could predict where the other person might be. He squinted, aimed the revolver at the blurry location he foresaw in his mind, confident that the suspect was right there. Although there were piles of debris in front, some were just wooden boards, which wouldn't stop a bullet.

Jimmy simply closed his eyes, the sensation of constructing the scene in his brain growing stronger. He fired six shots in rapid succession. He crouched down to eject the spent casings, took six new bullets from his belt, loaded them, and then walked over, still bending low.

"Sam, it's safe, come over," Jimmy called out, not bothering with the walkie-talkie anymore.

Sam walked over from the side; the suspect was already lying on the ground. There was no need for medical attention; none of the bullets had missed, all hitting the neck and the areas above it.

"Sam, please notify them. Also, hold onto my gear for me," Cage said.

Jimmy removed his duty belt and handed it over to Sam, along with the shotgun on his back and the revolver on his leg. It was part of the procedure; if a police officer killed a suspect, they had to temporarily surrender their weapon to ensure safety while awaiting investigation.

Jimmy loosened his clothes; his back was completely soaked with sweat. He walked over to the side, sat down on the ground, and looked down at his hands.

When he decided to become a police officer, he had already considered the possibility of gunfights and casualties. During the tense moments just now, he hadn't thought about the fact that it was his first time killing someone. Now, disarmed and on his own, he suddenly felt a wave of relief wash over him.

His hands were shaking. In his past life, he had saved many people; in this life, it had only been a few months, and he had already taken a life. This contrast caused Jimmy great pain but also a certain thrill, a pleasure he had never experienced before.

The waiting was hard; Jimmy sat on the ground and waited until the county police finally arrived, including Chief James and Sergeant Kage Bergman, along with an ambulance.

Jimmy was taken by Chief James back to the police station in the police car, while Sergeant Kage remained at the scene to take photographs for records and collect the shell casings from Jimmy's gun. The ambulance pronounced the suspect dead upon arrival and then took the body away for examination by the coroner.

In the interrogation room, Jimmy faced a dual review by the Chief and the Ministry of Internal Affairs. They meticulously checked and rechecked everything, from the call response to the arrival at the scene, the search inside the factory, the encounter with the suspect, and the shooting that resulted in the killing.

After recording the information, Chief James granted Jimmy administrative leave. He was not allowed to leave Little Rock, had to remain at home, and was available on-call to return to the station for further checks.

Jimmy rejected the offer for a counselor arranged by the police. He feared counselors; in novels and films, the good ones always managed to dig up a lot of secrets, and Jimmy had quite a few secrets himself.

The only upside was that the administrative leave was paid, so at least he didn't lose his salary. There was no set duration for the leave; it depended on when the police station would decide.

Jimmy changed his clothes, and his M686 was already sealed as evidence. It wouldn't be returned to him until it was conclusively decided that he wasn't at fault for the incident.

Jimmy went home and lay directly on his bed, staring at the ceiling blankly.

Jimmy was not just dazed by the bafflement and nausea of killing someone for the first time, but also by the feeling he had had just before firing the shots; with his eyes closed, he could still form a visual image of the scene in his mind, even areas he had never seen before could be constructed as a perspective picture in his brain.

This was no mere visual retention; sometimes, you can recall details of something visually after seeing it because your brain had registered those details, but today, he hadn't even seen what was on the other side at all; his brain had constructed a simulated space on its own, and his shots were very precise, firing six bullets in a row without knowing how many had hit, needing a forensic doctor to check, but they were undoubtedly very accurate.

This state had never happened before. Now, Jimmy lay in bed, trying to re-experience that feeling, but couldn't feel anything; there were no signs at all.

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