Vance stood up, his tone suddenly much more respectful. "I'm Captain Vance, Major Crimes Unit. May I ask who you are, son?"


"Oh, I'm Max Mason. Here's my ID." Max pulled his license out of his pocket like he'd been waiting for this moment all night.


Vance's eye twitched. The feeling that he was just the cleanup crew was getting stronger. He checked the ID and handed it back. "And what do you do for a living, Mr. Mason?"


"Me? I'm an insurance salesman."


"Uh-huh. And the lady?"


"I'm Vivian," she said. "I'm the landlady. I collect rent."


"..."


Vance looked from the insurance agent to the landlady. These two civilians had just flatlined York—a notorious criminal—while he was armed?


Officer Ruth walked back over, looking confused. "Captain, we found the casing, but we can't find the bullet or an impact point. I need to ask the witnesses about the trajectory."


"Right," Vance said. "Mr. Mason, can you tell us exactly where he was aiming when he fired? We need to find that slug."


"Oh, you're looking for the bullet?" Max pointed a thumb at himself. " pretty sure it's still on me."


Dead silence.


Max turned around. Every flashlight beam focused on his lower back. There, right in the fabric of his shirt, was a bullet hole the size of a finger.


The officers' eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.


That was definitely a bullet hole. So why was this guy standing there chatting instead of bleeding out on the pavement?


Vivian gasped, staring at his back.


At first glance, Max looked completely unharmed. Vivian assumed the bullet must have missed him by a mile. She certainly didn't expect him to have actually taken the hit.


"How is that even possible?" Max rolled his eyes and started his own personal striptease.


First came the wool coat. Then, a thick, heavy-duty black vest. And finally, buried underneath that, a blue vest...


Under the bewildered gaze of the crowd, Max grunted and dropped the final blue vest onto the pavement. It landed with a heavy, metallic thud that vibrated through the ground.


No wonder the guy looked so puffy. He was basically a walking onion of layers.


A female officer, looking skeptical, picked up the gear. Her expression shifted from confusion to disbelief as she inspected the layers.


"Captain Vance," she called out. "This is a civilian Kevlar stab-vest. Security firms usually buy these to stop knives, but they offer some buffer against ballistics. And this blue one... this looks like a weighted tactical vest for cross-training."


She flipped the tactical vest over. There, square in the back, was a tear about three fingers wide.


She unzipped the pocket and fished out a weighted steel plate. Embedded right in the center, like a morbid souvenir, was a flattened, yellow-orange bullet.


"Well, look at that..."


Vivian and the rest of the group stared at the squashed slug, jaws dropping.


The officer traced the tears in the fabric, mentally reconstructing the ballistics. "The shooter used a surplus M1911 with .45 caliber round-nose ammo. Cheap manufacturing means the muzzle velocity is lower than standard. After punching through a coat, a sweater, and a Kevlar stab-vest, the bullet lost a lot of kinetic energy. The 20mm steel plate stopped what was left. But here's the kicker: the plate covers less than ten percent of the back. And he got hit exactly on the plate." She looked up at Max. "You seriously have the devil's own luck."


Max kept his face neutral, but internally, he breathed a sigh of relief. Luck? Yeah, right.


He'd spent ages studying anatomy charts to locate the exact position of the L4 and L5 vertebrae. He'd practically offered that spot to the shooter. Thank gods his high school biology teacher hadn't been a total waste of space.


Hearing the cop's breakdown, they finally understood how Max had walked away from a point-blank shot.


But that just raised a bigger, weirder question.


What kind of normal person goes out for a stroll at night dressed like a bomb disposal unit?


Feeling the weight of their judgment, Max, now shivering in just his thermal shirt, gave an awkward smile.


"I, uh, really like working out? I bought the weighted vest for cardio. You know, feel the burn."


"I get the weighted vest," Vivian said, crossing her arms. "But the stab-vest? For exercise? And the taser baton? And the pepper spray? What were you planning to do, invade a small country?"


"Look..." Max shrugged. "I'm a single guy living alone. Is it so wrong to lack a sense of security?"


Lack a sense of security?


That was the most garbage excuse Vivian had ever heard.


But then, a lightbulb seemed to go off in her head. She smacked her fist into her palm. "Oh! No wonder! That time I came to collect rent, you wouldn't even open the door to shower without blocking it first. You have that thing... what's it called? Persecutory delusion? Paranoia?"


The crowd fell into a silent, awkward deadpan.


"Lily! Lily, are you okay?"


A frantic voice shattered the silence. Max turned to see Hazel sprinting toward them, face pale as a ghost, until a uniformed officer held her back.


"Hazel! I'm over here!" Lily waved her little hand excitedly.


Once the officer realized Hazel was the kid's guardian, he let her through.


"Lily, oh my god, are you hurt?" Hazel dropped to her knees and crushed the girl into a hug.


"I'm totally fine," Lily chirped. "Thanks to Vivi and Max."


Hazel blinked, finally noticing who was standing around them. "Vivi? You guys... what are you doing here?"


"Ahem." Detective Wayne cleared his throat loudly, cutting off the reunion. "Folks, since the victims and guardians are all here, I'm gonna need everyone to head down to the station. We need official statements."


...


11:00 PM. Police Station Conference Room.


Detective Wayne droned on, reading the report in a monotone voice.


"On March 26, 2018, at 8:00 PM, Mr. Max informed the landlady, Ms. Vivian, via telephone regarding a suspicious individual—referred to as a 'panty raider'—loitering near the studio apartment. This individual posed a potential threat to the residents of the apartment, Ms. Hazel and the minor, Lily. Ms. Vivian, concerned for tenant safety, arrived early at the vacant Apartment 3A to conduct a stakeout."


"At approximately 10:15 PM, Mr. Max returned to the premises."


"At 10:20 PM, Mr. Max and Ms. Vivian observed the suspect, York, attempting to illegally pick the lock. The minor, Lily, was the sole occupant at the time. Mr. Mason immediately contacted law enforcement and exited his unit to intervene."


"At approximately 10:24 PM, neighbors reported a loud noise consistent with gunfire."


"At 10:25 PM, after a physical altercation, Mr. Max and Ms. Vivian successfully subdued the armed suspect. It was only at this point that the resident, Lily, heard the commotion, opened her door, and discovered the scene."


"That covers the rough timeline of the incident. Does anyone have anything to add?" Officer Quinn finished reading the official statement and scanned the room.


Everyone shook their heads. Everyone except Hazel, who was staring blankly at Max.


It was true. Everything he'd said was actually true.


Someone really had been stalking Lily. And the guy hadn't just been lurking in the bushes; he was packing a knife and a firearm. He hadn't been trying to scare her—he'd been hunting.


If it hadn't been for Max, Lily would be...


Hazel shuddered as the dark possibilities raced through her mind. She looked at Max, a cocktail of regret and gratitude swirling in her chest. The guy had literally risked his life to protect Lily, and how had Hazel repaid him? By treating him like a criminal.


Guilt washed over her, heavy and suffocating. But as she replayed the timeline in her head, a tiny, awkward detail snagged her attention.


Back at the studio apartment by 10:15 PM?


She had definitely seen him enter that hotel with the woman around 9:30. If you subtracted the time it took to catch a cab back...


That was... really fast.


"Thank you," she said, her voice sincere.


"Uh... it was the right thing to do."


Max felt her squeeze his hand, her grip firm with gratitude. But he also caught the look in her eyes. It was thankful, sure, but there was something else there. Was that... pity?


Why is she looking at me like I'm a charity case?