Chapter 6: 006, robbery
When Zaire arrived hurriedly at the Delicious Restaurant, he found the scene already swarming with activity. A white police car from the Manhattan precinct was parked by the curb, and a yellow caution tape cordoned off most of the sidewalk.
A rotund police officer with a coffee cup in hand stood casually nearby, occasionally shooing away curious onlookers and tourists. A few reporters from minor newspapers crouched in the corners, casting furtive glances at a black police officer on duty.
Zaire jumped off his bicycle and ran to the black officer. "Excuse me, officer, I'm a relative of the restaurant owner."
"Zaire, right?" The officer smiled warmly and nodded. "Your aunt informed us in advance. You can go in…"
He continued, "But be careful, kid. The forensic team is on the way to collect evidence, and it'll take some time."
"I understand," Zaire said, taking a deep breath. He ducked under the caution tape and entered the restaurant.
His arrival caught the attention of the smoking reporters nearby, who turned their heads and spat disdainfully in the direction of the officer. The officer remained indifferent, though his grip tightened on the handle of his gun.
Inside the restaurant, Zaire's face grew darker with each passing second. Tables and chairs lay overturned, and broken dishes and cutlery littered the floor. Brass shell casings were scattered everywhere, and the ceiling was riddled with bullet holes, making the place resemble a war zone rather than a dining establishment.
Fury welled up within Zaire, but he suppressed it and quickly walked over to his aunt. She sat in her usual chair, her short hair damp with sweat, her eyes vacant and her face pale. Her hands were clasped tightly, her fingers white from the pressure.
A middle-aged policeman with a brown beard sat opposite her, seemingly more interested in his watch than in questioning her. Zaire gently called out, "Aunt, are you hurt?"
His aunt snapped back to reality, her eyes red-rimmed, and replied in a shaky voice, "Just a little more, and I wouldn't be here to see you…"
Anger flared in Zaire's eyes, but he took a deep breath and reassured her, "Don't worry, Aunt. I'm here now. Everything will be okay."
Once his aunt had calmed down, Zaire turned to the bearded policeman and asked, "Officer, what exactly happened here?"
The policeman frowned slightly and replied with irritation, "Just a typical day in Manhattan… A few masked robbers tried to steal from the restaurant. Your aunt tried to stop them, and one of the nervous rookies fired his gun, spraying bullets everywhere."
"Don't worry, kid. Most robbers here are experienced and only go after money, not people."
Zaire's anger turned to bitter laughter. Pointing to the chaotic restaurant, he said, "If this isn't a big deal, then what is? Do the police only consider it serious when someone is hurt or killed? Are our taxes paying for this kind of service? Shouldn't the NYPD refund us for their negligence?"
The bearded policeman stood up abruptly, his voice indifferent. "I'm just a regular cop. If you feel your rights are violated, take it up with the mayor. And by the way, catching major criminals is the FBI's job, not ours. If thieves think a place is an easy target, they will return. My advice: close down for a while."
With that, he called the black officer and walked out, seemingly unconcerned about preserving the crime scene evidence.
Zaire's aunt grabbed his arm before he could shout after them. Exhausted, she said, "I told you, Zaire… Poor people can't rely on the police. Only the rich get their attention. Let's just accept our bad luck."
Zaire clenched his jaw, forcing a stiff smile. "Okay, Aunt. Whatever you say."
But internally, he vowed never to let this go.
After a moment of silence, Zaire gently urged, "Aunt, let's go home and rest."
She hesitated, looking around the damaged restaurant. "But we haven't cleaned up, and the losses aren't counted…"
"Don't worry, I'll handle everything," Zaire promised, patting his chest.
Seeing his determination, she relented. The ordeal had been too much for her kind heart to bear.
"Take it slow," Zaire said, carefully helping her up and guiding her outside.
As they walked out, several reporters suddenly rushed into the restaurant, trampling over the evidence without a second thought, eager for a story.
Zaire's long-suppressed anger exploded. He stepped forward, shielding his aunt, and assumed a fighting stance. His eyes burned red with fury, channeling the ferocity of his Catachan training.
"Get out!" he roared.
The reporters froze, exchanged glances, and then scrambled out of the restaurant.
His aunt patted his tense back, soothing him. "Let it go, Zaire. Let's just go home."
"Okay, Aunt," he said, his voice softening. "Let's go." But his resolve remained unshaken. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
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