That was Superintendent Mick, the police chief in charge of this neighborhood. A greedy, stingy man who loved to show off his power. He was famous for his hobby of swinging his baton to hit people without cause and drawing his gun to threaten civilians at the drop of a hat.
A gun with real bullets, a genuine hot weapon, the barrel black and cold—a high-damage weapon that only officially employed police were equipped with.
Alex had once seen him draw his gun; that memory was still vivid.
At that time, Alex was called to the filthy and stinking small cell of the Patrol Police Station to move the body of a prisoner who had died of illness, and he saw Mick pointing a gun at another person's head in the cell just because that person dared to ask for a sip of water.
