When the three officers arrived, they were shocked to see Dylan. They recognized him. What startled them even more was seeing Dylan sitting in their chief's seat, while their chief stood beside him, slightly bowing.
"Chief, what's going on? Why did you call us here?" asked Baron, the leader of the three officers who had evicted Mary from her stall.
Without warning, Arnold strode toward him and slapped him hard across the face. Baron's left cheek turned red, but he stayed silent, waiting for his chief's explanation.
"Do you have any idea who that young man sitting in my chair is?" Arnold snapped, his voice trembling with both fear and frustration. "He's not just the only son of the most powerful businessman in this country—he's also the grandson of one of the highest-ranking generals in the military. His family practically holds influence over half the nation!"
The three officers exchanged startled glances, their eyes wide with shock. Cold sweat began to bead on their foreheads as the realization sank in—they had messed with the wrong person. Their faces turned pale, the weight of dread settling heavily in their chests.
Dylan stood up from the chair, his expression cold. "That's enough, Arnold. You don't have to say that. I'm not here to flaunt my background. In fact..." he paused, his voice steady but heavy, "it's something I'm ashamed of."
Arnold frowned, not understanding what Dylan meant, while Wilson—standing quietly at the corner—knew exactly why Dylan said it.
"I'm only here to correct your mistakes."
The moment those words left Dylan's mouth, His expression darkened—pure rage flashing in his eyes. Before anyone could react, he closed the distance in a few swift strides and drove a brutal punch straight into Baron's gut, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Baron doubled over, gasping, but Dylan didn't stop there. He grabbed the officer by the collar and slammed his knee into Baron's ribs, a sharp crack echoing through the room.
"That's for laying your filthy hands on my aunt," Dylan snarled through gritted teeth.
Baron cried out, collapsing to the floor, clutching his side in agony. The two other officers tried to step back, but Dylan's fury turned on them next—his fists landing in quick, merciless blows to their stomachs and jaws, sending them sprawling to the ground.
Everyone in the room stood frozen, the only sound the heavy, ragged breathing of Dylan—his knuckles trembling, his eyes burning with unrestrained anger.
"Is this how you run your precinct?" Dylan's voice was low but seething with fury. "You're supposed to be the ones who know right from wrong—yet here you are, abusing your power and taking advantage of innocent people."
Arnold's face turned pale. He walked over to his men and stood beside them before bowing deeply. "Forgive us, young master." He gave a sharp look at his officers. "Apologize—now!"
The three immediately bowed their heads and stammered, "We're sorry, young master!"
"This will never happen again. What can we do to make it right?" Arnold asked nervously.
Dylan's expression softened slightly, pleased that things were unfolding according to his plan. "The person you evicted from her spot is in the hospital because of injuries caused by your men," he said firmly.
"I want you to cover her hospital bills and provide her with proper compensation," Dylan added.
"She also lost her workplace, so I want you to find her a new spot she can move into as soon as possible. The rent should be free for a year, and for the first three months, your three officers will work as waiters and assist at the restaurant for free."
The officers' eyes went wide. "Y-Young master... isn't that a bit... too much? I could be questioned by my superiors for the expenses this may cause," one of them stammered.
"Figure it out. I know you take bribes to cover up other people's crimes. What I'm asking is small compared to the dirty work you've done, isn't it?" Dylan said, a sly smile curling at the corners of his lips.
Arnold could only scratch his head, the stress and fear obvious on his face at the thought of failing to meet Dylan's demands.
"Oh, one more thing," Dylan suddenly added, remembering something. "I want the owner of that space to be completely banned from renting it out again. You know exactly how to make that happen, right?"
With that, Dylan strode out of Arnold's office, immediately followed by Wilson.
When they got back to the car, Wilson finally spoke, concern lacing his voice.
"Young master, I know things didn't end well between you and your father the last time you spoke. But I'm worried about you. What if you go back home—or at least stay at your apartment?"
"No need. I'm fine. I have a decent place to stay, and the people I'm with are good to me," Dylan replied calmly.
"But young master, as far as I know, your father hasn't been giving you any allowance. Where are you getting money for your expenses?"
"Don't worry about that."
"But young—"
"Let's go, Wilson. I'm tired. Just drop me off where you picked me up earlier," Dylan cut him off, his tone final.
Wilson could only sigh, shaking his head at his young master's stubbornness. He turned his eyes back to the road and drove Dylan to where he'd picked him up.
Before stepping out of the car, Dylan turned to him.
"Thank you for your help, Wilson. But please... don't let this reach my father."
"Don't worry, young master," Wilson assured him with a faint smile. "Whenever you need me, just call."
The next day, after their training, Flynn and Dylan went straight to the hospital to visit Mary and Flynn's father. It was Mary's last day—she was finally cleared to go home.
But the worry on Flynn's face was unmistakable. He knew his father had no idea how to cover the remaining hospital bills.
As they arrived at the hospital, even before they reached Mary's room, they noticed a crowd gathered outside her door.
When Flynn got closer, he froze for a moment. Standing there were the three officers who had thrown Mary out of her food stall.
Flynn's expression darkened instantly. Of all people... he thought bitterly. They're the reason she ended up here—and now they have the nerve to show their faces?