Having fully cleared his name, Ryan walked out of the precinct.
With Katherine dead, there was no reason to keep him in confinement.
But instead of heading back to the luxury Taylor Estate in Beverly Hills, he turned toward a much more low-key location—the Rose Apartments.
Ryan had rented a small unit there early on. A classic, compact single-bedroom apartment—the kind only the cheapest cops or college dropouts lived in.
He wasn't here for nostalgia. Or to pack.
His real reason?
The black market a few blocks away.
Ryan lay back on the mattress, triggered his Clone Card, and summoned the White Wolf.
With a nod, the clone slipped silently through the window and disappeared into the night—heading for the underground bazaar hidden inside an abandoned factory just two blocks down.
The place was run by a mid-tier Eastern European crew called the AK Gang. Notorious but organized, they handled everything from stolen goods to illegal weapons and narcotics.
In wealthy areas like Hollywood, burglaries were common. And fence markets like this one turned Rolexes, diamonds, designer handbags—and stolen firearms—into cash fast.
The White Wolf avoided cameras and entered through the side entrance.
Inside the crumbling warehouse, makeshift stalls lined the walls, buzzing with quiet deals. The scent of metal, oil, and weed filled the air.
Guns. Pills. Jewelry. Counterfeit IDs. You name it—they had it.
Ryan's priority tonight was clear: firearms. Both sidearms and a sniper rifle, if he could find one.
If he'd had a sniper rifle during the Katherine job, things would've been even easier.
He approached a vendor with a lazy drawl, a Glock on display.
"How much for the Glock 17?"
The vendor, a tattooed Haitian guy with a scar across his nose, shrugged. "Eight hundred."
Standard black market markup. Clean Glocks retailed around $600, but black market pieces ran higher—buyers didn't exactly have the luxury to haggle.
Ryan didn't blink. He also picked up a Beretta 92F, priced at $1,000.
No negotiating. He dropped $1,800 in cash, and the dealer handed over both guns with two mags apiece.
Ryan didn't bother buying bullets. 9mm rounds were legal and easy to get—he could grab those at any local gun store or even Walmart.
"You got any snipers?" he asked, casually checking the crowd.
The dealer's gaze sharpened. "Maybe. You sure you're ready for that kinda heat?"
Ryan said nothing.
The man glanced around, then reached beneath the counter, revealing a sleek, Remington 700 locked in a polished oak rifle case.
"Clean condition. Comes with a Harris bipod and M3 scope. Five grand."
Hunting rifle. Dual-use. Deadly accurate.
Ryan checked the bolt, the trigger group, scope alignment—all top-notch.
Deal.
He paid $5,000 cash, and the vendor, grinning wide, threw in 100 rounds of .308 ammo as a "tip."
No one batted an eye. You don't question someone willing to buy a sniper rifle in full cash. Everyone minds their own business.
Ryan's clone vanished into the nearest bathroom stall—returning to storage.
Back at the Rose Apartment, the real Ryan sat up in bed.
With a thought, the Remington, Glock, and Beretta materialized in his hands.
He spent a few minutes checking each weapon again, relishing the weight and precision of the sniper rifle.
"I need to start building out my long guns. No way I'm relying on department-issue crap."
At LAPD, patrol officers could own personal rifles as long as they registered them. Most got cheap AR-15s, stripped down with no mods. The good ones bought high-end gear themselves.
Ryan fully intended to be the latter.
After storing the weapons in his inventory, he left the apartment and locked the door behind him.
No, he wasn't canceling the lease. Not yet.
Every operative needs a safehouse.
Back at the Taylor Estate, Ryan scooped Taylor into his arms the second he walked in.
"Whoa! What's gotten into you?" she asked, giggling.
Ryan stared at her face for a long second, brushing a strand of gold-brown hair aside before kissing her deeply.
Only now, fully soaked in her scent, did he feel the last of Katherine's psychological stench melt away.
As they tumbled into the pool together, Ryan gave her a brief—very edited—version of the day's events.
And Taylor, ever the wildcard, dropped a bomb.
"Babe… do you like any Black actresses?"
Ryan paused. "Why do you ask?"
"Well…" she grunted slightly, resisting his more aggressive movements, "the best way to counter racism accusations… is to build connections."
Ryan frowned. "What kind of connections?"
"You know. Maybe… hook up with a Black actress or two? People would stop calling you racist!"
"Excuse me?!"
"Oh, and if it's the LGBT stuff again, there are some really hot trans girls in the industry. Like… really hot."
"Taylor Swift! Have you lost your mind?!"
Ryan flipped her around and increased velocity.
"Ahh! I was joking! Joking!!" she squealed, slapping the water.
"If you suggest something like that again, I'll make you sing the entire Red album backwards."
"Noooo! I repent! I love being your exclusive little bird!"
Her cries echoed through the estate.
System Notification:
🔫 Weapon Inventory Updated🎯 Sniper Class Weapon: Remington 700 + M3 Scope💵 Funds Remaining: $17,000 (Taylor Swift's allowance)🧠 Strategic Network: Black Market Safehouse Established