Two years ago.
Chester had taken his daughter's advice and decided to retire. As it happened, he had already taught Locke everything he needed to know, so he followed his daughter to New York.
Locke only learned from the letters Chester sent back that the man had used his savings to open a restaurant in New York.
God as my witness.
At the time, Locke had already made up his mind: if Chester ended up destitute in his old age, he would personally ensure Chester was sent off with dignity, living out his final days worry-free before passing on.
But...
Locke had clearly underestimated his mentor.
As expected.
A mentor is a mentor. Even in retirement, the daily turnover of Chester's restaurant rivaled the earnings from two nights of Locke's "extra-curricular" work.
Locke had grumbled at the time, wondering if everyone in New York had lost their sense of taste.
However.
After the food was served and he took a few bites, Locke found himself speechless.
In short.
A master is a master, far beyond what a student can compare to.
As it turns out...
The best cowboy in Texas, if he joined the military, could become their best sniper.
The best cowboy in Texas, if he became a chef, could win national championships.
'So what about me?'
Locke suddenly thought of himself. He was hailed as the premier cowboy of the new generation in Texas. If he stopped being a cowboy, what would he be the best at?
There was no doubt.
An assassin!
Gwen, for her part, took a photo every time a dish was served before starting to eat.
Good food can cure any bout of depression.
That's not entirely true, but it's close enough.
"How is it?"
Locke asked. "Feeling less depressed?"
Gwen looked at him. "Thank you, Locke."
Locke smiled. "Then let's go. Shall I drop you home?"
Gwen blinked. "Don't we need to pay?"
Locke burst out laughing. "If I dared to pay, believe it or not, the old man would come out with a horsewhip just to give me trouble."
An assassin doesn't need emotions.
But a friend does.
Chester was not just his mentor; he was a friend—a friend who could be trusted.
However, Chester was retired now.
Locke would visit Chester as Locke, but he would never see him as the Peerless Assassin. If he ever came in that capacity, it would only be because Chester was in trouble and needed his help.
Locke never liked looking for trouble that didn't concern him, but Chester's troubles were the exception. He would help for free—hell, if necessary, he'd pay out of his own pocket to fix it.
A while later.
Locke opened the car door and waved at Chester, who was wiping his hands on the second floor of the restaurant, signaling that he was leaving. He got into the car and drove off.
On the way.
Gwen leaned toward him, watching him drive. "Tell me some stories about when you were a cowboy."
Locke smiled. "Didn't you say New York doesn't need cowboys?"
Gwen shrugged. "But I do."
Locke glanced at her, thought for a moment, and picked a few stories from the days he followed Chester.
Gwen listened with rapt attention, as focused as if she were in a lecture.
Soon.
They arrived at Gwen's home.
She stepped out of the car.
As she closed the door, Gwen leaned back in toward the window. "Goodnight, Locke. I had a great time tonight. Really, thank you... my cowboy."
Locke mimicked the motion of tipping a cowboy hat.
A moment later.
Locke drove away. Gwen stood at the apartment entrance, a happy smile on her face.
...
"It's over."
"I'm going to shoot him."
"..."
Inside the house, George had been glued to the window. Ever since Gwen and Locke went out, he had been listening intently for the familiar roar of the R8's engine. He had practically sprinted to the window the moment the car turned onto their street.
And then...
George and Helen heard the farewell.
It was a disaster.
The little cabbage they raised at home had really been dug up by a wild boar. Worse, it looked like the cabbage was planning to pack up its own pot and run away with him.
"This won't do."
George's eyes flickered as he looked at Helen. "That 'Sin Hunter' is too crazy, and New York isn't safe at night. I think we need to set a curfew for Gwen."
Helen rolled her eyes at him. "It's only 7:50 PM. She's home a full hour before her 9:00 PM curfew. Relax, Locke is a good kid—you said so yourself. You even said he has a real talent for shooting and fighting, didn't you? If you're so worried about your daughter's safety, why don't you just get Locke a carry permit?"
George's mouth fell open. "He's only sixteen! He hasn't hit eighteen yet."
United States law follows a strict progression: sixteen for a driver's license, eighteen for a carry permit (provided no mental illness or criminal record), and twenty-one for drinking...
George rattled off the rules, then paused. "But Locke's instinct for guns and combat is indeed gifted. Typical cowboy."
The Lone Star State always produces the strong!
However.
Helen caught a glimpse of Gwen entering the door and looked at George. "Don't even think about it. If you try to push him into the police academy, your daughter will give you hell. After all, Locke is your daughter's cowboy now."
The newly arrived Gwen blinked, her face turning a slight shade of crimson. "Mom!"
'Great. They heard?'
Gwen saw the mysterious smile on her mother's face and the look of indignation on her father's. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead just headed for the stairs. "I'm going to my room."
With that, Gwen fled the scene.
...
The Star Tower.
*Ding!*
Locke stepped out of the elevator. As he took out his keys to open the door, he raised an eyebrow and knelt down. He looked at a single long hair that had fallen onto the floor.
This hair wasn't from a stranger.
It was Gwen's.
When Gwen visited a few days ago, Locke had subtly taken one of her hairs to use for certain things—like setting up a security measure.
For example...
To confirm if anyone had entered his home while he was away.
And now?
Someone had been inside.
Good grief.
What happened to the security in the Star Tower? Is it so easy for people to just slip in and out?
Locke was a bit speechless, seriously doubting if the building's security was all hype.
Last time, the Fraternity had broken in, but that was because Locke's sixth sense was extraordinary; he had smelled a scent that shouldn't have been in his home.
But if someone from the Fraternity had entered and then left, Locke might not necessarily have known. Thus, the trick with Gwen's hair.
Actually, you couldn't really blame the security guards.
The guards were low-level.
The Fraternity was at least at a Platinum rank.
Using Silver-tier defense against Platinum? It's basically an open invitation.
So...
What rank was the intruder this time?
Locke pocketed the hair, took out his key, and opened the door.
***
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