The internet era has brought forth all kinds of new industries.

Sex, gambling, and drugs have gotten upgrades along the supply chain and sales channels—way more creative ways to get dirty now.

What we're seeing here proves it, no doubt.

"So this is America's new generation, huh? Really fills a guy with hope," Harry said, half-joking, half-serious.

Dean didn't bat an eye: "You pile up material comforts, you'll end up spiritually empty, that's just how it goes. Most schools here have these things going on too, but it doesn't stop those kids from turning into so-called successful professionals later."

Among them, there were five Black boys and three White girls.

The whole gang looked young, probably not even legal yet, sprawled around in all kinds of positions, half-naked, deep asleep—not the slightest clue that Dean and Harry were standing over them.

You could see it a mile off.

They know what they're doing—their "career" is probably doing just fine.

I mean, a black-and-white Oreo combo, at this age, add group-sex to the mix, that right there is clickbait central. Bet their recorded stuff sells like crazy.

No wonder these kids blow money like it's nothing—they can afford it.

While talking.

The two of them took advantage of the fact the teens were still out cold and started searching the place.

Amidst all the trash on the floor,

the smell of booze and weed was thick enough to choke on.

Harry dug through a pile of clothes and found a burner.

A tool for burning CDs.

Besides that,

there were a few finished discs and two battered Glock 17s, paint peeling off.

On one of the Glocks, you could just barely make out the faded AM letters.

Old-school Glock—must be ten years old, at least; older than the kids here, but kept in decent shape. Good enough for killing, doesn't look like a problem.

"Call Hawk and the others. Those three White girls, probably still in school, no clue how they ended up hanging with these guys," Harry said, packing up the gang's guns.

America's gangs survive partly because people "need" them, but endless waves of new blood keep things running too.

Harry barely even cared anymore.

Dean nodded: "Call him. Let them handle these CDs too, give them something to put in their report."

Too bad, Dean's panel didn't ping him, no Experience Points scored.

...

Evening.

Three White girls, faces streaked with tears, got dragged away by their parents.

Guess their lives aren't about to get any better.

Because the precinct handed each parent a card—advertising a training camp.

That place's military-style, set up to lock up rebellious boys and girls until they "turn good"—and finally "graduate."

Back in the day,

those camps had stuff like "shock therapy," forced sleep deprivation, and dignity-destroying punishment—nothing that left bruises, but plenty messed-up shit went down.

But thanks to child protection groups,

the camps cleaned up, hired retired cops, and get a steady stream of "students" right out of the police department.

The same deal goes for private prisons...

It's pretty much a uniquely American supply chain by now.

This kind of game,

as long as his own interests aren't threatened, Dean never gets involved.

He and Harry took Henry's two childhood buddies into a side room for questioning.

The two were just coming down off a weed high, foggy-eyed, too out of it to really react to anything.

"Looks like it's not just weed. They probably did something else to get buzzed like that," Harry said, imitating Dean and trying to analyze them.

Since he was about to have a daughter of his own someday,

he actually got a bit motivated, for once.

Dean just rolled his eyes: "Harry, they spent the whole night 'working.' That's why they're dead on their feet."

One line from Dean.

Harry's brief spurt of motivation instantly crashed and burned.

Yeah, thinking's just not for me.

I'm better off kissing ass!

He mumbled to himself and dutifully whipped out his pen and paper, making himself the team's note-taking sidekick.

Dean knocked on the table: "There's cigarettes on the table—we found them on you. Maybe smoke a couple to get yourselves together."

"We can, really?"

The two lit up, faces brightening.

The last round of interrogation

had damn near killed them.

Dean nodded kindly: "Of course. We're not those White cops, and it's not an official interview anyway. We just want to hear a few other things."

They glanced at Harry next to Dean, loosening up and trusting him more.

The scrawnier one lit a spiked smoke for himself and his buddy. After a few heavy drags, he looked pleased—deadpan: "Man, I like you. Ask me anything."

"Henry. I want the lowdown on Henry!"

At hearing that name,

both their faces turned ugly.

Especially the skinny kid.

His eyes flashed with irritated violence: "That asshole again. The last time, two rookies came looking for us because of him. Now you're here for the same damn reason!"

This one was sharper than his friend—caught on quick that their arrest was just collateral.

Dean and Harry's actual target is Henry!

Tapping sound.

Dean rapped the tabletop:

"I have to warn you.

One of those White chicks you lured here is the daughter of a Las Vegas gang member.

What you did made him the laughingstock of his own crew.

If you'd rather not die behind bars, don't piss me off. Otherwise, I'll make sure you both end up in a private boot camp where they'll have all the fun they want with you!"

"Alright, man, chill."

Both surrendered, giving up everything Dean asked for.

According to them,

since they were all from the same neighborhood and all Black,

they'd known each other since they were kids, but as they got older—and Henry's sister did better for herself—Henry moved out with his sis.

Over time,

they hardly kept in touch.

A few days ago, their run-in was pure chance.

Yeah.

Henry wasn't invited to any birthday party—he just ran into them on the street. To show off, they brought him along.

But after that,

Henry clearly had other shit to do. Put back a beer, then bounced—not sticking around.

Hearing this,

Harry couldn't help himself: "Come on, man. Don't take our goodwill as an excuse to play dumb. You didn't say it like this to the beat cops earlier!"

According to the beat officers' notes,

Henry left home to hit up their party, then vanished.

But,

when Harry said that,

the two Black kids shot him a look:

"You really don't know? Keeping our boys' secrets—never snitching to the cops—that's how we roll.

Henry might've been twelve and into all that crazy adventure, superhero crap, which meant we didn't click anymore, but he's still our friend.

No way we'd snitch on him."

Harry tossed his pen aside: "Get outta here, you two are spilling as fast as anyone now!"

The kid took another hit of weed, grinning, flicking his smoke: "Well, if you let us light up in the station, you can also make us hurt. That bit of loyalty ain't worth suffering for."

Fair enough.

Street smart, can't argue.

Harry saw a younger version of himself in that kid—he couldn't say a thing for a moment.

All the while, Dean was watching their faces closely.

Just like they said.

These two have some loyalty, but not much—they're fence-sitters who know which way the wind blows. Not the type to lie to the guy holding their fate.

So,

Henry must've left in the middle of the night for another reason?

With that thought,

Dean tapped the table again: "Before Henry left—or when you talked—did he say he was gonna do something? Or brag about some plan?"

Henry's street smarts couldn't match these two seasoned kids, despite being young.

If a little kid gets hyped up about some 'big job',

he's not gonna keep his mouth shut.

"Big job?" The skinny one—clearly the brains—first shook his head, then it looked like something clicked. He sat up, serious. "Henry didn't say why he came out, but he did say he was going to stand up for justice!"

"Stand up for justice?"

"Yeah, I rolled my eyes at him.

Couldn't buy how a twelve-year-old could ignore girls, yet still be obsessed with some fake fairy tale crap. That was when I knew Henry wasn't one of us anymore."

Dean was about to ask which direction Henry went when he left.

Bam bam~

The iron door outside thudded.

Harry got up, pulled open the window slot, and saw it was Hawk.

Hawk looked grim: "Harry, we just got word there's a dead Black kid in East District. Description matches your missing Henry."

Dean heard Hawk, too.

That's it.

No more chasing shadows.

Henry was really dead.

Dean stood up, clapped stunned Harry on the shoulder: "Let's go, partner."

As for the two high Black kids in the room—Hawk could deal with them.

All adds up on the stats sheet.

..

Around 9:30 that night.

The night was cold and grim.

Dean and Harry arrived at the scene—where the body was found.

It was a wasteland of weeds; police tape cordoned it off, and several cruisers had their floodlights blasting, making it bright as day.

Forensics was already there—Holz was running the team.

That guy still hadn't gone home.

Dean took Harry over, nodded at the crowd, scanned the area, then moved in to check the corpse.

The body was face-down, nothing around it.

From the back, there weren't any obvious wounds.

Forensics was still setting up equipment.

Harry wanted to see the face badly.

So he snuck over, shifted the kid's body, and exposed his side profile.

Next second—

Harry jumped back with a loud cry, falling straight on his ass.

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