Chapter 50: The Simple Life
[Lopez's Apartment — July 10, 2019, 7:23 AM]
The stove had two burners. Two. My mansion kitchen had eight, plus a warming drawer, a griddle attachment, and an industrial range hood that could ventilate a small restaurant.
I'd never used any of them.
Here, in Lopez's modest galley kitchen, I was learning to actually cook. The eggs were slightly burned—third attempt this week—but they were edible. Progress.
The neighbor's cat watched through the balcony door as I ate breakfast at the small table that doubled as my workspace. Mr. Whiskers, according to the elderly woman next door who'd introduced herself on day three. She'd also brought cookies. Homemade. The kind that came from a real oven used by a real person who knew their neighbors' names.
In six months at the mansion, I'd never met the people who lived nearby. Here, I couldn't avoid them. Mrs. Patterson in 302 asked about my day every morning. The couple in 306 invited me to their daughter's quinceañera. The maintenance guy knew my coffee order from the bodega downstairs.
Community. The word had been abstract before. Now it had faces.
My phone buzzed. Lopez, sending a video.
The mansion's backyard, lit up like a festival. Music pumping from speakers I'd forgotten I owned. At least thirty people visible in frame—officers I recognized, their partners, friends I didn't know. Wesley in the pool, floating on an inflatable swan that definitely wasn't mine.
Party's going well, Lopez texted. Your house is popular.
How many people are there?
Stopped counting at forty. Grey showed up, looked around, left without saying anything. I think he was impressed.
Or horrified.
Same energy.
I watched the video twice. My mansion, full of life. The empty rooms that had always felt like mausoleums now holding laughter, conversation, connection. Everything I'd never managed to create while actually living there.
Maybe the house wasn't the problem. Maybe I was.
Mid-Wilshire Station — Later That Morning
The party had become legend by the time I arrived for shift.
"Mercer." Jackson intercepted me in the hallway. "Your gaming room. I didn't know you had a gaming room."
"I don't use it much."
"You have a VR setup. A racing simulator. Three different consoles." His eyes were wide with betrayal. "You've been holding out on us."
"I inherited the house. Most of that stuff was already there."
"And you've never invited us over to use it?"
"I... didn't think about it."
Jackson shook his head, equal parts amazed and disappointed. "When you get your house back, we're having game nights. Monthly. Non-negotiable."
Lucy appeared from the break room, carrying coffee with an expression of someone who'd discovered buried treasure. "Ethan. Your shoe closet."
"That was my mother's."
"It has climate control. For shoes."
"She was very particular about leather preservation."
"I tried on the Louboutins. All of them." Lucy's voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "They're magnificent."
"Keep them. I have no use for women's designer heels."
Her jaw dropped. "You can't just give away Louboutins."
"Watch me."
Tim found me in the locker room, his expression carrying the particular flatness that meant he was suppressing amusement.
"Your house," he said, "now has a reputation."
"So I've heard."
"Wesley gave wine tours. Sommelier-level wine tours. He knows more about your collection than you do."
"Probably true."
"Grey didn't stay long, but he tried the 2005 Margaux. He made a face I've never seen him make before." Tim paused. "I think it was happiness."
"That bottle's worth about four thousand dollars."
"He knows. He texted me after: 'That wine was older than half my officers.' I think he's reconsidering his life choices."
I laughed despite myself. Grey, stoic disciplinarian Grey, having an existential crisis over vintage Bordeaux.
"How's the apartment?" Tim asked, tone shifting to genuine curiosity.
"Good. Really good, actually." I closed my locker, turned to face him. "I can walk to the corner store. The neighbors say hello. Mrs. Patterson makes cookies."
"Sounds nice."
"It is. Different from what I'm used to, but... nice."
Tim studied me for a moment, that evaluating look he got when trying to understand something unexpected. "You're not missing it. The mansion."
"Not yet. Maybe I will eventually."
"Maybe you won't." He headed for the door. "Some people need big spaces to feel important. Some people just need enough space to feel home. Figure out which one you are."
That Evening — Lopez's Apartment
Emma arrived with Thai food and raised eyebrows.
"This is cozy," she said, surveying the apartment. "Very... not mansion."
"That's the point." I took the food, set it on the small kitchen counter. "How was surgery?"
"Three successful, one complicated, zero fatalities. Good day." She followed me to the couch—the only seating in the living room besides a single armchair. "You're different here."
"Different how?"
"Relaxed. Less like you're performing for an audience." She accepted the container of pad thai, chopsticks already in hand. "At your place, you always seemed slightly uncomfortable. Like the house didn't fit."
"Because it doesn't. Never did."
"Then why live there?"
"It was my parents' dream. Their vision. After they died, I couldn't just... sell it." I opened my own container, poked at the noodles. "Felt like betraying them somehow."
"They'd want you to be happy. Even if that meant living in a two-bedroom apartment with a cat that stares at you through the window."
Mr. Whiskers had appeared on schedule, perched on the balcony railing, eyes fixed on our dinner.
"He's judging our food choices," I said.
"He's judging everything. Cats do that." Emma set down her container, turned to face me fully. "Ethan, this suits you better. The smaller space. The real community. Living like a normal person instead of a museum curator."
"You think I should give up the mansion?"
"I think you should figure out what you actually want. Not what you inherited. Not what people expect. What you want."
I didn't have an answer. For two years, I'd been living in Ethan Mercer's house, using Ethan Mercer's money, existing in the framework of someone else's life. The transmigration had given me his body, his resources, his social position—but not his dreams.
What did I actually want?
"I want to keep people safe," I said slowly. "That's why I became a cop. Why I use my... instincts. Everything else feels negotiable."
"Then maybe the mansion isn't as important as you thought." Emma picked up her food again, returned to casual eating. "Or maybe it is, and you'll realize that when you go back. Either way, the month will teach you something."
She was right. This borrowed apartment, this temporary simplicity, was already teaching me things the mansion never had.
The lesson was still unfolding.
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