Reincarnated in Banshee Town

The vehicle traveled along Route 6. As he passed the wagon ahead, Ethan slowed down. The bearded driver noticed the vehicle beside him had reduced its speed and raised his hand to adjust his hat.

The curtains on the carriage window parted, and a young Amish girl smiled faintly, revealing an innocent face.

"Rebecca Bowman."

Ethan looked at her calmly, pressed the accelerator, and drove on.

A few minutes later, he turned the wheel and entered a private road. After walking a few hundred meters, he arrived at a single-family house.

The house was about twenty meters from the lake and surrounded by trees. The small area around it was private land left to Ethan by old Morgan.

Hearing the birdsong and looking at his own house ahead, Ethan didn't enter after getting out of the car. He walked to the small wooden dock by the lake and sat down cross-legged.

Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, he smoked silently, staring at the shimmering lake. Pressing the cigarette butt onto the wooden plank, Ethan exhaled a puff of smoke, as if bidding farewell to the past.

Turning his palm over, a glass tube filled with red liquid appeared in his hand. He pulled out the soft stopper at the top of the glass tube and sniffed it. There was no smell.

Without further hesitation, he tilted his head and put it in his mouth. Just as he was tasting the liquid, his body felt like it was on fire, and a burning sensation coursed through his spine and into the back of his head.

Suddenly, his entire body felt as hot as flames, and Ethan plunged into the lake with a —plop— without hesitation. After staying underwater for a long time, the burning sensation gradually subsided.

Gasping, Ethan swam to shore and removed all his clothes. Since this was his private place, he wasn't afraid of being seen.

After bouncing on the spot a few times, he felt his body unusually loose. His abdomen, which used to carry some fat, now appeared leaner. Clenching his fists enthusiastically, he sought out a nearby tree and gave it a punch.

A muffled —thud— sounded, and Ethan held his punching posture for a few seconds. He felt the speed and power of the punch, followed by intense pain in his fist.

Ethan looked at the broken skin on his knuckles and smiled. Picking up the clothes scattered on the ground, he walked toward the house.

It was a typical country-style wooden house with a large open kitchen adjacent to the living room. Further in, there were two rooms: one large and one small. The original owner had filled the small room with various antiques. The larger room was fully equipped with all the comforts of home, offering a clear view of the lake through the window beside the wooden bed.

After showering, Ethan set the alarm clock next to his bed for 7 PM, pulled the quilt over himself, and fell asleep.

At night, Ethan reached out to silence the piercing alarm. After stretching and yawning, he went to the living room. Feeling his stomach empty, he opened the refrigerator. There was no food except beer and drinks, and the kitchen utensils were all dusty.

The original owner seemed like a man who never cooked, so Ethan had to change clothes and drive to town.

A few minutes later, he noticed the neon lights above the roadside houses that read —The Forge Bar,— also known as Davis's Bar.

Ethan parked the vehicle, opened the door, and went inside. There were several tables near the old bar, with a pool table and a coin-operated jukebox placed against the wall further in. The gray-haired African-American bartender was quietly polishing a glass with a towel. It was still early, and no one was in the bar except for the bartender.

Ethan found a seat at the bar, pulled out a high wooden stool, and sat down. The bartender threw the towel over his shoulder and looked at him with interest.

—Are you a tourist?—

—Why do you say that?— Ethan touched the wooden counter.

The bartender raised his hand and nodded.

—Trust a bartender's memory. I know most of the people in this town.—

—Ethan Morgan, the new police officer in Banshee. I officially start tomorrow.—

—Sugar Bates, owner and bartender of this bar. Just call me Sugar.—

Sugar pulled out a glass, grabbed a half-full bottle of bourbon from the display, poured some into the glass, and slid it to Ethan.

—This one's on the house. Congratulations.—

After thanking him, Ethan took a careful sip, then downed it all. After setting the glass down and signaling Sugar for another, Ethan ordered a grilled steak.

It must be said that Sugar's craftsmanship was excellent; the steak was cooked to the perfect temperature. Noticing the golden belt hanging on the wall, Ethan curiously pointed to the photo next to the belt with his knife. In the old photo, a strong Black man wearing boxing gloves was knocking out his opponent.

Sugar turned to look at the photo.

—That's me, in the lightweight boxing championship.—

Ethan asked curiously, cutting a piece of steak and chewing it slowly.

—How many rounds did it take?—

—It took until the eighth round to knock him down. He was a southpaw, and it took more time to deal with that.—

Sugar's eyes lit up.

—That was a title fight. Do you know how long I held that belt?—

Ethan put down his knife and fork and looked at Sugar.

—Eighteen months!— Sugar said proudly.

Raising his glass, Ethan toasted Sugar. Maybe it was his enhanced physique, but after a few glasses of whiskey, Ethan felt his face flush slightly.

As time passed, more people filled the bar. Ethan asked Sugar to clear his plate, and while drinking, he observed the bar's patrons. By the pool table, a blonde beauty in a short black skirt held a drink in her hand and danced softly, her long white legs moving to the jukebox's rhythm.

In a bar, a woman that beautiful usually has company. But here, no one approached her for conversation—only occasional stolen glances.

When she turned around, Ethan realized she was the Amish girl he'd seen earlier in the carriage. He raised his glass and motioned to her. Sugar saw his actions and gave a quiet warning.

—Some women can't be touched. They're like roses with thorns—even if you're a cop.—

Ethan said it didn't matter; too much debt or too many problems made little difference.

The Amish girl approached and sat next to Ethan. He signaled Sugar to pour her a drink. Sugar shook his head helplessly, added whiskey to her glass, and went to greet other guests. After exchanging a few words, Ethan and the girl exchanged names.

After finishing his drink, Ethan extended an inviting gesture to Rebecca.

—Want to get some fresh air outside? My car's parked out front.—

Rebecca looked at his handsome face, smiled, grabbed her purse, and walked toward the door without a word. Ethan quickly counted a few bills, placed them under his glass, and followed her.

Rebecca left the bar without saying a word, and Ethan followed, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and adrenaline. Walking silently toward the Ford F-150, both felt the tension in the air, a tacit connection drawing them closer.

The cold night air made them shiver slightly as they stopped by the vehicle. Rebecca looked at Ethan, her eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. Without a word, they understood what would come next.