Alex's life with John—the definitely-immortal roommate who wore Victorian crowns and owned war medals from three centuries—was a non-stop fever dream. His 1% of doubt was a distant memory, long gone and buried. But when a late-night walk turned into a mugging, an arrest, and a police station scene straight out of a conspiracy thriller, Alex's world tilted so far off its axis he needed a new map.
The Mugging That Wasn't
It was a chilly Friday night. Alex had convinced John to hit up a dive bar for "normal roommate bonding"—a flimsy pretext to grill him about the Civil War-era Medal of Honor. After last call, John led them into a sketchy alley.
"Are you insane?" Alex hissed. "Nothing good ever happens in an alley!"
"Shortcut," John replied, already stepping into the shadows without hesitation.
Sure enough, a mugger stepped out, a hoodie pulled low and a cheap switchblade glinting under the dim light. "Wallets. Now," the guy growled.
Alex's heart hammered painfully in his chest. But John just let out a long-suffering sigh. He moved with a speed that defied physics and common sense. One moment the mugger was threatening them; the next, he was face-down on the grimy pavement, his arm twisted behind his back in a complex lock that looked painfully professional.
"You picked the wrong night, buddy," John said, calm as ever.
Alex gaped. John now held the switchblade, absently twirling it between his fingers like it was a pen.
"Where'd you learn that?" Alex squeaked.
"Old job. Security gig."
Security gig. The phrase echoed in Alex's mind, bouncing around violently and refusing to settle, juxtaposed with the image of John's military discharge papers. Lieutenant Colonel. Covert Operations.
Before John could decide the mugger's fate, the blinding lights of a squad car painted the alley walls in harsh red and blue. Two officers emerged. "Hands in the air! Now!"
Alex's arms shot up instantly. John, however, took a deliberate extra second. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the switchblade into a nearby dumpster—the clang was unnaturally loud in the quiet alley—and then slowly raised his hands.
The Arrest and the Pale-Faced Cops
The cops cuffed both of them, ignoring Alex's frantic protests and attempts to explain. In the squad car, Alex hissed, "Why didn't you just run?"
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John, who wore the handcuffs as if they were loose bracelets, shrugged lazily. "Didn't feel like it. Besides, this will sort itself out."
At the precinct, Alex vibrated with fear and disbelief. John looked bored, quietly humming a 1940s tune under his breath.
The booking process was routine for Alex. But when it was John's turn, the officer pressed his fingers to the scanner. The machine beeped, then froze.
The officer rebooted it and tried again.
This time, the screen flashed violently and died with a blue screen.
On the third attempt, the result was different. The screen lit up with a cascade of red text and flashing warnings. The officer's face drained of all color as he stared at it. He whispered to his partner, who immediately dropped his coffee mug. It shattered loudly on the floor.
He didn't stop to clean it up. He just turned and ran into the back offices.
A low buzz filled the precinct. Cops clustered around terminals, shooting nervous glances at John, who was examining his fingernails like he had all the time in the world.
"What the hell is going on?" Alex whispered.
John winked. "Paperwork glitch, probably."
Then, the big door to the back offices swung open and the Police Commissioner himself strode out. His eyes landed on John, and the effect was instantaneous.
He walked over slowly, his earlier confidence completely gone.
"Mr. Harrow, sir," the Commissioner began, his voice unsteady. "I am so sorry for this profound inconvenience." He gestured for an officer to remove the handcuffs immediately. "This is a terrible mistake. We had no idea it was you. Your... record... came up."
He then had Alex uncuffed as well. "You are both free to go. No charges whatsoever. Can we get you a ride home?"
John stood smoothly. "No worries, Commissioner. Mistakes happen. You might want to have your IT guys look at that system." He nodded casually. "Ready to head home, Alex?"
The Aftermath and Alex's Meltdown
A rookie officer drove them home, apologizing repeatedly the entire way. John chatted casually about potholes and road maintenance.
The moment their apartment door closed, John headed straight for the kitchen. "I'm thinking nachos. You in?"
Alex exploded. "Okay, what the fuck was that?" he yelled, pacing wildly across the living room. "You take down a mugger like some kind of spec-ops ghost, and then the Police Commissioner grovels? What is in your record? Are you CIA? MI6?"
John, calmly shredding cheese, didn't look up. "Told you. Paperwork glitch. My fingerprints must be in the system from some old case file. Happens all the time." The microwave hummed softly. "Want jalape?os?"
Alex wanted to scream.
Instead, he texted Sarah: "JOHN'S FINGERPRINTS CRASHED THE COP DATABASE. THE COMMISSIONER PERSONALLY APOLOGIZED. I'M LOSING IT."
Her reply was a video of her screaming into a pillow, followed by: "GET HIS PRINTS. WE ARE GOING TO THE FBI."
The Immortal Teflon Theory
Alex didn't get the prints.
The incident cemented a new layer of understanding in his mind: John wasn't just immortal; he was institutionally untouchable. The Commissioner's reaction wasn't fear of paperwork—it was the kind of deference you show a threat of unimaginable magnitude.
The next morning, John acted as if nothing happened at all. He made pancakes, the Russian crown perched comfortably on his head, and asked if Alex wanted to play Smash Bros.
And Alex, despite everything, heard himself say, "Yeah, sure."
The rent was still cheap, the pancakes were divine, and Merlin was bringing wine later.
Alex was now 100% certain he was living with an immortal who had a rap sheet longer than the Magna Carta.
He wasn't ready to move out.
Not yet.
He did, however, quietly get up and lock his bedroom door.
