The Western legal system worked very differently from the East.
In some states, even robbing a convenience store for less than nine hundred and fifty dollars wasn't considered a serious crime. A thief could break in, get caught, and still walk free the next day—so long as the owner allowed bail.
If the victim chose not to press charges later, the whole thing would simply fade away.
That was the kind of leniency that baffled Dr. Hank Pym as he stood before the wrecked remains of his front door.
Kathy's stepfather—Officer Paxton—was busy taking photos with his partner, collecting fragments of metal from the shattered lock.
"Mr. Pym," Paxton said, polite but procedural, "we've finished gathering evidence. We'll need you to come down to the station to give a statement. That's all right?"
"No problem," Pym replied stiffly.
They escorted him to the police car. Paxton had Pym sit in the back—where the suspects usually sat—while Scott Lang, the actual burglar, rode shotgun in the front seat.
Once they were on the road, Paxton leaned toward Scott and lowered his voice.
"Scott," he whispered, "where's King Lock? Why are you still doing this kind of thing?"
Scott nearly choked.
That guy, Lock, had promised he wouldn't go to jail again. Yet here they were—cops, statements, and all.
And "King Lock"? Scott thought Paxton was still talking about the role Lock had once played—the dramatic nickname everyone had started using as a joke.
He sighed. "That guy told me to steal it. Said I wouldn't go to jail. If this turns out bad, I'm gonna have words with him when I get back."
Paxton froze.
When I get back? He actually planned to go back to see King Lock?
No one, not even the boldest villains, ever talked about that man so casually. Yet here Scott was—grumbling about him like an old drinking buddy.
It could only mean one thing: Scott Lang was a close friend of King Lock.
Paxton's heart started pounding.
If that was true… why would Lock ask Scott to steal something? Why was his supposed friend living like a broke ex-con instead of ruling the world beside him?
Too many questions—but Paxton didn't dare press further.
He cleared his throat. "Uh, Scott… think you could, uh, introduce us sometime? To King Lock, I mean."
Scott blinked. "Why? You wanna see him do magic again?"
Paxton cursed silently. Magic? Who the hell calls King Lock's power "magic"? Still, he forced a smile.
"Well… Casey misses him."
Scott shrugged. "I don't know if he'll visit her again. Anyway, let's deal with this first."
As they chatted casually, Dr. Pym sat behind them, looking like the world's most insulted victim.
At the police station, things only got stranger.
Paxton went straight to report to the chief, expecting a routine case. But when he mentioned that Scott Lang, "King Lock's good friend," was involved, the chief nearly dropped his coffee.
"You mean that Scott? The one from the photo with King Lock?"
Paxton nodded.
The chief's eyes gleamed. If he handled this right, maybe he'd even get a signed photo out of it.
Minutes later, the "interrogation" began.
Dr. Pym was speechless.
He sat there with nothing but a lukewarm glass of water. Meanwhile, in front of Scott sat a cup of freshly brewed coffee—rich aroma, perfectly roasted beans, clearly the expensive kind.
Then came the snacks. And fruit.
The chief hovered like a nervous waiter.
"Mr. Scott, is the coffee to your liking? Need more sugar? Milk?"
"Here, have some pastries! Perfect with your coffee!"
"What kind of fruit do you like? Paxton, cut some for Mr. Scott!"
Pym's blood pressure visibly climbed.
He'd come here as the victim—and yet somehow, the criminal was being treated like royalty.
Was the chief insane?
Finally, he snapped. "Director, can we please get to the statement? I have work to do."
The chief coughed and tried to look serious. "Yes, of course, business first."
Then he turned to Scott.
"Mr. Scott, how would you like to give your statement?"
Pym nearly exploded.
You're asking the suspect how he wants to be interrogated?
Even Scott looked confused, exchanging a look with Paxton as if to ask whether the man had lost his mind.
Paxton, meanwhile, was doing his best not to laugh. He understood exactly what was happening. The chief was terrified of offending anyone connected to King Lock.
Throughout the "interview," the chief kept offering hints like a defense attorney.
"Mr. Scott, if you answer that way, it might not look good in court."
"Try to phrase it more gently—you could reduce your legal exposure."
And then, unbelievably, he turned to Pym.
"Ahem, Dr. Pym, are you sure Mr. Scott wasn't trying to help you?"
"Maybe he was chasing off a real intruder?"
"Or perhaps there were dangerous items in your house and he was trying to clean them up?"
It was a masterclass in twisting logic—turning theft into heroism.
Scott eventually sighed and told the truth from start to finish, while Pym silently counted to ten to keep from throttling someone.
At last, the facts were recorded: Scott had broken in. Pym could press charges at any time.
The "trial" ended.
Outside, the chief personally escorted Scott to the door, practically glowing with friendliness.
If Scott hadn't refused, the man probably would've driven him home himself.
As soon as they were clear, Pym cornered Scott.
"Mr. Lang," he said through clenched teeth, "if you want to stay out of jail—and keep seeing your daughter—come to my house tonight. There's something I need done."
"As soon as it's finished, I'll drop the charges and you'll be free."
Scott shrugged. "Depends on my mood."
But inside, he wasn't worried. The way the chief and Paxton treated him, plus what Lock had told him earlier, made it obvious this was all part of Lock's plan.
Whatever game his mysterious boss was playing, Scott decided to just go along with it.
That night, Pym sat in his study, waiting with his daughter Hope.
They'd planned to be the ones in control. Now, somehow, they felt like the ones being tested.
Finally, the doorbell rang.
When Pym opened it, two figures stood outside—Scott, and a man with calm eyes and a faint, knowing smile.
"Why did you bring someone with you?" Pym demanded. "Who is he?"
The man stepped forward.
"My name's Lock," he said pleasantly. "Most people call me King Lock."
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