Chapter 1 - The Unshakable
Mid-Wilshire Police Station, Los Angeles – September 14, 2015.
The late summer heat still hung heavy and sticky in the air, even within the cool gray walls of the Mid-Wilshire Police Station. Fluorescent lighting cast pale hues over the hallways, as if the building were forever caught between wakefulness and torpor.
On the second floor, Captain Zoe Anderson watched the movement in the reception area through the smoked glass window of her office. Her gaze was clinical, accustomed to dissecting people with a simple exchange of glances. Tall and with a firm posture, her presence filled the room. She wore a well-cut navy blue blazer, matching the authority she naturally exuded. Beside her, Sergeant Wade Grey, rigid as reinforced concrete, held a clipboard.
"They're here," Zoe said, without taking her eyes off the activity below. "The new class."
Grey nodded slowly. "I hope at least one of them knows the difference between protocol and common sense. The last batch almost gave me a heart attack."
Zoe laughed lightly. "You're getting old, Grey."
"I'm getting realistic," he retorted. "We train, we guide, we teach... and then we see the new guy accidentally shooting himself because he mistook scissors for a knife."
She turned, picking up one of the files stacked on her desk.
"Today we only chose one," she said, flipping through the pages until she stopped at a file with a red tab. "And I think we found someone who deviates from the norm."
Grey arched an eyebrow. "Differs how?"
Zoe tossed the file in front of him.
Derek Marcus Davis. 30 years old. Former Navy SEAL. Ten years of service. SEAL Team Three and... DEVGRU.
Grey whistled. "DEVGRU? Seriously?"
"More serious than a C4 attack," Zoe replied. "And there's more. During his years of service, he earned a law degree. From UCLA. Night shift."
"Jesus Christ," Grey muttered, turning the pages.
The pages were impeccably filled out. There were copies of medals, course certificates, psychological evaluations. No hint of post-traumatic stress. No erratic behavior. Everything indicated a man who was centered, disciplined—and possessed an intensity that seemed to overflow even in the cold words of bureaucracy.
"He passed Dr. Manuela Sykes's scrutiny," Zoe said. "She wrote here that he's 'emotionally armored, with no aggressive or impulsive tendencies.' She says he's one of the few cases where the level of emotional control exceeds the clinical standard."
Grey shook his head slowly. "And what makes someone like that want to be a street cop?"
Zoe smiled, as if she'd expected the question.
"You can ask him that directly."
Interview Room – 15 Minutes Later
Derek Davis entered with the steady gait of someone who's marched through combat zones, but without the heavy look many military personnel carry in their eyes. He wore his LAPD uniform with an almost ceremonial precision. Tall—maybe six feet—with broad shoulders, a shaved head, and a strong jaw. But it was his gaze that caught the eye: calm, direct, yet with a quiet intensity that could disarm any interrogator.
"Officer Davis," Zoe greeted, extending her hand.
"Captain Anderson. Sergeant Grey." He shook both their hands firmly, without exaggeration.
"You may sit."
Derek sat with perfect posture. Hands clasped on the table, back straight. There was no nervousness. No hesitation.
"You spent ten years serving in elite units," Zoe began. "What makes you want to work patrol? Didn't you want to go straight to SWAT?"
"No, ma'am," he replied. "Patrol is the backbone of policing. Before I want to move up, I want to understand the system at the base. Do the work that builds trust with the community. I want to see where I can really make a difference."
Grey stared at him, almost suspiciously. "You know patrol in LA isn't like Afghanistan or Somalia. Here, chaos doesn't come from armed insurgents, but from split-second misdeeds. Do you think you can adapt to the moral gray?"
"Yes, sir," Derek replied without hesitation. "I learned to navigate war zones where the enemy could be a teenager or an elderly man in disguise. The difference here is that the use of force is more restrained. It requires more control. More judgment. And that motivates me."
Zoe crossed her arms. "You were considered 'unflappable' in your psychological evaluation. How does someone so... balanced deal with situations where emotions dominate—like domestic violence, suicides, injured children?"
Derek took a moment before answering, which surprised Zoe. She appreciated people who thought before they spoke.
"I acknowledge my emotions, Captain. But I keep them under control. Uncontrolled emotions lead to mistakes. I worry. I care. But that should never cloud my role."
Grey looked at him with an enigmatic expression. Finally, he nodded.
"We have a TO for you," Zoe said. "Detective Angela Lopez."
"I've heard of her. Respected. Demanding."
"She'll put you to the test. And you'll do the same with her."
Police Station Yard – Later that day
The sun was already sinking behind the buildings, tinting the Los Angeles sky with shades of gold and pink. In the courtyard, Angela Lopez, arms crossed and an impatient look on her face, waited.
Lopez wasn't known for her patience with newbies. She had earned her place in a hostile environment with hard work, competence, and zero tolerance for silly mistakes. When she saw Derek walking toward her, she narrowed her eyes.
"Are you the SEAL?"
"Yes, ma'am. Officer Davis."
"Don't call me ma'am. Call me Lopez. Or TO, if you prefer."
"Right. Lopez."
She scrutinized him from head to toe. He looked more like an instructor than a newbie. That bothered her.
"You know this isn't Fallujah, right?"
"Yes."
"Nor Ramadi, nor Kandahar."
"I know that too."
"And here, one wrong decision with a body camera on could end your career and put my name in the news."
"Understood."
She took a deep breath. There was no arrogance in him, which was rare for someone with his resume. But she still wasn't convinced.
"We're going out on patrol tomorrow at five. I don't want any delays. And don't give me any battle protocol. Here, the enemy wears Nike backpacks and drives stolen Corollas."
"I'll be ready."
She stared at him for a moment longer. Then she turned and walked into the building.
Derek stood there for a second. The night wind brushed his skin. And for the first time since he'd left active duty, he felt something resembling anticipation.
Next Day – 5:00 AM
Lopez was already in the parking lot when Derek arrived punctually to the second. She watched as he put on his vest, adjusted his weapon, and checked the radio.
"Do you always act like it's a mission?"
"For me, it is."
She shook her head. "Let's see how long you can keep this focus."
They got into the squad car. She was behind the wheel, he was in the passenger seat. The radio crackled. Calls about robberies, domestic violence, gunfire. LA was waking up to the routine chaos.
"What do you hope to find here, Davis?" she asked, turning the corner.
"Purpose," he replied.
She smiled wryly. "Good luck with that."
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