Felix woke with a start, chest heaving, his T‑shirt cold and damp against his skin.
Morning light cut through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, laying bars of shadow across the room.
The images were still there.
The Black man's eyes, glassy as he hit the pavement.
The Latino tugging a jammed slide, a futile gesture before he went down.
They stuck like nails in his skull, sharp and unyielding.
He pressed his palms against his face, felt the heat burning in his forehead.
He'd thought he was ready when the system came—months of mental drills, contingency plans, rehearsed kills. But when life actually drained out under his barrel, it hollowed him out in ways he hadn't planned for.
"Killing's easier than I thought."
His voice came out low, hoarse.
Last night he'd done it clean. No witnesses. No trace.
Then he'd left fast and quiet, back to the apartment he'd barely had time to make his own.
A cold shower. Wet clothes tossed in a heap. Straight to bed.
Sleep hadn't helped.
The badge would be a shield.
The department gave him what the system couldn't: legitimacy.
A badge. A transfer order. The right words—justified use of force.
Enough to let him pull the trigger in daylight and walk away clean.
Felix drew a long breath, swung his legs off the bed, and sat forward, elbows on his knees. It was time to start thinking like a deputy.
Felix Lee. Twenty‑three.
Second‑generation Cantonese father. White mother, an elementary school teacher.
Raised trilingual—English, Mandarin, Cantonese.
His father, Jianhao, was strict. Wanted law, medicine, or at least a steady government job.
His mother was softer: Do what makes you happy.
But Felix had never belonged.
In the Chinese neighborhoods, he was mixed.
In the white ones, foreign.
That distance had become his default.
So he chose the academy.
For his father, it was respectable.
For Felix, something darker.
He pushed off the bed and walked to the sink. The mirror reflected dark eyes streaked with red, cheekbones sharper from a night without rest.
He wiped a bead of water from his hairline with his thumb and held his own gaze.
"Today," he said quietly, "I'm LASD."
The words carried more weight than they should.
LASD.
The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.
The largest sheriff's office in the country—over ten thousand sworn deputies. They didn't just patrol. They ran the jails, guarded the courts, and policed the unincorporated towns too small to afford their own force.
Most people thought LAPD ran this city.
Hollywood made sure of that—badges, black‑and‑whites, a camera‑ready shine.
But LAPD was Los Angeles City.
LASD was the net.
The places without cameras.
The county jails. The forgotten streets.
At the academy, they'd broken it down:
State police: highways, state‑level support. CHP in California.Sheriff's departments: elected sheriffs, county‑wide policing, jails, courts. LASD was the behemoth.City police: municipal, like LAPD—visible, loud, limited.
"I'm a deputy," Felix thought.
And it brought a strange, sharp satisfaction.
For most, it meant a paycheck and a title.
For him, cover.
He buttoned his uniform, paused in front of the mirror.
The green shoulders. The badge over his heart. He looked like a lawman.
But he knew better.
This wasn't just a uniform. It was camouflage.
He grabbed his cap, slung it under his arm, and stepped out.
The morning air was cool. The sun low, edging the streets in pale gold.
The black G‑Wagon sat at the curb, paint gleaming like a blade.
Felix climbed in. The engine growled awake, low and steady.
Not a cop's car. But his.
His father, Jianhao Lee, ran a mid‑sized construction firm in the San Gabriel Valley.
Projects. Land. Stability.
His mother used to joke: Your dad broke his back so you wouldn't have to climb scaffolding.
The G‑Wagon wasn't for show. It was armor. In this city, not looking weak was safer than looking strong.
He shifted into drive.
Destination: 211 W. Temple Street—LASD Headquarters.
Most rookies would be nervous.
To Felix, it was routine.
A senior deputy had already told him his assignment:
San Gabriel Valley Station. Short‑staffed. His background fit.
That's why he'd rented nearby.
Today was about forms, IDs, gear—getting processed into the machine.
The real start was already set.
He tapped the wheel with his fingers, a steady rhythm.
In the sunlight, he was a sharp young deputy.
In the dark, still a hunter.
LASD Headquarters.
Downtown, near the courts and city hall. Marble, glass, the state seal glaring down from the walls.
Felix pushed through the glass doors. Cool air. The smell of disinfectant and bureaucracy.
He signed in at the desk, joined a group of other academy grads in a second‑floor briefing room.
Dozens of faces. Some smiling. Some pale.
Felix sat in the corner, silent.
"Welcome to the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department," a man in a suit said from the podium.
"Today, you'll swear in, get your gear, and finish onboarding. You're no longer civilians. You're law enforcement."
Felix's fingers tightened on his paperwork.
"Stand. Raise your right hand."
The room echoed with the oath.
Felix said the words.
He knew what they meant. And what they could hide.
The line for gear moved slowly.
Felix signed his name, collected multiple uniforms, a badge, a nameplate.
A standard‑issue Glock 17 with spare magazines.
A duty belt—cuffs, baton, flashlight, pepper spray.
A body cam and a portable radio.
"Take care of it," an older deputy muttered. "This stuff keeps you alive."
Felix turned the Glock in his hands, thumb tracing the cold frame.
Last night, a similar gun had ended three lives.
This one came from the County.
With its blessing.
By midday, he was called into an office. Personnel. A rep from San Gabriel Valley Station.
No surprises: patrol and support.
"Welcome to San Gabriel," the rep said, clapping his shoulder. "It's a complicated community. You'll learn fast."
Felix nodded. "Understood."
Complicated meant what he thought it meant.
Plenty of sin to hunt.