Chapter 1: Welcome to Mid-Wilshire
Two Years Ago
The truck's horn was the last thing I heard in my old life.
One moment I was crossing the street in Chicago, coffee in hand, thinking about the quarterly report due Friday. The next, metal screamed and the world went sideways. No pain. Just the bizarre floating sensation of knowing you're about to die and there's nothing you can do about it.
Then I woke up.
Wrong room. Wrong body. Wrong fucking universe.
I sat up in a bed that wasn't mine, in a house I'd never seen, wearing someone else's face. The mirror across the room showed a stranger—younger, sharper features, dark hair instead of my sandy brown. My hands shook as I touched my face. Real. Solid.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
A leather journal sat on the nightstand. "Ethan Mercer" was embossed on the cover. I flipped it open with trembling fingers.
The entries spanned three years. Rich kid shit—yacht parties, business meetings with Uncle Martin, dinners with Aunt Rebecca the congresswoman. The last entry was dated two weeks ago: "Fell asleep at the wheel again. Lucky the crash wasn't worse. Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew. Well, they would if they weren't already dead."
The accident. This body had died in a car crash. And somehow I'd slipped into it like pulling on a glove.
I spent the first week in that house afraid to leave, reading every entry, studying every photo. The original Ethan had been lonely. Rich, connected, but hollow. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was sixteen. He'd been coasting since then—no purpose, no drive, just money and empty days.
The second week, I turned on the TV and saw Nathan Fillion in an LAPD uniform.
The Rookie. I'm in The Rookie.
I knew this show. Watched it during slow nights at my old accounting job. John Nolan, the oldest rookie. Lucy Chen. Tim Bradford. Jackson West, who dies in Season 4. Captain Andersen, who gets shot in Season 1.
People were going to die. People I could save if I played this right.
The powers started small. I'd hear someone speak and feel a twist in my gut—turns out they were lying. I'd watch a video of a fight and my hands would move on their own, copying the techniques. I'd close my eyes and remember conversations word-for-word from days ago.
It took me three months to understand what I could do. Six more to convince Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Martin that I wasn't having a breakdown.
"You want to be a cop?" Uncle Martin had stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You have a trust fund that could buy half of downtown LA."
"That's exactly why I need to do this." I'd practiced this speech. "Mom and Dad left me everything. What am I supposed to do with it? Buy another car I don't drive? This money should mean something."
Aunt Rebecca had studied me with those sharp political eyes. "You've never cared about meaning before."
"Maybe I should have."
They'd made calls. Strings were pulled. I enrolled in the academy, specifically requesting Mid-Wilshire Division. The same station where Nolan would end up. Where Jackson would die. Where Andersen would be killed.
I had two years to prepare. Two years to build muscle I didn't have. Two years to learn how to be a cop while figuring out how my powers worked.
Two years to become someone who could change everything.
Present Day - April 2018
The Mid-Wilshire Station looked exactly like it did on TV. Bullpen full of desks. Briefing room with rows of chairs. Even the coffee machine in the corner matched.
I parked my Honda Civic three spaces down from a vintage pickup truck. John Nolan climbed out, looking every bit the forty-seven-year-old man starting over. He caught my eye and smiled—that earnest, puppy-dog smile that made you want to root for him.
"First day?" he asked.
"That obvious?"
"You're holding your duty belt like it might bite you." He extended a hand. "John Nolan."
"Ethan Mercer." His grip was firm. Genuine. "You're the oldest rookie?"
"Guilty." He fell into step beside me as we headed inside. "Though 'oldest' makes it sound like a competition I didn't want to win."
We walked into a situation that made Nolan's nerves look calm. The bullpen was chaos—officers rushing around, phones ringing, someone shouting about a misplaced arrest report. A blonde woman in uniform stormed past us, ponytail swinging.
"Chen, you're with me today," a stern-looking officer called after her.
"Yes, sir, Officer Bradford."
I recognized them both. Lucy Chen, who'd become one of the best officers in the division. Tim Bradford, the hard-ass training officer with a tragic backstory involving his ex-wife.
My stomach tightened. Not danger sense. Just regular fear.
You know what happens to these people. Jackson dies. Andersen dies. Can you actually stop it?
"Rookies, briefing room, now!" A Black sergeant with silver at his temples stood in the doorway. Sergeant Wade Grey. The man who'd eventually become a captain.
The briefing room filled quickly. Lucy Chen sat front row, back straight, ready to prove herself. Jackson West—tall, polished, trying not to look like the legacy kid he was—took a seat near the middle. Nolan settled beside me.
Captain Zoe Andersen entered last, and the room fell silent. She had that Marine Corps bearing, the kind of presence that made you sit straighter without meaning to.
"Welcome to Mid-Wilshire," she said. "Some of you are fresh out of the academy. Some of you—" her eyes flicked to Nolan, "—took a more scenic route. Doesn't matter how you got here. Matters what you do now."
Grey stepped forward. "Training officer assignments. Chen, you're with Bradford. West, you're with Lopez. Nolan, you're with Bishop."
He paused. Frowned at his clipboard.
Here it comes.
"Mercer." Grey's eyes found mine. "We have a situation. All our TOs are at capacity with three rookies. You're the fourth wheel nobody planned for."
Tim Bradford groaned audibly. Lucy Chen smirked.
"Solution," Grey continued, "you rotate. Day one, you're with Lopez. Day two, Bradford. Day three, Bishop. You'll cycle through all three until we sort out a permanent assignment."
"That sounds terrible," Nolan whispered.
My danger sense pulsed. Low-level. Nothing immediate. Just the warning that today would test me.
"Problem, Officer Mercer?" Grey's eyebrow arched.
"No, sir. I'll make it work."
"See that you do."
Angela Lopez's POV
The new boot didn't look like much. Clean-cut, decent build, but soft around the edges. Rich kid written all over him—the way he held himself, like he'd never had to fight for anything.
"Officer Mercer." I sized him up by the shop. "You know why you're rotating?"
"Because I'm the fourth rookie and nobody wanted me."
"Correct. Which means you need to be twice as good to prove you belong. You ready for that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me. I'm Officer Lopez. You're a boot. Let's go."
He climbed into the passenger seat without complaint. Points for not arguing. I pulled out of the lot, watching him from the corner of my eye. He sat stiff, hands on his knees, staring at the streets like he was memorizing them.
"Relax," I said. "You're wound tighter than Bradford on a bad day."
"First day nerves."
"Fair enough." I turned onto Wilshire Boulevard. "Tell me why you joined."
He hesitated. "My parents died when I was sixteen. Left me a lot of money. I spent years not knowing what to do with it. Figured I should do something that matters."
Honest answer. Unexpected. "Most rich kids buy yachts."
"I have two. Don't use either."
I snorted despite myself. "At least you're self-aware."
Traffic stop ahead—sedan with expired tags weaving slightly between lanes. I hit the lights. The car pulled over too quickly, almost jerking into the curb.
"Standard approach," I said. "Watch the hands. Watch the mirrors. If something feels wrong, say so."
We stepped out. I took lead, Mercer behind and to the side. The driver's window was already down. Middle-aged white guy, sweating despite the cool morning.
"License and registration, please."
His hand moved toward the glove box. Normal motion. Nothing—
"Gun!" Mercer shouted.
I saw it the same instant—the knife tucked against the driver's side door, his hand pivoting toward it instead of the glove box. Training took over. I had my weapon drawn before conscious thought kicked in, barking orders while Mercer moved to the passenger side, cutting off escape routes.
The driver froze. Smart choice. We had him cuffed and in the back of the shop within two minutes.
"Good eyes," I said once we were rolling again, suspect secured. "How'd you spot that?"
Mercer's knuckles were white on his knees. "His hand angle was wrong. And he was sweating."
"You always this observant?"
"I pay attention."
"Good instincts, boot." I studied him again, reassessing. "Let's see if it's luck or skill."
Ethan's POV
The danger sense had screamed three seconds before Lopez saw the knife. Three full seconds of my heart trying to punch through my ribs, every nerve firing alerts I couldn't explain.
He's going to grab a weapon. He's going to hurt Lopez. Move. React. Do something.
I'd shouted on instinct. Pure reaction. Lopez had handled the rest.
Now my hands shook on my knees and I couldn't make them stop. First real call. First real danger. My powers had worked—the danger sense had given me warning—but I'd almost frozen. Almost waited too long.
You have to be better. Jackson dies if you're not better.
"You okay?" Lopez asked.
"Yeah. Adrenaline."
"Welcome to the job."
The rest of the shift blurred. Traffic stops. Welfare checks. A domestic disturbance that made my lie detection fire when the husband claimed his wife had fallen down the stairs. Lopez's questions, my careful observations, and eventually the truth coming out.
By the time Grey dismissed us at end of shift, my head pounded from sensory overload. Three different times my danger sense had warned me. Twice my lie detection had fired at suspects. My recall played every conversation on loop whether I wanted it or not.
This is exhausting. And it's only day one.
I drove my modest Honda through streets I'd memorized from studying maps. Past the nice neighborhoods where people like the original Ethan lived. Into the area where rent was reasonable and cops could afford houses.
My "house" sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Three-story mansion, gated, with a garage that held a Porsche, a Tesla, and a vintage Mustang I'd never driven. The original Ethan's pride and joy, gathering dust.
Nolan waved from his yard next door. Normal house. Normal car. Normal life.
He'd started over after a divorce, moved across the country, joined the LAPD at forty-seven. I'd died in one world and woken in another, pretending to be someone I wasn't while trying to save people who didn't know they needed saving.
We were both rookies. But my problems ran deeper than age.
I parked the Honda and walked past the garage. Tomorrow I'd face Tim Bradford—the hardest training officer in the division. Lopez had been impressed by my instincts. Tim would demand more than instincts. He'd demand results.
And I had no idea if I could deliver without exposing what I really was.
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