Chapter 1: The Reboot of Doug Stanton
The first thing I noticed was the smell—burnt coffee and sweat, the signature scent of a precinct at the edge of collapse. Then came the sounds: static from a police radio, someone shouting about a code forty-five, the squeak of worn soles on tile.
I blinked hard and sat up, only to realize I was in a locker room, dressed in LAPD blues, staring at a name stitched across my chest.
STANTON
That name. That face. That past. All of it hit me at once like a sucker punch. Doug Stanton. The infamous training officer from The Rookie. The one who needed redemption—and never really got it. The one that people hated for good reason.
Except… that wasn't me. Not anymore.
"I see you've woken up, partner," a voice echoed through my brain. Calm, collected, confident.
Five voices, actually. Or maybe more like five... echoes. Five sets of instincts. Five encyclopedias of experience downloaded into my bones. The Templates.
Jackie Chan – My muscles itched with potential, like they remembered hundreds of fights and stunts. I knew how to fall off a building without breaking anything and disarm three guys in a bar fight with a mop handle and a chair.
Yukihira Soma – My tongue felt sharp, my sense of smell heightened, and my brain quietly cataloged every ingredient in the air. I could make a gourmet meal with an MRE, a lighter, and two paper clips.
Indiana Jones – My fingers itched for a whip, my eyes scanned the corners of the locker room like I was checking for hidden traps, and I knew how to speak six dead languages. Adventure lived in my bones now.
Kaito Kid – Sleight of hand, perfect aim with a card, an uncanny talent for theatrics. My shadow felt longer. My smile a bit more dangerous. I could steal the moon if I wanted to.
Edogawa Conan – My brain hummed like a supercomputer. I could solve a triple homicide with a glance and a chalk outline. My memory? Flawless.
Five templates. Fully integrated. Not in conflict—but cooperating. A dream team inside my skull. And as if that wasn't enough, the universe dropped one last bombshell on me.
Her.
Natasha.
Not the Black Widow—not in this world. Here, she was Natalia Romanov: heiress to an absurdly wealthy private military family, multilingual, deadly in a dozen ways, and for reasons I couldn't fathom, deeply in love with me. And I with her. My soulmate. My match. A silent, fierce promise etched into the back of my mind like a brand: Protect her, love her, never betray her.
But right now, I had other things to handle. Because just outside that locker room was the beginning of a new chapter. One I could write better this time.
Time to meet Jackson.
"Officer Stanton?" a nervous, almost cautious voice called as I stepped into the hall. I turned, spotting him immediately.
Jackson West. Rookie. Bright-eyed. Determined. And—if memory served—destined to be both my trainee and a mirror to the worst parts of the man whose skin I now wore.
But I wasn't that man.
"West," I said, offering a steady nod and a firm handshake. "Doug Stanton. You ready to hit the streets?"
He hesitated. Just a second. Just enough to wonder.
"I am, sir," he said, straightening up. "Looking forward to learning from you."
Good. Because this time, he actually would.
We walked out into the bright California sun, the cruiser already prepped and waiting. I tossed the keys his way.
"You drive," I said.
Jackson blinked. "Seriously?"
"You want to learn, right? Starts with trusting your own hands."
He smiled, surprised but grateful, and climbed in. I slid into the passenger seat, adjusting my duty belt by feel, muscle memory flowing through me like I'd worn it a hundred times.
As the engine roared to life and we pulled out of the lot, the silence stretched between us—tense but not hostile. Like two people trying to read each other's rhythm in a sparring match.
"Look," I said, breaking the quiet. "I know what people say about me."
Jackson glanced at me, hands tight on the wheel. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to. I'm not who I used to be."
"You saying you changed?"
"I'm saying I started over."
We rolled into a domestic argument, a theft at a gas station, and a medical assist for an overdosed teen all within the next two hours. Each time, I let Jackson take the lead, only stepping in when necessary.
"You're… different," he muttered as we debriefed over lukewarm burritos in the cruiser. "Not what I expected."
"What did you expect?" I asked, biting into mine.
He hesitated. "Someone tougher. Rougher. Like, less… mentor-y."
I smiled. "You think I'm soft?"
"No. Just… I thought you'd try to push me harder. Break me in."
"You'll get pushed. But smart officers don't break. They bend, learn, adapt."
The next call brought us to a playground in Baldwin Hills. A man in a heavy coat sat unmoving near the swings, drawing concern from a parent.
I approached him slowly, blending instincts—Jackie's calm, Soma's warmth, Conan's perception.
"You waiting for someone?"
"My daughter," he said. "But she's been gone six years."
We talked. Twenty minutes. He was no threat—just a grieving father. Jackson called for a social worker himself.
"You really see everything, huh?" Jackson asked as we returned.
"Only if I remember to look."
Later that night, Natasha welcomed me with a kiss, a bottle of wine, and her signature: "Dinner or sparring first?"
We did both. Her kitchen was a playground and dojo all in one. We danced through lamb, garlic, and feints. I cooked. She threw a knife at a fly mid-air and didn't miss.
"You're changing," she said on the rooftop, breathless after our final bout.
"I have to."
"Don't forget who you are beneath all their shadows."
"I won't. Because I have an anchor."
And I meant her.
I dreamed of my templates that night. A dojo, a jungle, a crime scene. Jackie, Soma, Indy, Kaito, Conan—they whispered in unison:
"You are us. But you are also you. Make your own legend."
The next day started hot. We chased a kid running from a car. Jackson chased. I flanked. The boy cried. I saw the truth: he wasn't the thief. He was scared.
We brought him in gently. It mattered.
Later, Jackson asked, "You dating someone?"
"Yeah."
"What's she like?"
I smiled. "She's the kind of woman who doesn't ask for flowers. She asks for a sparring partner."
That night, Natasha called me to the rooftop range.
"You're late."
"Had to stop a kid from ruining his life."
We drilled, we fought, we flirted. And as the city glowed below, she warned me:
"There's something wrong in your precinct. Someone you need to watch."
Alone in my loft, I read her encrypted file.
Detective Greg Mullen. Arms smuggling. Shell corporations. Friendly smile. Corruption hiding behind protocol.
A storm was coming.
But this time, I wasn't the villain.
I was the wild card.
Before bed, I sent one message.
[To Jackson]: You did good today. Tomorrow we train harder. Don't be late.
[Jackson]: I won't be. Thanks, Doug.
One kid. One shift.