Chapter 4 – Above the Line of Fire - The Rookie: Former Seal

September 17, 2015 – 6:43 AM

Mid-Wilshire Police Station – Officers' Lounge

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air in the officers' lounge that morning, mingling with the smell of printed paper, dried sweat on bulletproof vests, and the typical pre-shift dejection. The sound of a printer working in the background was constant, like the heartbeat of the building.

Derek, as usual, was fully dressed, uniform impeccable, holster in place, boots aligned. Leaning discreetly in the corner of the room, he leafed through a copy of "The Art of War," a pen underlining passages. There was something almost ritualistic about his gestures. Even in that police environment, he still seemed out of place—not out of place, but out of contrast. He was the kind of man who drew attention precisely by trying not to.

"Hey, Rambo," said a familiar, sarcastic voice from across the room. "Are you going to save the world again today, or are you just going to lecture me on tactical discipline?"

Derek looked up from his book, staring at the commenter: Officer Mike Rourke, a middle-aged cop with a good 15 years with the LAPD, known for his foul mouth, his inflated ego, and his incessant attempts to maintain his "alpha" status. One of those guys who treated respect more as competition than recognition.

Around him, some of the other officers laughed—but it was tense, almost nervous. It wasn't the first time Rourke had teased Derek, but this morning seemed more charged.

Derek calmly closed the book and responded with a slight nod.

"Good morning, Rourke."

"Ah, so you're talking. I thought you were practicing a vow of silence. Or battlefield meditation." He chuckled to himself, looking around. "Seriously, guys, this guy sleeps in his uniform. I bet he wakes up in combat stance."

A few more chuckles softer now.

Derek didn't respond, returning his gaze to the book, but not returning to it. His body was still motionless, but his eyes... no longer calm. Not threatening. But there was something different there. A slight hardening.

Angela entered the room at that moment, grabbing a coffee from the thermos in the back. She noticed the tension in the air and the exchanged glances. She knew Rourke's style. She also knew Davis well enough to know that, until then, he had avoided reacting.

But even steel can't withstand eternal friction.

Rourke continued, this time addressing another officer.

"You know what bothers me about ex-military? They think they're better than everyone else just because they survived a bunch of peasants with AK-47s. It's different here, my friend. Here the enemy doesn't wear a turban, they wear a suit or a hood. There's no point in trying to play the hero in South Central."

Derek stood slowly. He closed the book and carefully put it away. He straightened his holster, ran his hand along the side of his belt, and walked toward Rourke with firm steps. The room fell silent.

He stopped less than a meter away. He looked him in the eye.

"Do you really want to find out what it's like to test yourself against a SEAL with a decade of active combat experience, Rourke?"

The voice wasn't loud. But there was a firmness there that sounded like steel being bent. It wasn't a threat. It was a statement. There was no angry tone, just an overwhelming presence, like a storm brewing in the blue sky.

Rourke fell silent. His eyes, once full of mockery, now wavered. He didn't physically flinch, but his chest stopped heaving. His posture relaxed, as if the air had been sucked out of him.

"I thought not," Derek finished, his voice still calm.

He turned and returned to his corner. Lopez watched him intently, without moving. Rourke remained still for a few seconds, as if his brain was processing the fact that he had been silenced without shouting, without violence—just by his presence.

8:11 AM – Police Station Yard

Angela and Derek were already in the patrol car. The day was bright, the sky clear, but the tension in the room still lingered in the air like a lingering scent.

"You finally responded," she said, adjusting the rearview mirror.

"Patience has its limits. And respect has its boundaries."

"Rourke is an idiot. But many there were waiting for you to... explode. To prove you're unstable, that you're a threat."

— "And I've shown that I'm not. But that I'm not passive either."

Angela nodded. There was maturity there. Control. But she noticed something else: Derek was someone who knew exactly the balance between restraint and action. It wasn't about pride. It was about knowing who he was—and not letting others forget.

— "They're afraid of you, you know?"

— "Fear isn't what I want. Quiet respect is enough."

9:37 AM – Break-in Call – Culver City

The police car sped down the wide avenues, sirens blaring. The description: an armed man breaking into his ex-partner's home, allegedly armed with a knife. She and her son were locked in the bathroom.

Angela drove with precision, her body leaning slightly forward, her jaw set.

"The neighbor said he's threatened her before. He was arrested for domestic violence in 2013. He didn't stay long. She dropped the complaint. Now he's back."

Derek checked the radio, listening to the details cross-reference with other units. But they were the closest.

"I'll go through the front. You cover the side. There'll be an emergency escape. If he tries to escape, it's that way."

"Understood."

At the scene, a simple single-story house, gate broken, front door open. Screams inside. The sound of objects being dropped.

Angela entered, gun drawn, yelling:

"LAPD! Drop the gun! Let the woman out!"

Derek walked around the side of the house, keeping his eyes on the windows. In the left corner, the bathroom window rattled. A male shadow flashed past him.

He positioned himself behind a dumpster, gun raised.

The man tried to climb out the back window, knife in hand.

"Drop the knife now!" Derek shouted, aiming precisely. "One wrong move and you won't see the light of day."

The man hesitated, grunting. He looked like a cornered bull.

"Last chance."

The attacker threw the knife to the ground and fell to his knees.

Derek handcuffed him with clean technique, no excessive force, no humiliation. Just efficiency.

When Angela walked out the front door with her wife and sobbing son, she saw Derek leading the restrained man away.

"Clear," he said. "No injuries. No resistance after a clear order."

Angela looked at the woman. The mother, trembling, held her son as if he might disappear.

"Thank you... thank you..." she repeated.

Derek stared for a moment. Then he returned his gaze to the handcuffed man. There was anger there. But it was contained. Redirected.

1:23 PM – Break Room

Later, Derek stood in the break room, silent, sipping black coffee without sugar. Several officers came and went. Some gave him quick glances. But now... they were different.

Less defiant.

More cautious.

Rourke walked past him, but said nothing. He just grabbed his coffee and left. A small gesture. But meaningful.

Angela appeared in the doorway.

"You did it."

"I did what?"

"Command respect without a show. That's harder than it looks."

Derek stood.

"I'm not here to be feared. I'm here to be useful. And to survive."

Angela stared at him.

"And you will. As long as you stay that way: firm, but human."

Derek nodded. He knew that, in that world of concrete and steel, the greatest wars were silent. And that his armor wasn't made of muscle or military glory.

It was made of conscience.

And, above all, control.

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 – Above the Line of Fire