The Rookie’s Limits

The gym's stark, utilitarian space—usually alive with the clatter of weights, grunts, and music blaring from portable speakers—was a sanctuary that night. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead cast uneven shadows that seemed to move with Ryder's fists as they pounded the heavy bag. Each strike echoed through the cavernous room, the dull thud a rhythmic counterpoint to the storm inside his mind.

He wasn't just hitting the bag; he was purging. The bank robbery earlier that day had gone sideways. His body had reacted on instinct, movements honed by years of training he could never fully explain. The look in Lopez's eyes when he disarmed the gunman—half respect, half suspicion—haunted him. She wasn't the only one watching. Grey's subtle narrowing of his eyes in the aftermath spoke volumes. Ryder's mask had slipped, and he knew it.

"Damn, Ryder," Officer West's voice cut through the repetitive sound of punches. Ryder turned, startled. West stood in the doorway, his trademark grin lighting up the otherwise somber room. "Didn't peg you for the gym rat type."

West, with his sharp wit and effortless charm, was the perfect counterpoint to Bradford's drill-sergeant demeanor. He had a way of easing tension without even trying. Yet behind the laid-back exterior was a sharp mind, one that missed nothing.

"Couldn't sleep," Ryder replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "Figured I'd burn off some energy."

West's gaze lingered on the heavy bag, its leather surface bearing the marks of Ryder's relentless assault. "Burning off energy? Looks more like you're trying to exorcise demons. The academy teach you that?"

Ryder hesitated, his eyes meeting West's briefly before glancing away. "Something like that."

The easygoing grin on West's face faltered, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. He didn't push, though. "Well, remind me not to get on your bad side," he said, grabbing a set of weights from the rack. "Lopez giving you a hard time?"

"Not exactly. Just… figuring things out," Ryder replied, his tone noncommittal.

"She's tough, no doubt," West said, his voice tinged with respect. "But she's fair. If she's on your case, it's because she sees potential. Trust me, I've been there. First week on the job, she made me rewrite my incident report three times. I'd used the phrase 'bad guy' too much. Said it made us sound like kids playing cops and robbers."

Ryder allowed a small chuckle. "She's definitely thorough."

"Yeah," West said, lifting a dumbbell and starting a set of curls. "She's teaching you to think like a cop, not an action hero."

The conversation drifted into silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic clanging of weights and the steady thuds of Ryder's punches. West's presence, unobtrusive yet steady, offered a kind of camaraderie Ryder hadn't realized he needed.

The next morning, the station was its usual chaotic self. Phones rang incessantly, the aroma of burnt coffee filled the air, and the bullpen buzzed with officers swapping stories and preparing for the day ahead. Sergeant Grey's commanding voice cut through the noise as he assigned cases and issued orders.

"Ryder, Lopez," Grey barked, his tone brisk. "You're on a 415—possible domestic disturbance—corner of 6th and Maple."

Lopez, ever the no-nonsense professional, handed Ryder a stack of reports as they headed for the patrol car. "Paperwork," she said flatly. "The real test of any cop's patience."

As Ryder sifted through the labyrinth of forms, he felt Lopez's sharp eyes on him. She was a study in contrasts: outwardly calm but with an intensity that could peel away layers of deceit. She wasn't just observing; she was dissecting, cataloging every word and gesture.

The drive to 6th and Maple was quiet, the hum of the engine and the city's ambient noise filling the silence. The neighborhood was run-down, its streets lined with cracked sidewalks and graffiti-covered walls. As they approached the address, Ryder's unease grew. Something felt off.

"Stay close," Lopez instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. "No heroics."

The house was a dilapidated bungalow, its paint peeling and windows partially boarded up. The front door hung ajar, a narrow sliver of darkness visible within. From inside came the faint sound of a child crying.

Lopez knocked sharply, her hand resting on her service weapon. "Police," she called, her voice firm but calm.

The door creaked open, revealing a man with darting eyes and a nervous demeanor. "Everything's fine," he said quickly, his tone unconvincing.

Ryder's sharp ears caught a muffled sob from within, a sound laced with fear. His body tensed, instincts kicking in.

"Mind if we come in?" Lopez asked, her tone deceptively polite.

The man hesitated, his grip tightening on the door. Then, without warning, he slammed it shut.

"Ryder, back!" Lopez shouted.

The door burst open, and the man charged out, a knife glinting in the dim light. Ryder reacted instinctively, his body a blur of motion. He sidestepped the attack, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted. The knife clattered to the ground as Ryder pinned him against the wall with calculated precision.

"Ryder!" Lopez's voice snapped him out of his trance. He looked at her, then at the man struggling in his grip. Reluctantly, he released him, stepping back as Lopez cuffed the suspect.

Inside the house, a woman huddled on the floor clutching a crying child. Though shaken, they appeared unharmed. Lopez knelt beside them, her voice soft as she reassured the woman and called for backup.

Back at the station, the atmosphere was tense. Lopez's usual inscrutable expression gave way to something more probing as she cornered Ryder in the briefing room.

"You handled yourself back there," she said, her tone measured. "Almost too well. Where'd you learn to move like that?"

Ryder shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Lucky shot."

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. "Luck had nothing to do with it. You moved like someone who's been trained. And not just in the academy."

Before Ryder could respond, Grey entered the room, his authoritative presence instantly commanding attention. "Ryder. Lopez. Good work today. But Lopez, keep an eye on him," he said, his gaze briefly resting on Ryder. "I've seen enough rookies to know when someone's hiding something."

As the sun set over the city, Ryder found himself on the rooftop of the precinct, the distant hum of traffic a soothing backdrop. He'd chosen this life to escape his past, but the past had a way of catching up. The look in Lopez's eyes, the weight of Grey's words—they were reminders that his secrets wouldn't stay buried forever.

Below, the city stretched out, a labyrinth of concrete and steel, its streets teeming with stories of hope and despair. Ryder knew he was walking a fine line, balancing on the edge of revelation and ruin. And in this city, one misstep could bring everything crashing down.

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The diner's neon sign flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow across the rain-slicked street. Ryder slid into a booth, the vinyl cold against his skin. He needed a moment to breathe, to process the chaos of the past few days. The bank heist, the arrest today—each moment was a test of the fragile life he was trying to rebuild.

He'd been John Wick. Now, he was John Ryder, a rookie cop in a body that felt both familiar and utterly alien. The memories, the reflexes, the instincts – they were his, yet overlaid on a life he didn't recognize. It was a jarring, disorienting dissonance.

The bell above the door jingled, and a man in a sharp, expensive suit slid into the opposite booth. Ryder's gaze snapped up, his senses instantly alert. The man's face was vaguely familiar, a ghost of a memory that flickered and then vanished.

"You're John Ryder, right?" the man asked, his voice smooth, almost oily.

Ryder frowned, his mind scrambling. "Yeah. Who are you?"

The man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark and predatory crossing his features. "Marco DeLuca. And you and I have some unfinished business."

Ryder's brow furrowed. DeLuca… the name meant nothing. This wasn't one of his old ghosts, not from his John Wick life. This was something else, something tied to this new, borrowed body.

"I don't know you," Ryder said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

DeLuca chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Don't play coy. You know exactly who I am. And you know what you owe."

"Owe?" Ryder repeated, his mind racing. He was walking into a minefield, blind. He had no idea what this man was talking about, but the threat in his voice was unmistakable.

"You took something from me, Ryder. Something valuable," DeLuca said, his eyes hard. "And now, you're going to pay for it. Playing cop won't save you."

Ryder's instincts screamed at him. This wasn't just a random encounter. This was a calculated move, a confrontation rooted in a past he didn't share. He studied DeLuca, searching for any clue, any hint of what this "debt" might be.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about," Ryder said, his voice steady. "But if you have a problem, take it up with the department."

DeLuca's smile was cold. "The department can't protect you from me. You're playing a dangerous game, Ryder. And you're about to lose."

He stood, his movements fluid and menacing. "Consider this a warning. You can't run from your past, even if you think you've changed your face."

As DeLuca walked out, Ryder was left with a chilling realization. He wasn't just dealing with the remnants of his old life as John Wick. He was also inheriting the baggage of the man whose body he now inhabited. This wasn't just a second chance, it was a second war, fought on two fronts.