Chapter One: Orientation
Matthew Collins had known since he was six years old that people disappeared.
Sometimes you were the one disappearing.
He was too young to understand it fully then, standing in the doorway of a state social worker’s office in Cincinnati, holding a worn backpack and staring blankly as his mother signed the custody papers. She’d told them he was uncontrollable. Too difficult. Too much.
He hadn’t cried. She hadn’t said goodbye. She just left.
That was the start.
From then until he turned eighteen, Matt belonged to Ohio. Foster homes blurred into one another: cramped duplexes, cluttered kitchens, rotating parents with impatient eyes. He learned not to unpack too deeply. Learned to smile when he needed to. To follow the rules—at least enough to avoid being moved again. He was never violent, just intense. Quiet. Odd. Like someone acting at being normal.
But even then, the desire was forming. Not for love. Not for belonging.
For structure. For being.
He didn’t know how to name it yet, but he admired men who looked like they knew who they were—cops, Marines, troopers. They were always clean. Defined. Saluted and feared. He remembered one officer in a pressed dark navy patrol uniform who’d come to a school assembly when he was thirteen. While the others were bored, Matt stared. It wasn’t the man’s words that held him—it was the way the badge caught the light, the way the uniform hugged the body, the boots planted like iron anchors.
Afterward, Matt followed him into the parking lot just to watch him get into his cruiser.
That night, he closed his eyes and imagined stepping into that uniform like it was another skin.
At eighteen, the state let him go, much to the relief of his current foster family.
No diploma. No family. No idea what came next.
He bounced between fast-food jobs and security gigs, spent nights in shared apartments and weekly motels. He stayed quiet. Out of trouble. He kept his nose clean, watched everything. It wasn’t until he met a local Army recruiter at a strip mall that the idea of becoming something returned.
They talked. The recruiter was kind. Wore the uniform with natural pride. Matt imagined himself in it—bloused pants, name tape over his heart, American flag on the shoulder.
But the enlistment contract spooked him.
Four years. Locked in. No control.
He shook the man’s hand and walked away.
Still, the image clung to him.
So he adjusted course.
He started applying for civilian jobs at local police departments. Records clerk. Property room assistant. Vehicle fleet intern. If he couldn’t be a cop yet—not until twenty-one—he’d get as close as they’d let him.
In two small departments, he was given keycard access to the building. The break room. The locker room.
It was in the second department that the temptation first overwhelmed him.
It was late one evening. Everyone had gone home. He was closing out inventory records when he walked past an open locker—an officer’s shirt and trousers neatly hung inside, boots aligned underneath, hat on the shelf above.
The sight made his mouth go dry.
Without thinking, he stepped in, pulled the locker room door closed, and ran his hand over the collar. Then, trembling slightly, he unbuttoned his own shirt and slid the uniform on. First the shirt, then the pants, the boots and the hat.
It didn’t fit. Not exactly. But it fit enough.
He stood in front of the restroom mirror, heart pounding, and stared at himself.
He came into his fist minutes later, alone in the stall, overwhelmed by something he couldn’t yet name.
From that night on, he knew this wasn’t just admiration.
It was need.
By the time Matt turned twenty-one, he had researched every state patrol agency in the country. Their uniforms. Their academy standards. Their public respect.
Georgia’s stood out.
It was the hat, he admitted to himself. The campaign hat. Grey felt, with the thin blue and silver cords held by a black chinstrap worn behind the head, badge on the front. It was ceremonial. Traditional. Authority cast in shape and felt.
They didn’t hand out the hat like a baseball cap. You earned it. At graduation.
That hat meant something.
And the rest of the uniform—it wasn’t tactical chaos or casual patrol gear. It was clean: light blue shirt, French blue trousers with a crisp black stripe. Shiny black gun belt with every piece of equipment positioned with precision. The badge was pinned to the shirt. The Glock 45 rode on the hip as a lethal threat.
Georgia State Patrol didn’t dress like they were prepared for war.
They dressed like they were the law. The GSP troopers were respected and known as people you just didn’t mess with. On duty, they took no guff off of anyone.
Matt submitted his application the day he turned twenty-one.
Now, five months later, he was stepping out of his car at the Georgia Public Safety Training Center in Forsythe.
The sun shown down from a cloudless sky. Matt stood in a line of recruits outside the admin building and carried his duffel bag over his shoulder. His assigned number, 922, was written in black marker on his temporary ID badge.
And there, flanking the main door, stood two GSP instructors in full winter uniform.
His breath caught.
They wore them perfectly. Hat brims flat and low, chinstraps resting taut behind the head. Light blue shirts, French blue pants, shiny shoes. The silver cords around the hat gleamed with the faintest trace of blue.
They didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around.
They simply stood. They had presence.
Matt didn’t blink. Every step toward the entrance was like walking into a chapel.
Orientation was a blur.
Matt was assigned to Squad C, bunk 4. He was issued three sets of recruit greys—dark grey utility shirts and pants with black name tapes. No badge. No hat. Only a baseball cap with the GSP logo. His boots were plain black and stiff. The instructors reminded them that this wasn’t the uniform they wore on patrol.
“You’re not troopers,” one barked. “You’re recruits. Don't get confused.”
Matt didn’t.
He folded each set of greys carefully. Took meticulous notes in his issued legal pad. Spent the first night memorizing the names and faces of the full instructors.
And he watched the uniforms.
Watched the way instructors stood. How they moved. How their belts settled on their waists. The subtle sway of the ASP baton when they walked.
He noticed everything.
And every night, after lights out, he lay in his bunk and visualized graduation.
They’d wear the full winter uniform, regardless of the season.
That was the rule.
They’d be called forward, one by one, and handed their grey felt hat with the badge already mounted. They’d raise it, together, and place it on their heads.
From that moment, they’d be troopers.
No longer becoming.
Just being.
Matt clung to that image like a lifeline.
He could already feel it in his bones
Chapter Two: The Mistake
November brought a quiet change to Forsythe.
The Georgia Public Safety Training Center didn’t have trees that turned gold or orange in the fall, but there was a shift in the air. Coolness in the morning. Dew on the ground during PT. The uniforms worn by the instructors had switched to long sleeves and felt hats. More serious, more formal than Summer’s short sleeve shirts and straw trooper hats.
Matt felt the change inside himself too.
He had stopped being the uncertain new guy with a past he didn’t talk about. He didn’t feel like the discarded foster kid anymore, or the weird civilian who once snuck into a cop locker room to wear someone else’s uniform in the mirror. Those ghosts still whispered, but quieter now.
He had become steady. Focused. Obsessed, maybe—but it worked.
His PT scores were solid. He could rattle off OCGA codes in his sleep. His grouping with the Glock 45 was tighter than average. His grey recruit uniform was always creased, boots always polished, name tape sharp.
And still, he knew it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Because he didn’t have the hat.
Graduation was just four weeks away.
Every recruit felt the countdown ticking beneath their skin. It wasn’t openly spoken, but every motion, every task carried that edge: This is one step closer.
Matt had already imagined it down to the detail.
The winter ceremony.
The command staff handing out the grey felt hats, one by one.
The silver cords wrapped tight around the crown, the black chinstrap held behind the head.
The weight of the hat in his hand.
Raising it.
Placing it on his head for the first time.
Becoming.
The fantasy had become ritual in his dorm bunk. It was no longer just visual. It was spiritual. Some nights he would lie in bed and imagine himself marching onto the parade field in the full uniform. The shirt tight across his chest, trousers sharp, gun belt perfect. The crowd silent. The hat descending onto his brow like a crown.
He didn’t just want to be a trooper.
He wanted to disappear into it.
Week nine brought the advanced firearms block.
Matt wasn’t afraid of the pistol. In fact, he liked the Glock 45. It felt right in his hands. Like something honest. He cleaned it nightly during the firearms module. Disassembled, cleaned, reassembled. Over and over, learning every part by feel.
The instructors drilled them constantly: muscle memory saves lives.
The weather was overcast the morning of the simulation drills. The range officers stood in a cluster, clipboard in hand, calling up recruits one at a time for the “Decision Fire” test: identify the correct target, fire three rounds center mass, all within three seconds of the audible cue.
Matt waited quietly near the rear of the line, bouncing on his heels to stay loose.
He had rehearsed this.
He was ready.
When they called his number, “Collins, Lane 3,” he stepped forward with steady breath.
The range officer gave a short nod. “Three silhouettes. One threat. Identify and fire. Beep is your signal. Ready?”
Matt squared his stance. “Yes, sir.”
“Draw and holster once.”
Matt did, smoothly.
“Standby.”
The beep came.
Matt’s hand dropped to his holster. Drew fast.
The Glock jammed on the pull.
The slide locked halfway open.
And in that split second—half-trained reflex, panic tightening the chest—he turned to his left, pistol still raised, to shout to the instructor behind him:
“Jam!”
That was all.
Just a quarter turn. Just a single shouted word.
But it was enough.
“STOP!”
The instructor’s voice cracked across the range like thunder.
“DROP IT!”
Another whistle—long, sharp.
Two instructors descended on him instantly, one yanking the Glock from his hand, the other grabbing his vest and hauling him backward.
“Collins! You just pointed a weapon at an instructor.”
“No, sir—I didn’t—just for a second, it was jammed—”
“No tolerance!” the senior range officer barked. “You violated the cardinal rule. Muzzle discipline is everything. That is everything. You could’ve killed someone.”
“I didn’t—” Matt stammered, his voice hollow.
“You could have.”
The range went silent. Other recruits stared, some with sympathy, others with caution—as if whatever Matt had just triggered might be contagious.
He was escorted off the range without another word.
Two hours later, Matt sat in an office chair across from the firearms coordinator and the training supervisor. A paper form lay between them.
Dismissal from the academy.
Violation of range safety protocol.
Uncontrolled muzzle sweep of instructor.
Zero tolerance incident. Termination from GSP recruit program, effective immediately.
He barely remembered signing it.
His hands were cold. His breath came shallow.
“You’ll return to your dorm to gather your belongings,” the supervisor said. “Your access card will be deactivated within the hour. You are not eligible to reapply for two years. Now pack up and get out.”
Matt nodded but didn’t speak.
Inside, something caved in on itself. Not rage. Not grief.
Something quieter.
Something like the air leaving a sealed room.
The walk back to the dormitory was dreamlike. The buildings blurred around him. He passed a squad jogging back from PT, one instructor barking cadence. He kept his eyes down.
His bunk was still made. His boots were lined under the bed. His books and notes, all arranged with obsessive care, waited like ghosts of a life that had never existed.
He folded his uniforms with precision and left everything on the bunk. He packed his personal items in silence.
Then, as he walked back down the hallway with his duffel on his shoulder, he passed a small corridor off the admin wing—a side office door left ajar.
And through the crack, he saw it.
On the coat rack inside, hanging with ceremonial reverence:
A full Georgia State Patrol uniform.
Light blue shirt with sergeant chevrons. On the hanger under the shirt hung the French blue trousers. A black ballistic vest behind it. On the bench, shined low-quarter shoes, black socks folded neatly inside. The gun belt hung by its buckle but the pistol was not in the holster.
And on the top shelf, resting like an unspoken dare, the graphite grey felt campaign hat—badge gleaming, silver-and-blue cord wrapped around the crown, black chinstrap hanging under the brim.
No one was in sight.
The room was dead silent.
He should have kept walking.
But he didn’t.
Matt stepped inside.
His duffel was already unzipped.
He packed the uniform piece by piece. Folded quickly but carefully. Hat last, nestled on top.
He didn’t look back.
He drove two hours home with the radio off.
Back in his apartment—small, dimly lit, walls bare except for one framed GSP poster—he laid the uniform out across his bed.
Not the recruit greys.
The real uniform.
Everything he had trained for. Everything they had denied him.
He undressed slowly. No lights. No music. Just silence and the dull hum of the fridge down the hall.
He pulled the trousers on first. Slightly long, but not bad.
Then the vest.
The shirt next—tight in the arms, but it felt like armor.
Next was the gun belt, the socks, and the shoes.
And the hat.
He placed it on his head with both hands.
The chinstrap settled just behind his skull.
He stepped in front of the bathroom mirror.
And gasped.
His reflection wasn’t perfect.
But it was close.
It was him—not the rejected recruit. Not the failed kid from a foster home.
It was the man he had always wanted to become.
Not admired.
Not respected.
Desired.
His breath caught. His hand dropped below his waist.
He came quickly into the pants, staring into his own eyes, the hat just slightly askew.
When it was over, he stood there a long time. Still wearing everything.
Not ashamed.
Just still.
Something inside him had shifted.
This wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
Chapter Three: The Uniforms
Matt Collins kept the Georgia State Patrol uniform in a vacuum-sealed storage bag under his bed.
It wasn’t just about protection from dust or wear. The act of unsealing it was ritualistic, almost sacred—an unveiling. The uniform would be laid out in precise order on his bed: trousers, shirt, ballistic vest, gun belt, shoes, socks. And always, always—the campaign hat.
That grey felt hat, with its silver-and-blue cords and the black chinstrap resting just behind the crown, was never left behind.
To Matt, no uniform was complete without the hat. It was the finishing stroke, the crown, the seal of authority.
Wearing the shirt and pants alone felt like trying on clothes. But the moment he placed the hat on his head, settled the strap behind his skull, he stopped being Matt.
He became.
He wore it all at once. Fully dressed. Fully still. And fully transformed.
At first, he thought he’d keep the uniform sealed away. A memory. A memento of what might have been.
But something in him kept needing it.
The first few weeks after the academy incident, he wore it only late at night. Lights off. A single lamp. No distractions. He stood in the mirror, silent, adjusting the brim, watching how the hat changed his face.
The angles looked stronger. The eyes sharper. He seemed taller, leaner, realer somehow.
He’d reach behind his head and touch the taut chinstrap, as if confirming the transformation.
And when the mirror gave him back the image of a man who could have been a trooper, he’d finish himself off quickly. Hard. Quiet.
Afterward, the hat stayed on his head until he was ready to undress.
He felt no shame.
Just clarity.
It wasn’t enough to feel like a cop. He had to look like one.
Completely.
He began making “friends” again.
Carefully.
One man—Rick, a local cop—met him at the gym and quickly invited him into his social circle. They bonded over weightlifting, then guns, then drinks.
Rick trusted easily.
One night, after a few beers, Rick invited Matt over. His patrol gear lay strewn across the entryway: boots, uniform shirt, tactical vest, and on the kitchen table, his duty cap—black, with a gleaming badge affixed.
Rick stepped out of the room to take a call.
Matt touched the cap.
Then the shirt.
He didn’t try it on that night.
But the seed was planted.
A few weeks later, Rick asked Matt to check on his dog while he was out on a date.
Matt entered the house quietly, like it wasn’t his first time. He fed the dog, took it outside. Then returned inside.
The uniform was where he remembered.
This time, Matt moved slowly, deliberately.
He dressed in Rick’s full uniform, layering each piece carefully.
Vest. Shirt. Pants. Socks and boots. Gun belt.
Then the hat.
He adjusted it in front of the hallway mirror.
His chest filled.
It wasn’t just the feel of the fabric or the weight of the belt.
It was the hat. The symmetry. The authority.
The way the brim cut across his eyes, casting him in a stranger’s shadow.
He came fast into his hand, biting his lip, uniform pristine.
Afterward, he redressed placing the uniform back exactly as he found it. He left the house as if nothing had happened.
Rick never noticed.
Matt didn’t need him to.
He didn’t just want to wear uniforms.
He wanted to inhabit them.
He studied posture. Speech. Gesture.
He practiced walking with his hands at his sides like real troopers. Tucked his chin slightly. Rehearsed introducing himself into the mirror.
Eventually, the practice wasn’t enough.
He needed to step out.
Back home that night, he stared at himself again in the GSP uniform, hat perfect—and whispered the question that had been forming for months:
What if I didn’t have to take it off?
What if this wasn’t pretend?
What if someone let me become them?
The thought sent a wave through his body.
And when he placed the hat gently back on its shelf, he knew:
He was never going back to being Matt Collins.
Chapter Four: The First Impersonation
It started with a rest stop.
Not a plan. Not a target. Just a moment—one of those mundane, forgettable places along the interstate where travelers stretch their legs and pretend time hasn’t slowed to a crawl.
Matt had been driving north on I-75, returning from a gun show in Macon where he’d bought a lightly used flashlight holster and a perfect replica of a GSP ride-along clipboard. He wasn't planning anything. He told himself he just needed to stop, take a break.
But in the back of his car—folded with clinical precision—was the complete Georgia State Patrol uniform he’d stolen.
Shirt, trousers, belt, and boots. And the hat.
He had no business owning it.
He wasn’t from Georgia.
He wasn’t a cop.
But it was his size. And it was complete. And in that moment—sitting in the empty parking lot of a rest stop just before the Georgia-Florida line—it was calling to him.
His heart thudded in his chest.
He looked around.
No one.
Just a man alone in a parked car.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out of his vehicle in full uniform.
The shirt was tight, the creases perfect. His boots clicked against the concrete. His belt—shiny black with gear replicas mounted in correct order—rode just above his hips.
And on his head: the campaign hat. Seated clean, chinstrap drawn snug behind his skull. The brim cast a shadow over his eyes.
He walked across the rest stop like he belonged.
He didn't speak to anyone. Didn’t flash a badge. He wasn’t impersonating in a criminal sense.
But he wasn't hiding either.
And when a man in a t-shirt and jeans nodded at him from across the vending machines and said, “Afternoon, Officer,” Matt nodded back and replied:
“That’s trooper, sir. Drive safe now.”
His voice didn’t shake.
The man smiled, tipped an imaginary cap, and walked off.
Matt stood there, alone, barely breathing.
He had done it.
He had passed.
Back in the car, his hands were trembling.
He sat behind the wheel for a long time, staring at his reflection in the mirror, the hat still on his head.
He didn’t take it off until the car was in motion, already halfway down the on-ramp.
Even then, his fingers hesitated.
Removing it felt like peeling off a layer of himself.
That night, at home, he couldn’t sleep.
He sat on the couch in the uniform, lights off, just the glow from a streetlight casting shadows across the floor.
He ran his hand down the shirtfront.
Touched the brim of the hat.
Whispered: “Evening, sir. License and registration.”
“Everything all right tonight?”
“Trooper Collins, sir. Just a routine stop.”
The voice was steady.
Trained.
Practiced.
Not a game.
He told himself he wouldn’t do it again for a while.
But a week later, he was driving through a rural county two hours west when he pulled off at a gas station. This time, he was in a Georgia State Patrol uniform.
He stepped inside to buy a bottle of water.
The cashier barely glanced up.
“Evenin’, trooper.”
Matt nodded.
Said nothing.
Paid cash.
He stood a little taller as he walked back out.
No one stopped him.
No one questioned.
No one saw Matt.
They saw the uniform.
And that meant they saw what he wanted them to see.
From then on, it escalated.
Rest stops. Gas stations. Gun shops. Always short interactions. Never long enough to draw suspicion, but long enough to be seen.
Long enough to be treated like someone real.
And every time, Matt left with a full heart and steady breath.
He was getting better.
More confident.
The lines were blurring.
He didn’t feel like he was pretending anymore.
He felt like he was stepping into the life he deserved.
But impersonation is never just about clothes.
Matt began researching deeper.
He read public databases for officer names, cross-checked sizes and builds through social media photos.
He searched for men who looked like him.
Men who might be isolated.
Men who might be… available.
He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for.
Not yet.
But he knew this: the right man would complete the equation.
The uniform was a costume.
But the life was a role.
He didn’t want to pretend anymore.
He wanted to replace.
Not forcefully.
Not violently.
Willingly. Seamlessly.
He just had to find the right candidate.
Someone who was tired. Alone. Drifting.
Someone who needed.
Someone like Jake.
But Jake Bennett hadn’t come into the picture yet.
Not directly.
But each time he looked in the mirror, dressed in full uniform, hat perfectly set, he knew one thing for certain:
Matt Collins was fading.
And someone else was taking his place.
Someone better.
Someone real.
Chapter Five: The Obsession
Jake Bennett’s face haunted Matt Collins.
It wasn’t just the photo, though that image was perfect. Jake stood tall beside a cruiser in rural West Virginia, his body half-turned to the camera. The dark green uniform looked like it was carved onto him. The pressed shirt bore the shining badge of the West Virginia State Police. His deep green campaign hat sat low and stern across his brow, with the matching badge affixed front and center.
But it was the look in Jake’s eyes that stayed with Matt.
Not power. Not pride.
Stillness. Hunger.
Like a man quietly enduring something. Like someone waiting to disappear. Like someone who needed something he could explain.
And Matt felt a magnetic pull—dark and exhilarating.
Jake wasn’t just admirable.
He was replaceable.
He didn’t want something like Jake’s uniform.
He wanted Jake’s actual uniform.
The one that fit him perfectly.
The one Jake wore every shift, without realizing someone was out there… imagining themselves inside it.
Matt knew better than to rush. He wasn’t ready yet—not fully.
But in the dark of his apartment, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and his own breath, he would stand in front of the mirror and picture the transformation in vivid detail.
The dark green shirt, buttoned to the top. The pants, creased down the front. The gun belt riding snug on his waist. And over all of it was the campaign hat. Matching green, shaped with care, the West Virginia State Police badge gleaming at the front. Chinstrap resting behind the head.
He imagined placing that hat on his head and watching himself disappear.
Matt Collins gone.
Only Trooper Jake Bennett remaining.
The decision came with clarity.
He couldn’t do it while still being “Matt Collins.”
He needed a new identity.
Legally.
Quietly.
He filed for a name change in a small Georgia county. The paperwork moved fast. Within three weeks, he was issued a new Social Security card, followed by a driver’s license.
But he changed his last name to Kane.
Matthew L. Kane.
The documents arrived by mail.
He stared at them in his kitchen under the glow of a bare bulb, hands trembling slightly.
When he whispered the new name aloud, it felt proper.
He began reading everything he could find on Jake.
Public records. News clippings. Department newsletters. Arrest reports.
He mapped out Jake’s daily habits, from his morning fuel stops to his shift rotations along Route 219. He patrolled alone on nearly empty roads. He lived modestly in a small cabin outside of the town.
Jake was disciplined. Private. Single. No known family nearby. No real digital footprint.
He appeared to be the same size, height and weight of Matt. Jake’s blond hair was slightly lighter than Matt’s.
No one who’d notice if he started slipping away.
And Matt?
He was ready to step in.
Not with force.
With precision.
With patience.
With love.
Chapter Six: Meeting Trooper Jake Bennett
The first time Matt saw Jake in person, the dark green uniform struck him like a punch.
It was near dawn on a cool morning. A backroad in Randolph County, West Virginia. The dew hadn’t yet lifted from the trees. The road shimmered in the low light.
Matt had planned it all.
He was doing 47 in a posted 35. Not reckless. Just enough.
The blue lights flared behind him at 8:12 a.m.
Jake stepped out of his cruiser, adjusting his dark green campaign hat with gloved fingers. The hat was flawless. The badge on its front glinted like a star. He wore an unzipped uniform jacket. Under the jacket, his shirt was pressed and buttoned to the neck, black tie clipped on, the chromium badge riding over his chest like a declaration.
Everything about him was composed. Controlled.
Matt’s pulse quickened.
He rolled down his window.
Jake’s eyes met his only briefly.
“Good morning, sir,” the trooper said, calm and professional.
“Morning, Officer,” Matt replied.
Jake tilted his head slightly. “Trooper.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“License and registration, please.”
Matt handed over the ID—Matthew Kane.
Jake glanced at it. “Matthew Kane?”
“Yes sir.”
“From Georgia?” asked Jake.
“Yes sir. From down around Macon.”
Jake studied him another second, then handed it back. He only saw Matt from the side. Matt wore a beard and mustache to disguise his likeness to Jake. His flannel shirt and navy baseball cap added to the disguise.
“You were speeding a little. Nothing dangerous. Just watch it near Mill Creek. There’s a school zone up ahead.”
“Will do. Thanks a lot, Trooper.”
Jake nodded once, tapped the roof, and walked back to his car.
Matt sat frozen.
It had happened.
He had met Jake.
He had spoken to him.
He had been seen.
That night, Matt sat in the dark, holding his new ID card under the faint light of the kitchen.
Matthew L. Kane.
He whispered it over and over.
Then he stood in the mirror. Naked, imagining the dark green campaign hat he didn’t yet own—but imagined in perfect detail.
One day soon, he told himself, he would place the real one on his head.
And Jake—his quiet, tired, beautiful Jake—would let him.
And now Jake would move to town and start his carefully planned friendship with Jake.
