Crossing the Line -
The NYPD Police Academy in Queens was nothing like Harvard. The buildings were utilitarian, the atmosphere sharp with the smell of sweat, gun oil, and ambition. Where Harvard's halls had been polished and reverent, the Academy's were loud, demanding, and unrelenting.
Ethan arrived in a tailored navy suit, the cut sharp, the tie knotted with military precision. The other recruits turned their heads immediately. Most wore plain shirts or modest jackets. Ethan looked like a Wall Street lawyer who'd gotten lost on his way to court.
"Wrong building, suit," one cadet muttered as Ethan passed.
Ethan didn't reply. He simply adjusted his cufflinks, eyes straight ahead, posture precise. He wasn't here for approval. He was here for purpose.
The instructors noticed him too. One, Sergeant Holloway, a broad man with twenty years in uniform, narrowed his eyes at Ethan on day one.
"You got soft hands, Cross?" Holloway barked during roll call.
Ethan met his gaze calmly. "No, Sergeant."
"We'll see about that."
The Grind -
The Academy was designed to break recruits down, to strip away arrogance and illusion, to forge cops who could handle the streets. For most, it was a brutal awakening. For Ethan, it was confirmation.
Physical training was relentless—runs at dawn, obstacle courses in the freezing rain, pushups until arms trembled. Yet Ethan didn't falter. Years of martial arts and discipline gave him endurance others lacked. He wasn't the fastest, but he was the most consistent. Where others dropped from exhaustion, Ethan kept going, jaw clenched, silver eyes burning.
In defensive tactics, he excelled. Instructors quickly realized he moved like no recruit they'd ever seen. Sparring matches became spectacles. Recruits who underestimated him were swiftly pinned, disarmed, or thrown to the mat with precise efficiency. Word spread quickly: don't go toe-to-toe with Cross.
But Ethan didn't humiliate. He always offered a hand to help opponents up, always explained where they had left themselves open. Some resented him for it. Others respected him.
In academics, he soared even higher. Laws, criminal codes, psychology of offenders—all absorbed and dissected with ease. He quoted case law from memory, dissected ethical scenarios with razor-sharp logic, and delivered presentations that left instructors nodding in approval.
One professor leaned over to another after Ethan had presented on profiling techniques. "Kid could be teaching here," he whispered.
Standing Out -
By mid-academy, Ethan was notorious. Some cadets admired his polish, his ability to ace every test, his unshakable composure. Others thought he was arrogant, untouchable, a man playing at being one of them while never truly belonging.
But Ethan earned something more valuable than popularity: the respect of his instructors. Sergeant Holloway, who had sneered at Ethan's suit on day one, began calling on him more often.
"Cross, explain the weakness in this approach."
"Cross, demonstrate the takedown."
"Cross, show them how it's done."
Ethan never faltered.
During firearms training, his precision stunned even veteran range masters. His grouping was flawless, his reloads seamless. One instructor murmured, "That's not a recruit's aim. That's special operations level."
Word traveled up the chain. Ethan was more than a bright cadet—he was exceptional.
The First Test of Loyalty -
Not everything came easy. One evening, after a grueling day of drills, Ethan found himself cornered in the locker room by three fellow cadets.
"You think you're better than us, don't you?" one demanded.
"You walk around in your fancy suits, talking all those languages. You're not one of us."
Ethan regarded them calmly, towel draped over his shoulders. "I don't think I'm better. I think I'm prepared."
The biggest cadet shoved him. "Prepared for this?"
Ethan moved like water. A twist, a pivot, a controlled throw. The cadet hit the bench with a thud. The second lunged; Ethan sidestepped, catching him in an arm lock. The third froze, eyes wide.
Ethan released the second, stepping back, his voice steady. "I don't want enemies. But I won't tolerate disrespect."
He left without another word. By the next morning, whispers of the encounter had spread. No one tested him again.
Graduation -
When graduation day arrived, Ethan stood in the front row, his uniform crisp, his posture perfect. His parents sat in the audience, Isabelle radiant in one of her own designs, Victor stern but proud.
The ceremony was filled with speeches, applause, and handshakes. Ethan accepted his badge with calm reverence. It gleamed in his hand, heavier than its size suggested.
This was no longer theory. This was the beginning.
After the ceremony, Holloway approached him. "Cross," he said gruffly. "You've got options. You could teach. You could be a detective straight out the gate in a few years. But I hear some other people got their eyes on you."
Ethan raised a brow. "Other people?"
Holloway leaned in. "Task force types. DEA. They like prodigies. And you—" He shook his head. "You're not normal."
Ethan said nothing. But inside, he felt the shift. The badge wasn't the end. It was the door.
The Whisper of Undercover -
Weeks into his first patrol assignment, Ethan was called into his lieutenant's office.
A man in a dark suit was waiting—federal badge gleaming on his belt. "Detective Cross," the man began.
"I'm not a detective," Ethan corrected calmly. "Just a patrol officer."
The man smirked. "Not for long. We've been watching you since the Academy. Your record, your languages, your combat skills, your… adaptability. We want you for a joint NYPD–DEA operation."
Ethan's silver eyes narrowed. "Undercover?"
The man leaned back. "Two years. Deep cover. Dangerous. But it'll change the course of your career."
Ethan thought of the rain, of his vow, of every lesson drilled into him. Then he nodded once.
"I'll do it."