The Briefing -
The man with the DEA badge introduced himself as Agent Marcus Hale, though he spoke like someone who kept more names than one. His voice was steady, his eyes cool, the kind of man who had walked too long in shadows and carried them in his bones.
"This isn't Harvard, Cross," Hale said during the first briefing. "This isn't an exam you ace by out-thinking everyone in the room. This is about living a lie so deeply it starts to feel real. You understand?"
Ethan nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Hale studied him for a long moment. "You're young. Too young, in my opinion. But you've got a skill set we can't ignore—languages, combat, a face that can pass for a Wall Street broker or a street hustler. We're not asking. We're telling. You've been approved."
Ethan said nothing. The badge pinned on his chest days earlier suddenly felt like both an anchor and a weapon.
Building a Ghost -
The next weeks were a blur of transformation. Ethan was stripped of his suits, his polish, his name. Ethan Alexander Cross disappeared. In his place emerged Ethan Ward, a college dropout with a knack for fixing engines, a taste for cheap whiskey, and a willingness to skirt the law.
His cover was designed with surgical precision. Arrest records fabricated. Social media ghosts created. Fake contacts, fake debts, fake scars.
"Your mother wouldn't recognize you," Hale remarked the first time Ethan walked in wearing ripped jeans, grease-stained hands, and a half-healed split lip from a staged fight.
"That's the idea," Ethan replied.
He was placed in a rundown apartment in Queens, stripped of every luxury he'd ever known. The penthouse, the tailored suits, the Steinway piano—they might as well have belonged to another life. Here, the walls were cracked, the fridge half-empty, the mattress lumpy.
It was deliberate. To be believable, Ethan had to live it.
First Contact -
The operation targeted a narcotics pipeline threading from the docks into New York's veins. Ethan's entry point was small—a garage where stolen cars were stripped and reassembled before being funneled into larger networks.
He played his part perfectly: the disillusioned prodigy with greasy hands and a chip on his shoulder. His real knowledge of engines—honed in his father's workshop—made him invaluable. Within weeks, he was trusted to handle the finer jobs.
Trust led to introductions. Introductions led to proximity. Proximity led to danger.
The first time he sat across from a mid-level trafficker, Ethan felt the weight of it. The man's eyes were sharp, calculating, looking for weakness. Ethan's silver gaze met his without flinching. He spoke in flawless Spanish, weaving a story of debts and desperation that rang true enough to pass.
The trafficker leaned back, finally smirking. "You might be useful, kid."
Living the Lie -
Undercover life was not glamorous. It was lonely, brutal, suffocating. Ethan couldn't call his parents, couldn't see Duke, Lady, or even the comfort of his music. Every day was survival, every word a mask.
He drank when offered, though he never let himself blur. He fought when provoked, though always controlled enough to win without suspicion. He earned scars—one from a staged knife fight gone wrong across his eyebrow, another jagged scar tearing down his left hip after a deal turned violent.
Each scar became part of the lie. But they also became part of him.
At night, alone in his apartment, Ethan stared at the cracked ceiling and reminded himself: Never again powerless. Never again.
The First Kill -
It came without warning.
A buy had gone wrong in a warehouse on the docks. Guns were drawn, shouting filled the air. Ethan was shoved forward by the trafficker he'd been embedded with. A rival had pulled a pistol, aiming straight at Ethan's chest.
Time slowed. Ethan's body moved. Disarm. Strike. Twist. A gunshot echoed. The rival dropped, blood pooling dark against concrete.
Ethan's hand trembled only after the fact. His first kill. Necessary. Inevitable. But a line crossed nonetheless.
The trafficker clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Didn't think you had it in you."
Ethan forced a smirk. "Never doubt me."
Inside, though, something cracked.
The Fracture -
Two years blurred. Deals. Fights. Lies. Ethan became Ward so completely that sometimes he forgot the sound of his real name. He sent coded reports through dead drops, met handlers in shadows, watched men overdose on product he'd helped move just to keep his cover intact.
He hardened. The softness of youth was burned out of him. The vow that had once been about protection twisted into something sharper: justice demanded sacrifice.
By twenty-one, his mission concluded. The pipeline was shattered, dozens arrested, millions seized. Ethan's work had been pivotal.
But when Hale finally told him, "It's over. You're coming home," Ethan didn't feel relief. He felt… hollow.
Return -
Back in his penthouse, Ethan stood in front of a mirror. The suits still fit. The silver eyes were the same. But the man staring back was not the boy who had left.
Scars crisscrossed his body. His gaze was colder, harder. His smile—when it came at all—was practiced.
Victor watched his son in silence, then said simply, "You kept your vow."
Isabelle embraced him, tears dampening her son's shoulder. "Just don't lose yourself, Ethan."
Ethan held her, eyes distant. Inside, he wondered if he already had.