The Return to Blue -
Reentry into the NYPD after undercover work was harder than Ethan expected. He was technically twenty-one, but he carried the weight of someone twice that. Most rookies his age were still learning beat patrols. Ethan had already lived two years of shadows, carrying scars of violence and secrets he couldn't tell.
The brass offered him fast-tracks: plainclothes units, early detective training. He declined.
"I need something cleaner," he told Hale in their last meeting. "Something that demands discipline, not deception."
Hale studied him, then nodded. "SWAT, then. You'll either break, or you'll find what you're looking for."
SWAT Selection -
The selection process was infamous. Physical trials that reduced grown men to quivering exhaustion. Simulations designed to break nerves. Shooting drills where seconds meant the difference between life and humiliation.
For Ethan, it was another crucible. He ran until his lungs burned, lifted until his muscles screamed, fought until every strike was muscle memory. He fired round after round on the range, groupings so tight instructors exchanged glances.
One evaluation officer muttered, "This kid doesn't miss."
Ethan didn't. He couldn't afford to. Not anymore.
When the dust cleared, Ethan Cross was among the select few standing. SWAT accepted him.
The Brotherhood -
SWAT was unlike anything Ethan had experienced. It wasn't solitary brilliance or undercover isolation. It was brotherhood. Each man and woman depended on the other. Each move was a cog in a machine that had to function flawlessly.
At first, some distrusted him. He was the polished kid, the Harvard genius with strange scars and eyes too cold for his age. But Ethan proved himself the only way that mattered: on ops.
He breached doors with precision, cleared rooms with fluidity, covered his teammates without hesitation. He took hits—once a round through his right shoulder during a drug raid, another time shrapnel cutting across his calf during an IED sweep—but never faltered.
Pain was irrelevant. The mission came first.
Slowly, the unit accepted him. He wasn't just Cross, the prodigy. He was their brother.
The Scars of Service -
Four years on SWAT carved Ethan into something harder, leaner, sharper.
He learned the rhythm of chaos—the thud of boots on stairwells, the crack of flashbangs, the deafening silence after a firefight ended. He learned to compartmentalize the faces of civilians he couldn't save. He learned the price of hesitation.
The scars on his body multiplied. The gunshot wound in his shoulder became a permanent reminder of the raid that nearly went wrong. The scar on his calf burned whenever the weather turned cold.
But the deepest scars weren't visible. Nights alone in his warehouse home, Ethan sat in silence, sometimes at the piano, sometimes in the dark, hearing echoes of gunfire. His compositions grew darker, filled with tension and release that mirrored the tempo of raids.
The Detective's Exam -
At twenty-five, Ethan faced a decision. He had proven himself on SWAT, risen to respect, carried out missions most never survived. But Hale's words lingered: You'll either break, or you'll find what you're looking for.
He hadn't broken. But he hadn't found peace either.
The detective's exam was the next step. Ethan studied in silence, though he hardly needed to. His memory was photographic, his understanding of law and criminology ingrained. The exam felt less like a challenge than a formality.
When the results came back, he had passed with ease.
He was offered a detective's shield.
But another opportunity arrived at the same time.
The Scotland Yard Offer -
Through an inter-agency exchange, Ethan was invited to spend five years working with Scotland Yard in London. It was rare, prestigious, and dangerous. It would mean leaving New York, leaving his parents, leaving everything familiar.
But it would also mean learning new tactics, new approaches, new enemies. It would mean sharpening his edge further.
Victor, ever pragmatic, said only: "Steel is forged in many fires."
Isabelle, tears in her eyes, whispered: "Just promise you'll come back."
Ethan kissed her cheek. "I always come back."
Departure -
On the night before his flight, Ethan stood once more on the balcony of his warehouse home. The city stretched endlessly, lights shimmering like stars. Duke rested at his side, Lady curled on the sofa, Lenny silent in his aquatic habitat below.
Ethan wore a suit—always a suit—tailored in deep black with cobalt accents. His reflection in the glass showed a man of twenty-six who had lived ten lifetimes.
The boy who had frozen in the rain was gone. The SWAT officer, the undercover ghost, the scholar, the prodigy—that was who remained.
And tomorrow, he would be something new again.
With steady hands, Ethan adjusted his tie. The vow still burned within him: Never again powerless.
London awaited.