Arrival in London -
The plane touched down at Heathrow on a gray January morning, the sky heavy with clouds that seemed to press down on the city itself. Rain spattered against the glass as Ethan stared out at the tarmac, silver eyes taking in the new world he'd agreed to enter.
He carried one leather bag—minimal, sharp lines, his mother's design—and a steel-edged calm that masked the storm inside. Behind him lay five years of SWAT raids, gunfire, undercover scars. Ahead was London, Scotland Yard, and the unknown.
A driver in a dark coat held a placard with his name at arrivals. "Detective Cross?"
"Ethan," he corrected smoothly, extending a hand. "Let's keep it simple."
The ride to Westminster was a blur of unfamiliar streets and accents. London was older than New York, heavier with history, every street lined with stories. It wasn't home, but something about its weight resonated.
Scotland Yard itself was a fortress of glass and steel, modernity wrapped around centuries of tradition. As he stepped inside, Ethan felt the weight of eyes on him.
The Americans had sent one of their "golden boys." Harvard at eighteen. Undercover by twenty. SWAT veteran by twenty-one. To some, it sounded like legend. To others, it reeked of arrogance.
The air was colder here. More skeptical.
First Impressions -
Chief Superintendent Graham Whitaker greeted him in a clipped tone, extending a firm handshake.
"You're not here to impress us with American theatrics, Cross," Whitaker said. "You're here to learn, to adapt, and—if you're useful—to contribute. We do things differently here."
Ethan's reply was measured, polite. "Understood. I didn't come for theatrics. I came to work."
Whitaker studied him, then nodded once. "We'll see."
The Yard placed him in Serious Crime Command, where the cases weren't bar fights or pickpockets but murders, organized crime syndicates, high-level narcotics. His first partner was Detective Inspector Amelia Rowe, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and openly skeptical.
"You're the wunderkind, then," she remarked when they first met, accent crisp. "Let's hope you're not just a headline."
Ethan smirked faintly. "I've been called worse."
First Case: The Chelsea Murders -
London welcomed him with blood.
Three bodies in three weeks, each dumped along the Thames near Chelsea. Young men, all beaten, all showing signs of torture before drowning. The city whispered of gangs, of punishment killings, of something darker.
Rowe led the case. Ethan followed, observing the rhythms of London policing. It was slower than New York, more meticulous. Forms, procedures, endless protocols. Where NYPD SWAT had smashed doors, Scotland Yard built cases brick by brick.
Still, Ethan saw what others missed.
At the third crime scene, he crouched beside the body, silver eyes scanning details. The ligature marks weren't random. The knots were precise, sailor's knots, the kind his father had once taught him when restoring yachts for wealthy clients.
"These weren't amateurs," Ethan said quietly. "This is someone with maritime training."
Rowe raised an eyebrow. "And you know this how?"
He simply answered, "I know knots."
Breaking the Case -
Ethan traced the knots to a particular dockworkers' union with rumored ties to Albanian traffickers. His linguistic arsenal came into play—fluent Albanian, unaccented, flawless. In interrogation, suspects who stonewalled locals cracked when Ethan leaned in, speaking to them in their mother tongue, voice low and commanding.
Rowe watched, astonished, as hardened men folded.
Within weeks, the network unraveled. The murders were traced to a trafficker punishing disloyal couriers. The Yard made sweeping arrests. Headlines spoke of "Scotland Yard's American import" helping crack the Chelsea Murders.
Ethan downplayed it, but the tide shifted. The skepticism lessened. Rowe's smirk softened into respect.
"Not bad, Cross," she admitted one evening as they filed paperwork.
"Not bad?" Ethan echoed, feigning offense.
She smiled faintly. "Fine. Bloody impressive. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
Isolation -
Respect at the Yard didn't erase the isolation. Ethan lived alone in a minimalist flat overlooking the Thames, decorated only with his mother's suits, his father's tools, and a small upright piano.
Nights were quiet. Too quiet. He composed music in shadows, notes spilling from his hands like secrets he couldn't tell anyone. He kept his body sharp—martial arts training in underground gyms, morning runs along rain-slick cobblestones, endless drills with his sidearm.
But friendships were rare. Trust came slow, and Ethan had learned long ago that attachments in his world were vulnerabilities.
Still, London was shaping him. Different rhythm. Different battles. The vow inside him—never again powerless—burned just as fiercely. But here, he was learning new ways to fight.
A New Kind of War -
The Yard quickly realized Ethan's talents weren't confined to brute force. He had a mind made for patterns, and London provided no shortage of puzzles.
He cracked a forgery ring by tracing paper fibers back to a single outdated mill. He identified a serial arsonist by recognizing the chemical accelerant's residue during a crime scene walkthrough. He even de-escalated a hostage standoff in Brixton—not with a rifle, but by speaking fluent Yoruba to the panicked captor's mother over the phone, convincing her son to surrender.
Each case chipped away at the skepticism around him. Detectives who once rolled their eyes began seeking his insight. Rowe, once dismissive, became his fiercest defender in briefing rooms.
Still, not everyone approved. Some muttered about the "American experiment," others resented his meteoric impact. Ethan ignored the noise. He hadn't come for approval. He had come for the work.
And the work never stopped.
The Underworld -
London's underworld was different from New York's. Older, more entrenched, families and syndicates that spanned generations. Russian oligarch money laundering through Mayfair clubs. Nigerian gangs running fraud across continents. Balkan traffickers moving heroin through the Channel.
Ethan immersed himself. His languages became weapons sharper than any gun. In one week alone, he shifted from fluent Russian in a backroom negotiation to Cantonese in a Chinatown café to flawless French during a surveillance op.
Rowe once asked him, incredulous, "How many tongues do you actually speak?"
Ethan's smirk was faint. "Enough to know when someone's lying."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
But it worked. Doors opened for him that slammed shut for others. Information flowed. Cases cracked.
The Test of Fire -
The true test came six months into his London tenure. A tip placed a violent trafficking ring in a warehouse along the Docklands. Intelligence suggested dozens of victims inside—women smuggled in for exploitation.
The Yard prepared a tactical raid. Ethan, with his SWAT background, was asked to advise. He didn't hesitate.
As dawn broke, he moved with the team, MP5 in hand, his movements clean, controlled. Breach charges blew. Chaos erupted.
Gunfire echoed in the cavernous warehouse. Ethan moved like a ghost, clearing corners, dropping threats with precision shots. A round clipped his vest, knocking the wind from him, but he pressed forward, covering Rowe as she dragged two captives to safety.
When it was over, twenty victims were freed. The traffickers were in custody—or dead.
Ethan's shoulder ached, his chest bruised, but the faces of the freed women seared into his mind. For the first time since arriving in London, he felt the vow inside him reaffirmed. This is why.
Recognition -
The raid made headlines. "American Detective Leads Scotland Yard Rescue."
Ethan hated the spotlight. He deflected interviews, refused to grandstand. But within the Yard, respect crystallized. Officers who once doubted him now raised a pint in his name at the pub. Rowe toasted him with a smirk.
"You're officially one of us now, Cross. Even if you dress better than the Queen."
Ethan adjusted his cufflinks—always his mother's brand—and smiled faintly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
It was. And it marked the beginning of something bigger.
The Call from MI5 -
Weeks later, Ethan was summoned to a meeting in a quiet office far from the bustle of the Yard. Waiting for him was a man in a plain suit with an expression carved from stone.
"Detective Cross," the man said. "MI5 has taken an interest in your… versatility."
Ethan listened in silence. The man explained: the trafficking network extended beyond London, tied to terror financing and international syndicates. MI5 needed someone who could move between worlds—cop, soldier, linguist, tactician.
Ethan leaned back, hands folded. "And you think that's me."
The man's lips curved faintly. "We know it's you."
It wasn't a request. It was the beginning of Ethan's next transformation.
The Weight of Silence -
That night, Ethan returned to his flat overlooking the Thames. Rain streaked the glass, the city lights shimmering beyond. Duke wasn't here. Lady wasn't here. Lenny wasn't here. Just silence and shadows.
He sat at the piano, fingers drifting across the keys. The melody that emerged was dark, haunting, a mix of longing and fire. It was music no one would ever hear, but it was the only way he could bleed without leaving scars.
He had chosen this life long ago. But nights like this reminded him of the cost.
The boy who once dreamed in rain was long gone. In his place stood a man about to step into deeper shadows.