The Return Home -
The wheels touched down at JFK just after dawn. The sky glowed in streaks of pink and gold, the kind of sunrise Ethan hadn't seen in years. London mornings had been all gray skies and damp air. Here, the light felt warmer, cleaner—like it was welcoming him back.
He sat upright in his seat, one hand brushing through his shoulder-length, tousled blonde hair. His silver eyes—still carrying those blood-red flecks that unnerved so many—were tired but alert. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit from his mother's own label, with cobalt cufflinks that gleamed faintly in the early sun. To anyone else he looked like a wealthy entrepreneur returning from abroad. Only he knew the weight of the scars hidden beneath the fabric.
When the arrivals gate finally opened, the crowd seemed to blur until two figures came into sharp focus—his parents.
His father stood tall, though streaks of silver now threaded through his dark hair. His mother was radiant, elegant as ever, wrapped in a cream coat of her own design. Her eyes—sharp, perceptive—narrowed as they fell on him, scanning his face, his posture, his gait, as if cataloging every scar and secret he carried back with him.
For a moment, Ethan froze. Five years in London, living in shadows, shaping himself into steel—and yet here they were. The anchors of his life.
His mother broke first, her voice trembling as she whispered, "My boy."
He closed the distance in two strides, pulling her into his arms. She clutched him fiercely, whispering in Korean against his shoulder: "Uriui himgwa jiseong." Our strength and wisdom. The phrase she had once written on his skin as a child, the one he now bore as ink across his left lat.
His father clasped his shoulder firmly, voice steady but thick. "Welcome home, son."
And for the first time in years, Ethan allowed himself to breathe.
The Warehouse -
They drove straight from JFK to Brooklyn, to the refurbished warehouse Ethan had purchased before leaving for London. It stood like a fortress on the edge of the borough—industrial steel bones softened by glass and polished concrete. The high-end modern interior gleamed, cared for in his absence.
His father had kept the garage alive—machines humming, tools perfectly arranged. His mother had ensured the second floor remained immaculate, even updating his wardrobe with new suits and ties.
The moment he stepped inside, sound broke the silence.
A bark—sharp, commanding, familiar.
Ethan dropped his bags. Duke, his Belgian Malinois, came bounding across the polished floor. The dog's muscular frame rippled with power, eyes locked on him. For a split second, Ethan feared Duke might not remember.
Then Duke leapt, paws colliding with Ethan's chest. Ethan laughed—really laughed—as the dog licked his face. "Missed you too, boy."
Lady, his Maine Coon, made her entrance next—regal as a queen, tail swishing as if to remind everyone who truly ruled the house. Ethan scooped her up, pressing her against his chest as she purred like an engine.
From the aquatic habitat, the dark shape of Lenny the caiman slid through water, eyes glowing faintly under the artificial light. Ethan smirked. "Still alive, huh? Guess you've been behaving."
For a long time, he simply sat there, dog pressed against his side, cat in his lap, the sound of water burbling behind him. It felt like exhaling after years of holding his breath.
The Dinner -
That night, his mother cooked—a rare act, but one she insisted upon when the family needed grounding. The table was covered in a blend of cultures: kimchi and bulgogi alongside roast beef and roasted vegetables, artisan bread beside bowls of rice. It was a reflection of the household Ethan had grown up in, one foot in tradition, the other in innovation.
They ate together, talking late into the night. His father asked about the Yard, about SWAT, about operations he couldn't share in full detail. His mother watched him more closely, her questions quieter but sharper.
"Do you sleep?" she asked finally.
Ethan hesitated. He thought of the missions, the faces of traffickers and terrorists, the children rescued, the comrades lost. He thought of the piano keys under his trembling fingers, of blood washing down drains in cities far from here.
"Enough," he lied with a smile.
She didn't believe him, but she didn't press.
The Quiet Night -
Later, long after his parents had gone upstairs to the guest suite, Ethan sat alone in his music corner. The piano gleamed under dim light, untouched since the day he'd left.
He lowered himself onto the bench, fingers hovering over the keys. Slowly, he began to play—not the structured compositions he'd performed in London to mask his soul, but something raw, something that belonged only to him.
The melody was heavy, tinged with sorrow, but beneath it pulsed a quiet strength. It was the song of a man who had walked through fire and returned home scarred, but unbroken.
For the first time in years, Ethan allowed himself to feel not like an operative, not like a weapon, but like a son.
And as the final note lingered in the silence, he whispered to himself, almost a prayer:
"I'm home."
The Badge Returns -
The next morning, Ethan stood before the NYPD's One Police Plaza. The glass and steel tower rose against the Manhattan skyline, a symbol he'd once carried with pride. Now, after years in London, it felt both familiar and strange—as if he were looking at it through the lens of another life.
He adjusted his mother's tailored navy suit, straightened his tie, and walked inside. His steps were confident, but beneath them ran an undercurrent of tension. He had survived cartel shootouts, terrorist plots, and covert operations across Europe, but this—coming home—was different.
Inside, whispers followed him. Detectives and officers glanced up from paperwork or paused in hallways. Some nodded in recognition, others in curiosity. His name had traveled back across the Atlantic long before he did. The prodigy. The SWAT legend. The American ghost who worked with MI5.
Ethan ignored the murmurs. He'd never cared for reputation. What mattered was the work.
The Commissioner's Office -
Commissioner Reynolds was waiting. A tall man with years of service behind him, Reynolds had seen Ethan rise through the academy as a prodigy, dominate in SWAT, and vanish into a joint assignment abroad. Now, he leaned back in his chair, studying Ethan with a look that was equal parts appraisal and disbelief.
"You don't look dead," Reynolds said finally.
"Been close enough," Ethan replied dryly.
Reynolds cracked the faintest smile. "You've made a name for yourself overseas. Scotland Yard doesn't write glowing reports for just anyone. And MI5 doesn't usually send thank-you notes."
Ethan said nothing. He didn't need to.
The commissioner slid a folder across the desk. Inside was a new badge, polished and gleaming, alongside the papers confirming his reinstatement as a detective in Brooklyn's Ninety-Ninth Precinct.
"Detective Cross," Reynolds said, "welcome back."
Ethan picked up the badge, the weight solid in his palm. He closed his hand around it, and for the first time in years, he felt anchored. This was why he had left. This was why he had endured. To come back, stronger than before, and serve again.
Reactions in the Department -
Word spread fast. By the time Ethan walked through the halls of the department, detectives were already buzzing. Some respected him instantly—stories of his undercover days and SWAT exploits had become legend. Others looked at him with suspicion. Nobody trusted a man who walked between worlds: cop, soldier, spy.
An older sergeant muttered, "Kid's more MI6 than NYPD now."
A younger detective whispered, "That's the guy who busted the Marseille cartel."
Ethan ignored both praise and doubt. The badge was all that mattered.
The Choice of Precinct -
"Why the Nine-Nine?" his father had asked the night before.
Ethan could have gone anywhere—Major Crimes, Homicide, even counterterrorism units. But he had chosen the Ninety-Ninth Precinct in Brooklyn, a place often dismissed as quirky, chaotic, even dysfunctional.
"Because it's where the real work happens," Ethan had answered simply. "Where the people still matter more than the politics."
And deep down, though he hadn't admitted it aloud, he was curious. Stories about the squad had reached him even in London—Detective Jake Peralta's unorthodox genius, Captain Holt's iron will, and Rosa Diaz's unflinching toughness. Something about them drew him in.
The First Walk -
Two days later, Ethan stood outside the Nine-Nine. The building was smaller than the imposing halls of One Police Plaza, more worn, more lived-in. It wasn't glamorous. But it felt real.
He straightened his suit jacket, slipped his badge into place, and took a slow breath. His entire life—Harvard, undercover years, SWAT, London—had led here.
With Duke left at home, Lady perched like a queen in the loft, and his past locked away behind scars and memories, Ethan stepped forward.
The door swung open.
And for the first time, Ethan Alexander Cross walked into the Nine-Nine.
The First Step Into the Nine-Nine -
The bullpen of the Ninety-Ninth Precinct was alive with the hum of activity. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, detectives shuffled case files and coffee cups in equal measure. It was a kind of organized chaos—nothing like the sterile halls of MI5 or the rigid command of SWAT.
Ethan paused just inside the doorway, taking it in. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and printer ink, the sound of bickering voices carrying above the noise. His silver eyes scanned the room, reading people the way he always did.
The precinct is the heart of a squad, he thought. If you want to understand the people, you start here.
The Squad Notices -
Jake Peralta was the first to spot him. The detective leaned back in his chair, tie half undone, a grin spreading across his face. "Whoa. Did Thor just walk in here? Because I'm getting some serious Asgardian vibes."
Ethan raised a brow. "Detective Ethan Cross," he said evenly, flashing his badge. His voice carried a quiet authority, polished but edged.
Jake smirked. "Cool, cool, cool. No doubt, no doubt."
Terry Jeffords looked up next, the sergeant's massive frame rising from behind his desk. His eyes widened slightly—recognition sparking. "You're the one from SWAT. Cross. Heard about you." His tone carried respect, but also curiosity.
Amy Santiago's pen froze mid-note. "Wait—you're that Cross? Harvard prodigy, undercover at twenty, Scotland Yard exchange?" Her words tumbled out with nervous excitement.
"Some of that's true," Ethan replied, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging his lips.
Captain Raymond Holt emerged from his office then, expression carved from stone. His gaze swept across the bullpen before landing on Ethan. "Detective Cross. My office."
The room fell silent.
The Captain -
Inside Holt's office, the air was colder, quieter. The captain gestured for Ethan to sit.
"I have read your file," Holt said, his voice flat as stone. "Multiple commendations. International recognition. Extensive experience in fields beyond standard detective work."
Ethan inclined his head. "Yes, sir."
Holt studied him carefully. "This precinct is… unique. We do not require a ghost from MI5. We require a detective. Can you be that?"
Ethan held his gaze. "I didn't come here to be a legend, Captain. I came here to do the work."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Holt gave a single nod. "Good."
The Spark -
When Ethan returned to the bullpen, another detective had arrived. Rosa Diaz sat at her desk, leather jacket slung over the chair, dark hair falling in waves as she scanned a file. Her presence was sharp, self-contained, a storm beneath still waters.
Ethan noticed the small things first—the controlled movements, the way her hand rested near the handle of her knife, the eyes that flicked up at him without expression.
Their gazes locked.
For the first time in years, Ethan felt the faintest hitch in his chest. Rosa said nothing, only tilted her head slightly, assessing him as if weighing whether he was threat, ally, or irrelevant.
Ethan, unreadable as ever, gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
Rosa's lips quirked—not quite a smile, more a silent challenge. Then she returned to her file.
The First Day Begins -
Jake leaned closer to Amy, whispering loudly, "Okay, so if Thor and Batman had a baby, that baby would be Cross. Look at him. He's got the whole brooding warrior thing down."
Amy elbowed him. "Be professional, Jake."
Terry crossed his arms, watching Ethan settle at his new desk. "We'll see what you can do, Cross."
And Ethan, sitting among them, felt something he hadn't felt in years—not the isolation of undercover work, not the pressure of SWAT or the shadows of MI5.
This was different. Messy. Human. Real.
For the first time, he felt like he might actually belong.