The morning at the Nine-Nine began, as it often did, with chaos.
The bullpen was alive with chatter, the rustle of paperwork, and the kind of half-focused energy that made the precinct feel more like a bizarre family reunion than a functioning branch of law enforcement. Terry hovered near his desk with a protein shake in one hand and a worried crease between his brows, muttering about cholesterol. Amy Santiago aligned her case files into flawless stacks, precise as ever, determined to impose order on a world that rarely obeyed. Charles Boyle fussed with three cups of coffee balanced precariously in his hands, desperate to deliver them before spilling.
And then there was Jake Peralta. He sauntered into the bullpen in a loud Hawaiian shirt, grinning like he'd just solved the Lindbergh kidnapping.
"Morning, squad!" Jake announced, throwing his arms out like he was welcoming a live studio audience.
Holt emerged from his office just in time to see it. His face didn't change, though the silence that followed felt heavy. "Peralta," Holt said flatly. "Why are you dressed like a tourist who lost his luggage?"
Jake put a hand to his chest. "This, Captain, is called blending in. Nobody suspects a guy in a Hawaiian shirt. I am the invisible man."
"Hardly," Holt replied without missing a beat.
Boyle, eager as always, chimed in. "He's right, Captain! Jake blends in everywhere—beaches, tiki bars, Jimmy Buffett concerts—"
"Enough." Holt cut him off with the weight of a single word. "This is a precinct, not Margaritaville."
Before Jake could fire back, a high-pitched squeak split the air.
Every head turned.
Amy's eyes darted toward the evidence lockup. "Was that a mouse?"
"Nope." Gina leaned back in her chair without looking up from her phone. "That was the sound of my soul trying to escape this place."
Another squeak. Louder.
Terry's face drained of color. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Big guy like me? Doesn't matter. Mice are the line."
Jake puffed his chest out. "Relax, Terry. I got this. I've seen Ratatouille a hundred times. I'll just reason with him."
The bullpen spiraled into overlapping chatter—Amy insisting maintenance needed to set traps, Boyle wondering if the squeaks were an omen, Gina declaring it was cosmic commentary on Holt's obsession with order.
That was when the bullpen doors swung open.
The noise died instantly.
Ethan Cross walked in.
He carried himself like a man who belonged anywhere he stepped. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, built with the kind of strength that came from discipline rather than vanity. His dark-blonde hair, streaked faintly with lighter highlights, brushed his shoulders in a rugged, tousled style. His silver eyes, flecked with something darker—something red when the light caught—swept across the room with quiet calculation. A thin scar cut through his right eyebrow, just enough to sharpen his gaze.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit, the cut crisp and understated, paired with an open-collared shirt. It wasn't NYPD standard issue. It was something else—something that spoke of wealth and restraint, of quiet power.
And in his grip, dangling like an inconvenience, was a man.
Mid-thirties. Bloodied lip. Designer jacket.
Cross walked him in, expression unreadable, and dropped him into an empty chair by Rosa's desk. "Picked him up outside," he said, voice low and even. "Tried to carjack me on Atlantic."
The perp groaned, head lolling back in defeat.
"Convenient," Rosa muttered, leaning back in her chair.
Holt appeared in his doorway, arms folded. "Less paperwork."
Jake blinked. "Hold up—he tried to jack you? Did he not see the six-foot-four Viking vibes? What, did he think you were just some Wall Street guy?"
Cross shrugged. "Apparently."
Boyle whispered to Amy, loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. "He looks like Thor."
Amy elbowed him, though her eyes lingered on the scar across Cross's brow before darting back to her files.
Gina, naturally, grinned. "New rule. Every time Detective Tall-Dark-and-Cinematic here does something insane, we write it down. Ladies and gentlemen, the Cross Board begins now."
Jake groaned. "Oh God, not another board."
"Yes," Gina said. "With glitter markers."
Detectives." Holt's voice cut through the chatter. "Conference room. Now."
The squad assembled, half still buzzing with curiosity about Cross, half trying to look like professionals.
Holt clicked the projector remote. Graffiti filled the screen: sprawling crowns sprayed in bold red, sharp edges dripping like blood.
"A tagger has been vandalizing multiple buildings downtown," Holt said. "This isn't simple graffiti. The work is elaborate, deliberate, and in two cases, directly mocking the NYPD. City Hall expects swift results."
Jake leaned back in his chair. "So… like Banksy, but meaner?"
"This is not art, Peralta," Holt said. "It's a crime."
Amy raised her hand. "Sir, any links between locations?"
"Public, high-traffic areas. Consistent symbols."
Cross spoke then, his tone analytical, unhurried. "A crown. Consistent size, consistent placement. Taggers leave signatures. This one's calculated. Not random. Likely ego-driven."
The room fell quiet.
Holt gave a slight nod. "Correct, Detective Cross." He scanned the room. "Assignments: Peralta and Santiago, canvass witnesses. Boyle and Diaz, dig through past cases for similar tags. Cross—you're with me. We'll review surveillance."
Jake's jaw tightened. First case with the new guy, and Holt already had him at his side? He plastered on a grin anyway. "Cool. Fine. But if this is Banksy, I call dibs."
Amy muttered, "It's not Banksy."
"Exactly what Banksy wants you to think," Jake shot back.
The squad dispersed. Rosa holstered her weapon with cool efficiency. Boyle immediately began color-coding files. Amy packed her pens in perfect alignment. Terry muttered about stress as he opened another protein shake. Gina dug out a pack of glitter markers.
Cross passed them silently, having heard every word. The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth, though he said nothing.
The first stakeout went about as smoothly as one could expect.
Jake and Amy sat in an unmarked car, Jake with a burger, Amy with her logbook. Rosa and Boyle covered another site, Rosa silent, Boyle whispering conspiracies about secret art cults. Holt and Cross sat in the surveillance van, monitoring grainy footage with quiet focus.
Hours passed. Then movement.
A hooded figure slipped from the shadows, spray can in hand, crown symbol taking shape on the wall.
"Tagger sighted," Amy whispered into the radio.
The squad mobilized.
The tagger bolted, sprinting down side streets. Jake gave chase, immediately tripping over a trash can but somehow recovering. Rosa flanked through an alley. Holt and Cross moved from the SUV, Cross's stride long and effortless.
The chase wound across rooftops, fire escapes, and chain-link fences. Jake wheezed, shouting half-baked one-liners. Rosa cut off escape routes with surgical precision. Cross scaled obstacles with fluid grace, like a man who'd done this a thousand times.
Finally, in a dead-end alley, Cross caught the tagger mid-climb, yanking him down with a controlled slam. Rosa cuffed him, Jake arriving seconds later, panting but triumphant. "See? Teamwork. Nailed it."
The hood fell back. Young. Freckled. Designer clothes.
Amy froze. "That's Deputy Commissioner Podolski's son."
Silence.
Holt's voice, cold and steady, cut through the alley. "On the contrary. We know exactly who he is."
Back at the precinct, the storm hit.
Deputy Commissioner Podolski arrived in a fury, demanding his son's release. Holt stood firm. "Your son vandalized city property and targeted the NYPD. Charges stand."
Podolski's face went red. "You'll regret this, Holt. You're finished."
Cross, silent until now, stepped forward. "Sir, with respect, burying this would only make it worse when the press uncovers it. And they will."
Podolski rounded on him. "And who the hell are you?"
"Detective Cross," Ethan said evenly, unflinching.
The silence stretched. Podolski's glare flicked between Holt and Cross before he stormed out, slamming the door.
Hours later, the squad gathered in the bullpen. The perp was processed. Charges filed. Podolski's lawyers were no doubt already circling.
Jake collapsed into his chair. "Well, that's it. We're all gonna get reassigned to meter maid duty. I'm calling it."
"Speak for yourself," Rosa muttered.
Terry rubbed his temples. "This kind of heat? Not good for stress."
Cross sat at his desk, quietly jotting in a leather notebook. Jake eyed him. "How are you not freaking out? We just arrested the commissioner's kid!"
Cross didn't look up. "The law doesn't change based on names. He broke it. He was caught. That's the job."
"Damn," Boyle whispered in awe.
Across the bullpen, Gina added to the glittering Cross Board: Mysterious confidence + scar = probably a secret spy.
Amy frowned. "We're detectives. Shouldn't we just… ask him?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Gina smirked.
Cross closed his notebook. He'd heard every word. And though his face remained unreadable, the faintest smirk curved his lips.
Already, the Nine-Nine was starting to change.