Chapter 6

Ethan’s senior year began much like his junior year, training, and, above all, football. The sport dominated his fall, and his skills had only grown sharper.

Determined, Ethan spent every free moment studying plays, working on his timing with the receivers, and adjusting to the faster pace. His efforts paid off as the team rallied behind him, and they clawed their way through the regular season undefeated.

The playoffs were grueling, but Ethan and his team pushed forward, game after game. The chemistry between him and Ryan Carter, now a junior and the team’s star receiver, was undeniable. They dismantled opposing defenses, leading the team to the state finals.

The championship game was the hardest battle of the season. The reigning state champions were experienced and ruthless. The game was a back-and-forth struggle, with both teams matching each other play for play. With a minute left in the fourth quarter, they were down by eight points. Ethan led a flawless drive down the field, ending with a touchdown pass to Ryan in the corner of the end zone.

The score was now 34-32. They had one play to tie the game—a two-point conversion attempt. Ethan took the snap, rolled out under pressure, and fired a bullet pass toward Ryan. A defender leaped at the last second, deflecting the ball just enough for it to bounce off Ryan’s fingertips.

The game was over. They had come within inches of victory but had fallen just short.

Ethan sat on the field, staring at the turf. The loss stung, but as his teammates patted him on the back and Coach Reynolds pulled him up, he realized something. He hadn’t just become a better football player that season, he had become a leader.

Ethan was able to spend more time with Celeste now that football season was over and they took advantage of it, grabbing every moment they could for some intense, skin-on-skin playtime.

It was the week before Christmas break ended and the late afternoon sun cast golden streaks through the large bay windows of the Cross estate’s study. Dust particles drifted lazily in the light, creating a faint haze that made the elegant, wood-paneled room feel almost ethereal. The scent of Evelyn Cross’ black tea and bergamot oil lingered faintly in the air, a subtle but ever-present reminder of the woman who ruled this domain with the grace of a diplomat and the precision of a spy.

Ethan Cross sat on the edge of a leather armchair, his face set with quiet determination. Though not quite eighteen, his eyes were already hardening with the cold, calculating sharpness his mother had spent the last year honing. Today, she was intensifying his training with counter-espionage skills. It demanded instinct, adaptability, and the ability to read people and environments in ways most adults would never comprehend.

Evelyn circled him slowly, her heels barely making a sound against the polished hardwood floor. She was dressed in a sleek, charcoal-gray pantsuit, her raven hair pinned into a flawless chignon. Every detail of her appearance was calculated, deliberately refined but unremarkable. Forgettable. It was a lesson in itself: never leave a lasting impression.

“Again,” she ordered softly, her voice as smooth as silk but carrying the weight of steel.

Without hesitation, Ethan’s eyes scanned the room, his focus sharpening. He traced the edges of the space, identifying reflective surfaces, picture frames, glass tabletops, the glossy finish on a lacquered cabinet. His gaze drifted over the tall grandfather clock in the corner. It was the perfect spot for a concealed camera, stationary, easily overlooked, and with a direct view of the study.

He subtly shifted his weight, pivoting his body slightly as he adjusted his line of sight. From the corner of his eye, he spotted it, a faint, near-invisible glimmer behind the carved wood trim. A hidden micro-lens, no bigger than the head of a pin.

“There,” Ethan murmured, nodding faintly.

Evelyn’s lips curved into the slightest smile, but she didn’t offer praise. Instead, she moved to the window, drawing back the sheer curtain. She gestured to the manicured gardens beyond the estate’s wrought-iron gates.

“Now the outside,” she instructed.

Without looking directly at any one person, Ethan scanned the grounds. His eyes flicked over the figures moving along the street—the jogger in blue spandex, the man on the bench reading a newspaper, and the elderly woman walking her dog.

To the average person, they were simply pedestrians. But Evelyn had trained Ethan to see the subtle tells: the jogger’s stride was too controlled, too deliberate. She wasn’t exercising, she was patrolling. The man with the newspaper flipped the same page twice, using the rustling sound to mask the soft click of a camera shutter hidden in his lapel. The elderly woman paused near a lamppost, crouching slightly as she fiddled with her dog’s leash. But Ethan noticed her gaze linger too long on the estate gates, and he spotted the tiny earpiece concealed beneath the silver strands of her hair.

“Three watchers. One dressed as a civilian contractor. Two posing as bystanders,” Ethan said, his voice steady.

Evelyn’s eyes gleamed with pride, but her expression remained neutral. “Good. You saw them. Now lose them.”

Without another word, she slipped out of the study, her movements fluid and unhurried. Ethan followed, matching her pace as they left the estate and strolled down the street. The watchers subtly adjusted their positions, keeping a measured distance but always in range.

“Blend in,” Evelyn instructed in a low voice.

Ethan slowed his gait, subtly altering his posture. He let his shoulders round slightly, slouching just enough to appear disinterested. He tugged his hoodie over his head, casting a slight shadow over his face. With practiced ease, he slipped into a group of teenagers walking by, mimicking their casual, unfocused conversation.

He glanced over his shoulder once, making it look like a disinterested glance toward the traffic, but his sharp eyes caught the watcher in the jogging suit faltering as she scanned the crowd. She lost him for several seconds. That was all he needed. With smooth, deliberate steps, he peeled away from the group and ducked into the narrow alleyway between two brownstones. His heart rate remained steady. No sudden movements. No hesitation.

By the time he circled the block and casually rejoined his mother, the watchers were scanning the wrong direction.

“Clean,” Evelyn said softly, barely concealing her satisfaction.

Back at the estate, Evelyn brought Ethan into her private dressing room, a space that resembled a boutique, but each garment, wig, and accessory was meticulously curated for a different persona.

“Effective disguises,” Evelyn began, walking along the rows of neatly arranged clothing, “are never about transformation. They’re about deception through subtlety.”

She pulled out two outfits, a tailored navy peacoat with slacks and a hooded sweatshirt with torn jeans.

“Which one stands out more?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Ethan frowned. “The peacoat. It’s cleaner, more formal.”

“Incorrect.” Evelyn shook her head slightly. “Everyone will remember the hoodie. The rips, the casual fit—it gives people details to latch onto. But the man in the peacoat? He’s forgettable. Everyone has seen a thousand men in dark coats.”

She handed him the peacoat and ordered him to change. Once dressed, she adjusted his collar, then showed him how to alter his posture.

“Square your shoulders,” she instructed, tapping them lightly. “Chin up slightly—just enough to look self-assured, not aggressive. People remember confidence, but only if it feels forced.”

Ethan practiced shifting his body language. With his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands in his pockets, and his head tilted downward, he looked inconspicuous. When he straightened his posture, slowed his stride, and made brief, confident eye contact with passersby, he appeared self-assured—a businessman heading to a meeting. The shift was minor but effective.

Next, Evelyn handed him a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and gestured toward a small mirror. “Eyewear changes everything. It affects how people perceive you.”

When Ethan slipped on the glasses, she nodded. “You look more intellectual now. Softer. People will assume you’re a student or an analyst. No one will peg you as a threat.”

Finally, she handed him a small notepad. “Walk into the café down the street. Order a coffee. Take notes. Write about anything—nonsense, if you want. But look absorbed in your thoughts.”

Ethan furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Because no one watches the man who looks busy. People watch the man who watches others. Be the man they ignore.”

One afternoon, his mother had him enter a café where celeste was working under a disguise and order coffee while she sat at a nearby table, watching. He adjusted his gait, slouched slightly, and spoke with a deeper, lazier voice than usual. Celeste took his order without a second glance.

When he returned to the table, his mother smiled. “Not bad. But you still touched your face twice, once adjusting your glasses and once scratching your nose. Those are tells. When someone wears something unfamiliar, like fake glasses or a wig, they tend to touch it subconsciously. Control that, and your disguises will be flawless.”

Later that month, Evelyn led Ethan into a dimly lit, members-only lounge. It was a safe space, a private club run by a former colleague. Tonight, the room was filled with hand-selected individuals, corporate types, former intelligence operatives, and security specialists. Her final lesson: identifying threats in a crowd.

She led Ethan to a small table near the back, where they had a clear line of sight of the entire room.

“Tell me who to avoid,” Evelyn instructed, sipping her wine with a practiced air of detachment.

Ethan’s eyes scanned the crowd. His mother had drilled into him that the most dangerous person was rarely the one acting suspiciously. It was the one who appeared the most at ease.

His gaze locked onto a man at the bar, laughing easily with the bartender. The man’s wristwatch sat perfectly parallel to his cuff—not an inch off-center. His nails were clean and cut with military precision, and the faint bulge beneath his jacket suggested a shoulder rig.