Dinner smelled like sizzling butter and soy, a comforting aroma that cut through the lingering haze of the convention. The restaurant, a small Japanese fusion grill tucked across the street, was a lively kaleidoscope of costumed con-goers, still buzzing from the day's events. Strings of amber lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a warm glow on the gathered diners, as the air thrummed with laughter, rapid-fire chatter, and the rhythmic clink of chopsticks against ceramic.
Wes and Mina followed Alex, Gino and Lianne to a long table by the window. They were still fully in costume, Wes an imposing figure in his intricate Klingon armor, Mina sleek and vibrant in her Uhura uniform. Their arrival drew amused glances, but Alex, ever the boisterous leader, raised a gauntleted hand and boomed, "Yeah, table for the Federation and one Klingon defector!" Even the waiter couldn't help but smile at the absurdity.
As they settled in, Wes helped Mina with her chair, his gentlemanly manners contrasting hilariously with the heavy warrior armor he wore. Mina found it charming, almost adorable, how natural he seemed, even dressed like an alien warlord.
Dinner commenced with shared plates of steaming gyoza, savory yakitori skewers, and fluffy Japanese rice. The mood was warm and infectious, with the conversation rolling easily between them.
"So, Wes," Lianne said, spearing a piece of chicken with her chopstick, "you've been MIA from our last three D&D sessions. We even left your half-orc character in suspended animation. You better come back soon before Alex decides to kill him off again."
"Hey!" Alex protested, waving his chopsticks. "Last time was an accident! He failed three death rolls!"
The table erupted in laughter.
Mina looked between them, eyes wide with genuine surprise. "You all play Dungeons & Dragons together?"
Wes grinned, a flash of white teeth beneath the prosthetic brow. "Used to, every Friday night. My half-orc mercenary was the party's tank until I got buried in work."
"Buried, huh?" Gino teased, leaning forward. "You mean since you started LARPing every other weekend. We all know you've traded your dice for foam weapons."
Lianne pointed a chopstick at Wes dramatically. "Admit it! You'd rather swing a sword in armor than roll dice in my living room!"
Wes shrugged, the movement of his armored shoulders almost fluid. It was a smile that made Mina laugh, a genuine, hearty sound. "I just like things more… immersive."
Mina leaned her chin on her hand, studying him. The image of the stoic, sharply dressed businessman she'd met at the airport was dissolving quickly. Here, surrounded by friends, he was relaxed, vibrant and mischievous.
"So you LARP?" she asked, genuinely intrigued.
"Oh yeah," Alex said, jumping in eagerly. "Dude's legendary. He built an entire medieval encampment for one of the campaigns last year. Actual tents, working torches, hand-painted banners, like a movie set."
"Seriously?" Mina said, turning to Wes, her amazement clear.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of slight, endearing embarrassment. "Okay, that one got out of hand."
"Out of hand?!" Lianne snorted, a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You had smoke effects! You even brought a sound system for ambient forest noises!"
The laughter was contagious. Mina giggled until her stomach hurt, the aches a welcome relief.
The stories continued, about movie marathons at Wes's house that lasted entire weekends, about his infamous Star Trek-themed Halloween parties, and how he once built a working R2D2 droid for a charity auction that had fooled even seasoned engineers.
The more Mina heard, the more her lingering suspicions melted away, like ice in a warm drink. The locked second floor, the mysterious side of him, the aura of secrecy she'd initially felt, it suddenly all made sense.
He wasn't hiding anything sinister. He was just… a massive, massive geek.
Her heart softened, a warm bloom spreading in her chest. She looked at him as he laughed with his friends, the armor gleaming under the soft restaurant lights, and thought how she ever could have suspected him of being something else.
Maybe, she reasoned, Wes was simply a man who lived two distinct lives: the serious, composed logistics executive by day, and the geeky, passionate dreamer by night.
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As Wes chuckled along with his friends, his gaze subtly drifted across the room. It was a practiced, almost unconscious sweep, part of the deep-seated awareness that rarely left him. His eyes snagged on a figure seated a few tables away, diagonally opposite from where his usual tail was sloppily positioned outside. It was the same Slavic-looking man he'd subtly noted following him since the convention began, now dressed in a jacket, anime character t-shirt and a bland baseball cap, hunched over a plate of noodles.
Unlike his usual tail, who broadcasted his surveillance with amateurish flair, this man felt different. He was more discreet, but at the same time gave the feeling of being more intense. There was a subtle bulge beneath his left armpit, a tell-tale sign of a concealed carry. His posture, though seemingly casual, held a coiled tension. This wasn't a watcher; this was an operative. And it looks like he wasn't sent here to simply observe.
Wes maintained his smile, nodding along to Alex's latest D&D anecdote. His fingers, beneath the table, moved with fluid precision, tapping out an encrypted message to Richard on his secure phone.
SEND SPIDER TO DISTRACT FLY. 911.
He waited for the subtle confirmation ping, a near-imperceptible vibration on his wrist, then turned his full attention back to the table, seamlessly rejoining the laughter.
A few minutes later, as dessert arrived and the conversation briefly lulled, Gino leaned back with a grin. "So, you two coming to the afterparty?"
Wes lifted a brow, playing naive. "Didn't even know there was one."
"Oh, come on!" Alex slapped the table, nearly dislodging his plate. "Same bar as last year, the one they rented out for cosplayers. Live band, trivia, drinks. You have to come."
Before Wes could answer, Mina's eyes lit up, shining with pure excitement. "That sounds amazing! We should totally go!"
He hesitated a beat too long, amused by her enthusiasm even as his internal clock ticked. "Mina, we've been walking around all day. You sure you're not tired?"
"I'm fine!" she insisted, almost bouncing in her seat, her Uhura uniform gleaming. "Please, Uncle Wes? I've never been to anything like this before!"
Her excitement was disarming, irresistible. Wes chuckled softly and raised his armored hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. You win. We'll go."
Mina clapped her hands together, her grin radiant.
Just then, Wes felt the subtle buzz in his pocket. A confirmation from Richard. Perfect timing.
"You know what," Wes announced, pushing back his chair. "I'm going to make a quick trip to the restroom. I might take awhile since I have all this leather to undo." He winked at Mina. "I'll be right back. Don't let Alex kill any more half-orcs while I'm gone."
He moved from the table, his heavy boots clanking faintly on the tiled floor. As he approached the restaurant's exit, he executed a casual, sweeping glance, a practiced verification that his usual tail was not in sight. Only then did he step outside, making directly for the public restroom.
A few moments later, as if on cue, the man in the anime t-shirt casually folded his menu, paid his bill, and also exited the restaurant, disappearing into the bustling street. His movements were far more discreet than Lee's, a ghost blending into the crowd.
The public restroom was stark and utilitarian. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the tiled walls and stainless-steel fixtures. Wes moved to a sink, turning on the faucet, the rush of water a thin curtain against the outside world. He stared at his reflection, the Klingon prosthetics suddenly feeling less like a costume and more like a second skin, a deceptive layer.
He waited.
The door creaked open. Footsteps, soft and deliberate, entered the room. The Slavic man paused, letting the door click shut, then moved to the farthest sink, pretending to adjust his baseball cap. His eyes met Wes's in the mirror. No flicker of recognition, no surprise. Just a cold, professional assessment.
Wes continued to wash his hands, his voice low, steady, cutting through the running water. "Кто тебя послал?" (Who sent you?)
The man's eyes widened in surprise as his hand tightened on the brim of his cap. "Я не понимаю, о чём вы говорите. Я турист." (I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a tourist.) His Russian was clean, with only a faint, hint from the south.
Wes dried his hands, then leaned against the sink, turning to face him. The Klingon armor seemed to expand, making the small room feel even smaller. "Туристы не носят скрытое оружие под куртками." (Tourists do not carry concealed weapons under their jackets.)
The man grinned as he subtly shifted his weight, and tensed of his shoulders. "Иногда нехорошо быть слишком умным. Умереть можно без боли. Теперь тебе придется страдать." (You're too smart for your own good. You could have died painlessly. Now you have to suffer.)
"Просто скажи мне, кто тебя послал, и мне не придется тебя бить." (Just tell me who sent you and I won't have to beat you up.) Wes placed both hands in front of him, hands open, feet spread wide apart.
The man exploded.
He lunged forward, a blur of motion, his right hand flashing toward Wes's throat, while his left, a dark blur, went for his midsection. This was not a street brawler; this was trained, disciplined aggression.
Wes moved with preternatural speed, anticipating the strike. Using the back of his right hand, he deflected the throat grab, moving his entire body with his armored forearm, the impact jarring but absorbed by the thick leather and metal. As the man's left fist drove for his gut, Wes pivoted, letting the blow glance harmlessly off his side, simultaneously bringing his armored elbow up and back in a devastating arc.
The elbow connected squarely with the side of the man's jaw, a sickening CRACK that echoed in the tiled room. The man staggered, his eyes glazing over, but he was resilient. He tried to recover, shaking his head, reaching for his own weapon.
Wes didn't give him the chance. Before the man's fingers could even brush the fabric of his shirt, Wes closed the distance. His right hand snaked out, fingers like steel clamps, grabbing the man's head. With his left, he shoved the man's shoulder, twisting him off balance. Then, with a brutal, economical movement, Wes wrenched the man's head sharply to the side.
A final, wet snap.
The man went limp, collapsing instantly, his body thudding heavily against the tiled floor. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared up at the fluorescent lights. It was over in less than fifteen seconds.
Wes breathed slowly, his chest barely rising beneath the armor. No adrenaline spike, no wild tremor. Just the efficient calm of a professional. He knelt, quickly patting down the body. He found a burner phone, a slim wallet containing multiple IDs from various European countries, and a CZ 75 semi-automatic pistol. He pocketed the wallet and the phone, ejected the magazine and quickly disassembled the pistol, distributing the parts and tossing it into separate trash cans.
Then, with a strength his Klingon guise only hinted at, he dragged the lifeless body into the furthest cubicle, propping it up and seating it on the toilet. Pulling down the man's baseball cap to obscure his face, he closed the cubicle door from the outside, then exited.
He checked the room one last time. No blood. No obvious signs of struggle. He returned to the sink, splashed water on his hands, put his gloves back on and fixed his Klingon uniform. The violent but brief encounter now behind him.
The mask was back on.
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Observer Log: Manila, 22:10 PHT
Lee cursed under his breath, the sound swallowed by the persistent hum of the mall security office. This day, he reflected, had been a masterclass in professional degradation. Not only had he endured countless accidental assaults by foam weaponry and oversized cosplay props, he'd spent the entire afternoon watching his target, the supposed "Khan," do precisely nothing beyond geek out in an alien costume with a group of equally costumed friends. It was soul-crushing boredom punctuated by physical indignity.
Then, just to add insult to injury, some oblivious idiot on a scooter had carelessly rammed into his '93 Corolla, parked innocuously outside the Japanese restaurant. The minor fender-bender had devolved into an hour-long ordeal with local mall cops, their tedious paperwork a monument to bureaucratic inefficiency. By the time he was finally cleared, Wes Chai was long gone, not that it mattered. The man had already confirmed Lee's suspicions: no shadowy dealings, nothing ever remotely covert about him.
Lee sent his report, a terse summary devoid of any real intelligence, hoping with every fiber of his being that this would be enough. Enough for his employer to see the futility, to recognize the monumental waste of resources, and, most importantly, to pull him from this assignment. He was a highly trained operative, not a glorified convention security guard. He needed a proper mission, a real threat, not another day of watching a celebrity CEO prance around in costume.