The scent of ginger and simmering rice drifted through the cool, quiet air. It was comforting, soft and warm, the kind of smell that filled a home not just with food, but with calm.
Mina stirred beneath her blanket, her eyes still half-closed against the assault of last night's tequila. Her head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic drumbeat against her temples. Faintly, she registered the sound of something sizzling, the gentle clatter of a metal ladle against porcelain, and the low hum of a man's voice, absently humming a tune in the distant kitchen.
She smiled, despite the hammering in her skull. It was a strangely peaceful way to wake up, a gentle anchor in the choppy waters of her hangover.
When she finally pushed herself out of bed, the morning light was spilling gently through the tall windows of the hallway, painting pale squares on the polished floor. The air inside the house was cool, the faint, consistent hum of the air conditioner blending with the distant, muted noises of the neighborhood outside.
Wes stood in the kitchen, a stark contrast to his armored persona of the previous night. Dressed in a simple gray t-shirt and shorts, his sleeves rolled up, he stirred a pot on the gas stove. His movements were precise, efficient, almost elegant, like a seasoned chef who'd performed this ritual a thousand times.
On the counter beside him, a culinary tableau was meticulously arranged: freshly chopped scallions, crispy fried garlic, translucent century eggs, and thin strips of roasted pork, all laid out on small, gleaming dishes. The rich, savory aroma of congee filled the entire kitchen, making Mina's stomach rumble despite her queasiness.
She winced, the pounding in her head aggravating with each careful step. "You're up early."
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Wes said, glancing over his shoulder with a small, knowing smile. "I see you're suffering from the aftereffects of last night's poor decisions. Come, sit down and eat. I made us breakfast."
She covered her eyes, feeling every bit like a vampire caught in the morning sun. "Is that… congee?"
"Yup. Perfect for getting over your hangover," he confirmed, tasting the mixture with a wooden spoon. "Figured we'd go with something traditional today."
Mina managed a weak smile despite herself, walking closer to the counter, drawn by the irresistible scent. "It smells amazing."
Then it hit her, a memory, sharp and clear.
She was ten again, sitting at her grandmother's bustling dining table in Hong Kong. Wes, back then, had just arrived from Manila for a sprawling family gathering, wearing a crisp white shirt and a quiet, almost reserved smile that had made him seem untouchable, a distant, elegant figure to her young eyes. Her grandmother, an intimidating woman even then, had asked him to make congee that morning. And Wes, the quiet, observant adult, had been the only one who noticed Mina didn't like hers too thick, quietly adding more broth to her bowl before handing it to her with a conspiratorial wink.
Mina blinked, snapping back to the present. "You made this for breakfast that time in Hong Kong."
Wes turned to her, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Wow. You remember that?"
"Of course," she said softly, the memory vivid. "You sat across from me at the table. You barely said a word the whole time."
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Your grandmother was a force of nature. I didn't dare interrupt her monologue about family traditions."
That made her laugh, a genuine, unforced sound that echoed softly in the spacious kitchen. The pounding in her head seemed to recede slightly.
Wes placed two steaming bowls of congee on the counter, each garnished neatly with scallions and fried garlic. "Come on. Sit. Before it gets cold."
She took a seat on a stool, watching him as he moved around the kitchen with an effortless confidence. She had never met anyone who could make domestic tasks look so graceful.
When they finally sat across from each other, she spooned a bit of the congee into her mouth and sighed contentedly after the first taste. "Okay, this is next-level good. You really should open a restaurant."
He smiled faintly, stirring his own bowl. "Cooking's just a hobby. I like creating things with my hands. Gives me a sense of control when everything else in the world is in chaos."
Mina tilted her head, observing him. "You sound like a man with a very stressful job."
"Something like that," he said lightly, taking a sip of his coffee, his gaze momentarily distant. "What about you? What was life like back in L.A.?"
She shrugged, stirring her bowl, the warmth from the congee comforting. "Busy. I majored in media studies, so most of my time went to projects, editing, and group work. When I wasn't drowning in assignments, I'd go out to the beach, sometimes hike with friends. Nothing fancy."
"Sounds healthy," Wes said, a genuine interest in his voice. "Any hobbies? Something that lets you de-stress?"
Mina smiled sheepishly, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Dancing. I did K-pop choreography videos for TikTok. Nothing serious, just fun."
"That explains your energy," he said, amused, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You light up when you talk about it."
She blushed slightly more. "Maybe. I kind of miss it, actually."
There was a comfortable pause, filled only by the soft clinking of spoons and the distant hum of the house. Then, Wes leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful. "And how about your dating life?"
Mina blinked, her spoon freezing mid-air. "My what?"
He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. "You're twenty, living in California, surrounded by college guys. Don't tell me none of them tried their luck."
Her cheeks flushed a deeper red. "Maybe a few. But I wasn't interested."
"Why not?" he pressed gently, his curiosity piqued.
She shrugged, pretending to focus intently on her congee, tracing patterns with her spoon. "They were all… boys. You know? Immature, loud, thought they were smooth. I guess I just didn't find anyone worth the trouble."
Wes smiled, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. "You've got high standards."
Mina looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his, and said softly, almost vulnerable, "Maybe I just haven't met someone who makes me feel safe."
For a brief second, something flickered in Wes's eyes, something unreadable, a shadow that passed too quickly to decipher. Then, just as swiftly, he smiled again, the moment diffused, the lightness restored. "Well, whoever he is, he'll have to compete with my cooking."
She laughed, the tension easing, the conversation flowing back to easy banter.
When they finished breakfast, Wes stood and began clearing the bowls. "By the way, do you have any plans today?"
Mina shook her head. "No, why?"
"I was thinking we could go to the mall. You still don't have a phone, right? You'll need one if you're going to get around Manila."
Her eyes widened, shining with genuine delight. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," he said, his smile warm. "Consider it a welcome gift."
Before she could stop herself, Mina jumped up from her seat, beaming. "Thank you!"
She wrapped her arms around him in a spontaneous hug that was brief, tight, and warm. Without thinking, she kissed him on the cheek.
It happened so fast she barely registered it until she pulled back and realized what she'd done. Her cheeks flushed a brilliant, mortified red.
"I—I'm sorry!" she stammered, flustered. "I didn't mean— I just got excited—"
Wes looked momentarily surprised, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then gave a small, easy laugh, brushing it off with a practiced nonchalance. "Relax, Mina. It's fine. I'll take it as proof that breakfast was good."
She offered a nervous, embarrassed smile, trying to laugh it off, but her heart was hammering against her ribs. He was so composed, so unaffected, as if it hadn't meant anything at all, while she was suddenly hyperaware of every inch between them, every fleeting touch.
"Go get ready," he said lightly, turning back to the counter, already gathering the dishes. "We'll leave in an hour."
Mina nodded, a little too quickly, and practically fled toward her room, trying to hide the embarrassed, yet undeniably happy, smile tugging at her lips.
Once she was out of sight, Wes leaned against the counter, his smile fading slightly. He glanced absently at the faint reflection of the two of them in the kitchen window, a fleeting image of normalcy.
He took a quiet sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him.
"Congee," he murmured to himself, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Always brings people together."
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Observer Log: Manila, 06:25 PHT
Lee sat hunched in the faded plastic chair of his cheap motel room, the digital clock on the bedside table glowing a sickly green. His stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and resentment. He'd just spent the last eight hours detained in a mall security office, haggling over the triviality of a car registration. The second hand Toyota, still sporting its new dent, had caused him a monumental headache, and he'd only been released after he was finally able to contact the car's original owner to email the necessary documents. He was miserable. He wanted out. He wanted to convince his employer to pull the plug on this farcical assignment.
The flat grey of the encrypted chat window stared back at him, an empty void reflecting his frustration. He traced the rim of a lukewarm coffee cup, listening to the incessant drone of the air conditioner.
Then, a sharp, almost imperceptible alarm bell chime cut through the silence. The user name Cogitor materialized in the chat window, an ominous arrival.
Cogitor: Agent Lee, report.
Lee's fingers flew across the keyboard, a furious, desperate energy driving his typing. He uploaded the compilation of Wes Chai's utterly mundane daily activities, videos of the Klingon's ecstatic fan interactions, and a concise summary of his observations. He finished with his firm recommendation: discontinue observation. Wes Chai was clearly not the person they were looking for. He was a wealthy, eccentric CEO, nothing more.
A short, agonizing pause. The delay was deliberate, calculated, as if Cogitor were sifting through every byte of data, every log, every biased inflection in Lee's report.
Finally, a reply.
Cogitor: Your conclusion is flawed and riddled with bias.
Lee cursed under his breath, a hot flush of anger rising. He slammed his fingers down, beginning to type a vehement rebuttal, demanding an explanation.
Cogitor: You make certain assumptions without verification. We are disappointed in your performance. You have been getting sloppy in your monitoring efforts.
The accusation stung. Sloppy? He was meticulous! Lee typed again, his frustration boiling over, justifying his actions, detailing his month-long, utterly dull observation of Wes Chai. He recounted every trivial detail, every lack of detail that pointed to his target's innocuous nature.
Cogitor: Were you aware that a high-level operator went missing in your vicinity last night? We have a secondary team in place, and they were able to identify a separate operator was within the vicinity of Wes Chai the entire day yesterday but disappeared without a trace last night.
Lee stared at the words, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. Another operator? He hadn't seen anyone else, not with the kind of training that would make them truly invisible. He typed furiously. If there was another operator, they probably finished their objective and ex-filled the area. It had nothing to do with Wes. He was a cosplay enthusiast, for god's sake!
Cogitor: That may have been the case, but the point is you failed to detect that operator which the secondary team was able to identify.
A brief, chilling pause. The weight of Cogitor's disappointment hung heavy in the digital silence.
Cogitor: We are pulling you from this assignment for unsatisfactory performance. If you wish to receive your fee in full, we have another job for you in Cuba.
The abrupt shift and the unexpected offer, hit Lee like a splash of icy water. Cuba. The word resonated with the promise of a real operation, tangible stakes, a mission worthy of his training. The biting humiliation of being pulled from an assignment, a blot on his record, warred with a desperate, almost primal need for action. He agreed instantly, his fingers fumbling over the keyboard, the single word 'Yes' flashing across the screen with a fervent urgency. Anything to escape the mind-numbing tedium and crushing indignity of the past month. He was going to be a real operative again.