The sound of crashing plates had frozen the entire restaurant into a state of stunned, uneasy silence. Every pair of eyes was riveted on the source of the commotion. At the far side of the Denny's near the kitchen doors, the staff stood rooted in place, a few of them desperately whispering into their headsets.
Wes saw the gigantic figures that towered over the servers. Three enormous men, built like brick silos, were crowded in the limited space. Each was easily over six feet two, broad-shouldered, and heavy-set, their pale, sweaty faces flushed crimson from drink and the oppressive Manila heat. The largest of them, a brute with an untucked shirt, had one arm on a terrified young waiter, holding him against the wall by his shirtfront, the tips of the waiter's shoes barely touching the floor.
"Solyanka!" the man bellowed, the word a slurred, guttural demand. "You serve soup, yes? Russian soup! Where is Solyanka?!"
His two companions were entrenched at a nearby booth, flanking two teenage girls who looked no older than eighteen. The girls' breakfasts sat untouched before them, their faces white with terror, eyes wide and wet with tears. The Russians had effectively boxed them in. Massive figures sitting on the ends of each booth seat, their bulk caging in the victims.
Mina's hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Oh my god…" she whispered, the sound barely audible.
Wes's focus snapped to the restaurant entrance. The lone security guard stood near the glass doors, frozen and trembling slightly. His hand hovered near his waist, but the holster was empty. Unarmed. Wes filed the observation away. Typical mall policy.
For a moment, he remained completely still, his mind, now operating at battlefield efficiency. He cycled through his available options and determined three mission objectives for this situation. Escalation control. Subdue the enemy using non-lethal force. Ensure Mina's security. He had handled worse situations before during his time as a PMC, protecting clueless foreign aid workers, in far worse, far darker places than this brightly lit, mundane corporate breakfast chain. But Mina's presence a few inches away, has raised the stakes to an entirely personal level.
Mina saw the subtle, terrifying tightening of his shoulders. "Uncle... don't," she pleaded urgently, clutching his forearm. "They're huge. You can't—"
He turned to her, his eyes calm, offering a faint, almost regretful smile. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. "Just stay in your seat and don't move. You're perfectly safe where you are, nothing bad is going to happen to you with me around."
"Uncle—"
He gently but firmly pried her hand off his arm. The second he stood up, the transformation was complete. The easygoing corporate executive uncle was gone. What stepped onto the open floor was something dangerous, calculating, and perfectly focused, a wild predator leaving cover after sizing up its prey.
As he slowly walked toward the commotion, his clear voice cut through the tension filled air, sharp and clear.
"Пожалуйста, спокойно." (Please, calm down.)
The steady, fluent Russian stopped the huge man holding up the waiter mid-yell. The brute turned, blinking in drunken confusion at the smaller Asian man who had addressed him.
"Кто ты?" (Who are you?) the drunk demanded, roughly letting the waiter drop to the floor.
"Я просто прошу вас сесть." (I'm just asking you to sit down), Wes replied, his Russian accent crisp and metropolitan. "Вы пугаете персонал. Давайте не будем усугублять ситуацию." (You're frightening the staff. Let's not make this worse than it already is.)
The man sneered, wobbling on his feet. "You speak Russian, eh? Good! Then you, tiny Asian man, bring me Solyanka!"
His two companions erupted in a deep, ugly wave of laughter. The one sitting closest to Wes leaned out with a mocking, menacing grin. "Ты слышал его, коротышка. Принеси нам солянку. Будь полезен." (You heard him, little man. Bring us Solyanka. Be useful.)
"Тебе лучше поторопиться. Иначе, если нам станет скучно, мы начнём играть с этими сучками." (Better hurry. Otherwise we start playing with these suka if we get bored.) Laughed the other man, as he reached out and briefly squeezed one of the frightened girls' faces with a thick meaty hand before letting go.
Wes's eyes flicked to the two girls, who were now openly sobbing. Their young age immediately made him think of Mina who was anxiously watching the scene unfold from her seat behind him. His jaw tightened as the last trace of his limited patience dissolved. "Отпустите девочек и покиньте это место, я больше не буду просить." (Let the girls go and leave this place, I won't ask again.) he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
The drunken laughter died instantly as if a cord had been cut.
The seated Russian who had just threatened one of the girls stood up. He was a mountain of a man with a barrel like chest and arms like steel beams. "Что ты сделаешь, если мы этого не сделаем? Гандон!" (What are you going to do about it if we dont? Gandon!) he roared, challenging Wes across the open floor.
Wes didn't answer with words. He just glared at the standing giant.
Everything erupted at once.
The standing Russian lunged first, a massive, left hook swinging like a wrecking ball toward Wes's head. Wes dropped his center of gravity, sidestepped the heavy blow by a hair, caught the extending wrist with one hand, and pivoted sharply on the ball of his foot. The motion twisted the man's massive balance, and Wes drove his sharp, rigid elbow down onto the attacker's triceps. A wet snap, a choked grunt of pain, and the giant's legs instantly failed, dropping him to one knee.
The second man was already moving, fast and low despite his bulk. Wes spun with the momentum of the first attack, catching the new threat's closing speed and driving a devastating, open-palm strike straight to the side of the man's throat. The blow was surgically precise, causing the man to gag and stumble backward in silent agony, before collapsing into an empty booth that tore loose from its bolts and overturned with a crash.
The first Russian, ignoring his injured arm, tried to recover, swinging a wild, desperate kick. Wes ducked underneath it completely, pivoted low again, and used a swift, Silat inspired sweep to rake his foot against the man's supporting ankle. The giant roared as his weight shifted uncontrollably, dropping him flat onto his back, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
The third man, the ringleader who had held the waiter earlier, bellowed and came charging like a bull. Wes pivoted to meet the attack and braced himself to absorb the sheer, drunken impact on his shoulder, while simultaneously driving a short, sharp knee strike up into the man's solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the brute's lungs. As the Russian doubled over, Wes locked his arm around the man's thick neck, twisted, and smoothly drove the giant down to the floor in a controlled chokehold, ending the fight with clinical efficiency.
The restaurant erupted into chaotic shouts, chairs scraping and people gasping in disbelief. Mina had stood up, her hand clamped over her mouth, her mind warring between sheer terror and breathtaking awe.
Wes stood over the three prone figures, his chest barely rising. His breathing was steady, his expression utterly unreadable. The only sounds were the broken furniture and the groans of the defeated men.
Slowly, Wes exhaled and turned toward the two terrified girls. He let his expression soften completely, replacing the predator's focus with his most gentle smile. "O, hwag na kayong matakot, ligtas na kayo," (Don't be afraid. You're safe now), he said gently in Tagalog. "Sama na kayo kay Manong guard, tutulungan niya kayo." (Go with the guard. He'll help you.)
The girls, though still shaking, nodded quickly, Wes's charm and kind smile temporarily overriding their fear. They scrambled out of the broken booth and fled toward the security guard.
Wes looked toward the waiter who had been held earlier. "Call the mall police," he said, his voice dropping back to English. "Tell them there was a problem but it's already handled."
The man nodded, still trembling, and ran to the counter.
Mina approached him hesitantly, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "Uncle Wes… are you okay?"
He turned to her with that familiar, faint smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if he'd simply stretched too hard. "Yeah. I'm fine."
She glanced at the three massive men sprawled across the floor, who were either unconscious or softly moaning in pain. "Fine? You just—"
"Flashed my superhero card and saved two damsels in distress?" Wes finished playfully.
The corner of Mina's lips twitched, torn between disbelief and admiration. "You speak Russian?"
He shrugged. "My company deals with a lot of international customers. Not all of them know how to speak in English."
"Where did you even learn to fight like that?"
Wes grinned faintly, motioning toward their table. "Youtube? Let's just say I have a few interesting hobbies."
She stared at him, her mind struggling to reconcile the low-key businessman, the charming model, and the hand-to-hand combat expert who had just disabled three giants in under thirty seconds.
Wes offered her a calm, knowing look, as if reading the confusion in her thoughts. "Breakfast got a little exciting," he said lightly. "Next time, remind me to pick a quieter place."
But even as he spoke, his gaze flicked subtly and critically toward the Russians. Despite being under the heavy influence of alcohol, the way they had moved during the fight showed that they weren't just common drunks. They were trained.
And that subtle detail didn't sit right with him at all.