Dinner was a feast that felt stolen from the pages of Food and Travel, not an ordinary weekday night in Manila. Wes was a meticulous and gifted chef. The aroma of the food alone was already intoxicating. Earthy truffle risotto, creamy and rich, paired with perfectly pan-seared scallops that melted in the mouth, all offset by sweet, roasted asparagus and bell peppers drizzled with a tangy balsamic glaze. Mina tried to maintain an air of casual appreciation, but between the subtle aroma of the food, the warm glow of the flickering candlelight, and the chilled glass of crisp Verdejo Wes had chosen, it was hard not to feel utterly enchanted.
They finished eating around nine, the easy sound of their laughter still lingering in the air, forming a warm buffer against the evening silence. Wes had a knack for keeping the conversation light, charming and witty. Always drawing Mina out of her shell without ever being overbearing or demanding. When she brought out the simple, green pistachio ice cream for dessert, the act felt strangely intimate, the perfect, low-key end to an elaborate meal. She found herself sinking deeper into the rhythm of their life together, thinking how effortless it was to fall into his orbit.
But beneath that warmth, the earlier shadows persisted. While Wes cleared the plates, Mina's mind replayed flashes of scenes from the supermarket. Lisa's composed and elegant smile, her easy confidence, and the casual, familiar way she had reached out to touch Wes's arm. There had been no malice in Lisa's gaze, no sharp, territorial edge marking her territory, just the deep, undeniable familiarity of history.
At precisely 9:57 PM, Wes's phone buzzed with a low, insistent vibration from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and the entire atmosphere of the room changed, subtle yet perceptible. The warmth drained from his posture, replaced by a sudden clear focus.
"Sorry, Mina," he said, setting the last plate down and rising from his seat. "I have to step out for a bit. A quick errand, unfortunately."
"At this hour?" she asked, trying desperately to inject a note of casual curiosity into her voice, but instead she heard the tremor of genuine disappointment.
He gave her that disarming, practiced smile. The one that revealed nothing while promising everything. "Business doesn't sleep, kiddo. It's always inconveniently awake. Don't wait up, I'll be back before you know it."
He grabbed his keys and the simple, dark jacket he usually wore when stepping out, and then he was gone, the click of the heavy front door echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
The luxurious house that was warm and homey only moments ago, now felt instantly empty and oddly quiet without his presence. Mina sat staring at her melting pistachio ice cream, its vibrant green slowly turning pale in the bowl. She tried to push away the familiar flood of questions his sudden, late night errands always triggered, but tonight, her overthinking mind focused on an entirely different train of thought, that of Lisa and Wes and how she fit in the picture.
Her emotions were a tangled, messy, unwelcome mix of jealousy and confusion. Finally, with a sigh that felt too heavy for her twenty years, she grabbed her phone. It was 10:03 PM in Manila, which meant it was about 7:03 AM in Los Angeles. She hesitated only a second before hitting Lily's contact button. Her best friend was the only person who could help her translate the emotional absurdity of her life.
After two full rings, a thick, groggy voice answered.
"Minaaa… if this is another lizard-in-the-bathroom emergency, I swear I'm booking the first flight out to spank your ass," Lily mumbled, followed by a dramatic yawn.
Mina laughed, the sound shaky but real. "No, no reptiles this time. I just needed to talk. And also, you should try waking up at a normal hour, Lily."
"Girl, it's seven in the damn morning!" Lily's voice rose a pitch. "You do realize not all of us are living glamorous, mystery-laden K-dramas lives, right?"
"First of all," Mina said, leaning back in her chair and grinning, "my life is definitely not a K-drama."
"Oh, really?" Lily fired back instantly, now sounding awake and invested. "You're living in a gorgeous, sprawling house with a mysterious, rich, multilingual CEO who cooks like a professional Michelin chef and looks like he was sculpted by angels, and you're telling me this isn't a K-drama plot?"
Mina groaned, half-laughing, half-defeated. "You're impossible."
"And you love me," Lily replied smugly. "Now spill. Did something dramatic happen? Did he finally kiss you? Oh my God, he did, didn't he? Don't leave me hanging, Min!"
"Lily!" Mina protested, flushing hot even though no one was there to see her blush. "No, it's not that. We just… had dinner. He cooked, I helped a bit... it was really nice."
"Uh-huh, classic domestic prelude to romance. Continue with the sexy details."
"—and then he got a call and had to leave. Probably something business-related, I guess."
Lily made a sound of dramatic disappointment. "Or secret spy-related! A high stakes mission to save the world, or steal back a priceless jewel!"
"Stop it," Mina said, shaking her head and laughing again. "You have been watching too many of those spy romance thrillers."
"Excuse me, you're living one!" Lily countered. "Also, side note, when are you going to send me new pictures of him? Preferably shirtless. The girls in the group chat are getting antsy."
Mina blinked, a genuine look of confusion crossing her face. "Group chat?"
Lily coughed awkwardly. "Oh, right. Didn't I mention it? There's… um… kind of a fan club."
"A fan club? For Wes?"
"Technically, the fandom is called ABS, you know, like in abdominals, but it really stands for 'Always Be Strong', and our members are known as Abbies," Lily recited proudly. "Membership's like, mostly Asian. Tons of girls from Korea, Japan, Taiwan—and okay, me and a couple of our college friends. We're early supporters!"
Mina covered her face with her hand, suppressing a fresh wave of mortified laughter. "You people are insane."
"Insanely dedicated," Lily corrected. "Anyway, we have theories, fanfics, pictures, a shared Google Drive, and... Oh! Someone translated one of his old Russian interviews. Girl, he sounds even hotter when he speaks Russian, all gravelly and intense."
Mina fought a smile. "You are truly ridiculous."
"Please. You should be thanking me for running PR for your mystery man. Speaking of which, the rumor mill says he's making an appearance at the big K-Pop Festival in Seoul next month as a guest performer or presenter."
Mina's jaw dropped slightly. "He's… what?"
"Yup," Lily said, clearly delighted by Mina's astonished reaction. "It's already circulating in the fan circles. They listed him under 'special international guest', Don't ask me how the fan pages know before it's official, they always do."
Mina exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "That man gets more mysterious by the minute. I'm starting to think I live with Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible."
"So…" Lily stretched the word mischievously, sensing an opportunity. "You're definitely going to Korea next month, right? Any chance you can score me and the girls some tickets? Maybe backstage passes? Preferably with a photo op for the Abbies?"
"Lily!"
"Oh come on, think of it as charity for us poor Abbies located outside Asia," Lily teased relentlessly. "You're his niece-slash-friend-slash-entourage-slash-maybe-something-more. You can totally swing it."
Mina threw her head back, laughing until her stomach hurt. "I'm not promising a thing!"
"I'll take that as a solid maybe," Lily said cheerfully. "But seriously, Min… jokes aside, you sound different tonight."
Mina's laughter softened into a long, reflective sigh. "Do I?"
"Yeah," Lily said, her tone suddenly gentle and perceptive. "You sound… invested. Like, really emotionally invested. And that's fine, he's fascinating and all, I get it. But you've always had a thing for impossible puzzles, Min. Just remember to keep a little distance, okay?"
Mina looked toward the window, the faint, familiar headlights of a returning car suddenly flickering through the thin dining room curtains. "Maybe," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "But I think this puzzle might actually be solving me instead."
Lily was quiet for a beat, processing that deep comment. "That sounds both incredibly poetic and extremely worrying."
They both laughed again, the sound connecting them across the vast distance, half a world apart but perfectly in sync.
Then the distinct sound of a car door closing outside snapped Mina's full attention back to the present.
"Lily, he's back. I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow when it's a more decent hour for you."
"Fine, but if he's shirtless again, you better secretly record it for the fan group!" Lily shouted just before the line cut.
Mina set her phone down, still smiling faintly, though her heart was racing now with a nervous excitement she hadn't felt seconds earlier. The front door lock clicked, and Wes stepped back inside, calm as ever, a faint, cool trace of night wind on his jacket, bringing a whole new mystery back into the house.
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The posh, manicured silence of the exclusive gated community in Makati was broken only by the low rumble of Anton Kuzmin's diplomatic plated sedan pulling into the driveway of his rented two storey house.
Anton felt the oppressive exhaustion of a day spent waist deep in bureaucratic quicksand. He had been fruitlessly coordinating with the local immigration authorities, chasing down phantoms and disregarding false sightings of Mikhail Vasilyev, the Bratva enforcer he had the entire Russian embassy looking for at Aleksey's behest.
The house was vast and quiet, a monument to his carefully constructed life of diplomatic privilege. He tossed his briefcase and a heavy diplomatic pouch onto the marble counter in the foyer. The clock read 10:35 PM.
He moved through the spacious living area toward the kitchen, his polished leather shoes clicking softly on the imported tile. He poured a generous measure of single-malt Scotch into a crystal tumbler, the amber liquid catching the light. The scent of peat and oak was instantly calming. He turned on the oversized flat screen television. The volume was low, tuned to an English language news channel, and he settled heavily onto the plush, cream colored sofa, taking a long, restorative sip.
He never heard the sound of the back door being quietly bypassed. He never noticed the almost undetectable shift in pressure as five heavily trained men silently entered the house.
One second, Anton was watching the ticker tape scroll across the screen, the next, a heavy, rough, woven sack was rapidly yanked down over his head, plunging him into absolute darkness and silencing his startled cry.
He felt the cold, undeniable press of a suppressed pistol barrel settle against the sensitive skin of his neck.
"Cooperate and do not resist," a harsh, guttural voice ordered.
Before Anton could muster a single protest, his hands were painfully secured behind his back with plastic zip ties, followed immediately by his ankles. He was lifted unceremoniously, the air whooshing out of his lungs, and carried out of his own house like a worthless sack of grain.
He registered the sudden shift to the cool, open night air. Then, he was unceremoniously tossed into the back of a large, enclosed vehicle, which felt instantly cramped and airless. He rolled helplessly on the hard, vibrating floor as the vehicle, most likely a commercial delivery truck or unmarked van, pulled away with a sharp surge of power.
Whoever these people were, their speed, silence, and precision were terrifying. They weren't common criminals. They were highly trained professionals. A deniable asset, Anton thought, a paralyzing dread settling in.
The ride lasted exactly half an hour, the constant movement making Anton dizzy in the suffocating blackness of the bag. When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the brake hiss sounded enormous. The rear doors shrieked open, letting in a blinding shaft of pale yellow light.
He was grabbed roughly and hauled out, forced to hop awkwardly on his zip-tied ankles across a cold, uneven surface, first concrete, then perhaps gravel, for a considerable distance. He was finally slammed down onto a hard, unforgiving seat, and his body was instantly secured to the chair with heavy duty straps.
The bag was ripped from his head.
Anton squinted against the sudden light. He was in a large, windowless room with exposed concrete walls, illuminated by a single, harsh overhead bulb. The air was dry and smelled faintly of disinfectant and dust.
Five figures stood staring at him, all cloaked in matching black tactical gear, their faces obscured by black balaclavas.
One man, taller and broader than the rest, stepped forward. His features beneath the tight knit of the mask were clearly Caucasian, and he radiated lethal authority. This was the leader.
He spoke, his voice gravelly and devoid of inflection. "Where is Mikhail Vasilyev?"
Anton, clutching the vestiges of his diplomatic dignity, tried to rally. "Do you know who I am? You people are in very big trouble. I am a representative of the Russian Federation. Release me now before this escalates into an international incident."
He saw stars. The large man delivered a massive slap across his face. A solid, perfectly placed strike that cracked like a gunshot and nearly twisted Anton's neck off his spine. The impact was immediately followed by a wave of nauseating vertigo.
"Anton Kuzmin," the leader stated, his voice now dangerously soft, "Cultural Attaché of the Russian Embassy, secretly a plant of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. We know precisely who you are, and we do not care about your diplomatic immunity." He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Anton. "Again. Where is Mikhail Vasilyev?"
The shock that these men knew of his deepest, most dangerous secret, his connection to the Bratva, was like a punch to the gut. The denial died on his tongue. It was useless to lie.
"I… I don't know where he is," Anton stammered, tasting copper from his split lip. "I am looking for him myself. The entire Russian Embassy is."
The leader tilted his head, a predatory gesture. "Who is Vasilyev working for?"
"I don't know! He betrayed the organization. He went completely rogue. Even the Bratva hierarchy is looking for him themselves!"
"Who else is here, in Manila, looking for Vasilyev?"
"Just… just the people of the embassy!" Anton insisted, his voice cracking.
WHACK!
Another mighty slap, delivered with cold, calculating force. This time, the chair shuddered violently, and Anton's vision swam dangerously.
"Wrong answer," the leader corrected, his tone utterly unimpressed. "Again, who else is here looking for Vasilyev?"
Anton whimpered, adrenaline flooding his system. The man's control was absolute. He wasn't playing games.
"It seems I was being too polite," the leader said, a chilling finality in his voice. He reached at his tactical belt and slowly pulled out a large, wicked looking, fixed blade knife. He motioned to the others. "Hold him down. Perhaps he'll be more honest after he loses a couple of fingers."
Two masked men immediately stepped forward, pressing down hard on Anton's shoulders, pinning him. A third swiftly cut the zip tie binding his left hand, and before Anton could react, he yanked the arm forward, extending the trembling hand toward the leader.
The large man with the knife gripped Anton's wrist, the cold steel hovering over his knuckles.
"Wait… wait!" Anton screamed, the terror overcoming all pretense. The knife pressed lightly against his index finger. "Wait! Stop! I'll tell you!"
The leader froze, his eyes fixed on Anton's terrified face.
"It was Aleksey! Aleksey Zotov is in Manila right now looking for Vasilyev!" Anton gasped, tears of fright and pain running down his cheeks and mixing with the blood on his face.
The leader waited, letting the name hang in the air. He lowered the knife just a fraction.
"Honesty," he murmured. "That is good. This is your last chance, Anton. Answer wrongly or lie again, and I will cut a finger off for every wrong answer. Do you understand the terms?"
Anton nodded frantically, unable to speak, his throat tight with rising fear.
"Good," the man said, a grim satisfaction settling in his voice as he secured the knife. "Let us begin again. Where can we find Aleksey Zotov?"