The soft hiss of steam and the rhythmic sound of dough being slapped against the counter filled the kitchen that morning. Wes stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, forearms dusted lightly with flour. His hands moved with patient precision, stretching, folding, and pulling the dough into impossibly thin strands.
The sunlight poured through the wide kitchen windows, casting warm gold over the scene, the kind that made even an ordinary morning feel cinematic.
On the stove, a bamboo steamer released fragrant wisps of pork, shrimp, ginger, sesame oil, and garlic. Inside were neat little parcels of freshly made dim sum, shrimp and pork siu mai, their wrappers glistening from the rising heat.
Mina appeared at the doorway, rubbing her eyes and pausing mid-step at the sight before her.
"You're making noodles... by hand?" she asked, blinking in surprise.
"Good morning to you too," Wes said, not looking up as he stretched another strand. "And yes, noodles. They're hand-pulled. Figured I'd make something special today."
Mina frowned in confusion. "You always make something special. You've been feeding me five star meals since I got here. What's the occasion this time?"
Wes gave a half smile, dropping the noodles into a pot of boiling broth. "Maybe I just felt like overdoing it a little."
Mina tilted her head, catching the flicker of something unspoken behind his tone, concern maybe? But before she could ask, he gestured for her to sit.
When she did, he began plating the food, a bowl of freshly pulled noodles in rich broth, a bamboo steamer of delicate dim sum, and small side dishes of pickled vegetables, scallions, and chili oil arranged neatly on the side.
"This looks incredible," she said, her eyes lighting up. "You made it all this morning?"
He nodded. "Didn't sleep much. Thought I'd put the time to good use."
Mina hesitated for a moment, her curiosity surfacing again. "Because of last night?"
Wes glanced at her briefly, just a flicker of a look, careful and unreadable. Then he smiled that familiar disarming smile of his. "Maybe I just wanted to make sure you had a good start to the day."
Her heart fluttered despite herself.
They ate quietly at first. Mina twirled her noodles, savoring how smooth and springy they were, while Wes sipped his tea and seemed content to let the silence stretch. But soon, he started talking, too casually, Mina thought. She realized he was trying to steer her attention away from heavier thoughts.
"So," he said, resting his elbow on the counter, "about this fandom of mine…what's it called? ABS?"
Mina groaned. "You're still on that?"
"Well, it is pretty fascinating," he said lightly. "Apparently, I'm big in Korea, Taiwan and Japan. Maybe I should tell Lisa to put more focus on promoting me in Asia this time around."
"You're not supposed to know that," she said, cheeks reddening.
"Too late," he teased. "But I have to admit, I am a little curious about what exactly they post about me."
Mina laughed nervously. "Trust me, you don't want to know."
"Really? I heard from a reliable source, your friend Lily, that there are entire threads about my workout routines. Oh and let us not forget about the fanfics."
Her jaw dropped. "You heard that?!"
He smirked. "You weren't exactly whispering last night."
She buried her face in her hands. "Oh my god, I'm never speaking again."
"Relax," Wes said, grinning. "I think it's cute. Besides, I did receive an invitation to attend as a guest performer at that K-pop festival in Korea next month. I was originally thinking on passing on that, but maybe I'll accept the invitation instead. Perhaps give my Korean fans a chance to see if they prefer the real thing over the fluff or slash version of me."
Mina nearly choked on her noodles. "Uncle... you know about fluff or slash fanfics?"
Wes gave a cute smile and raised his hand like kindergardener. "Hello Lieutenant Uhura, secret geek here, remember?"
Mina chuckled, thinking fondly of the memory of Wes in his screen accurate Klingon costume, her borrowed red and black Lieutenant Uhura uniform and the incredibly tacky but accurate reproduction of the Star Trek shuttlecraft. Just then, a thought hit her. "Wait, Uncle... last night when you said you were at the garage tinkering with the van you don't mean..."
Wes completed her sentence without a second thought. "I was installing a new upgrade to my shuttlecraft, been working on it the whole week actually, been gathering the parts from trades and online purchases."
Mina sighed in relief. It all made sense now. The nightly errands. Wes excusing himself at night then coming back as if from nowhere. He was secretly working on his mini-van/shuttlecraft and didn't want anyone to know just how invested he is in his geeky hobbies. Mina pre-emptively congratulated herself for solving the mystery of Wes Chai, feeling a great weight was lifted from her shoulders.
"So Uncle, are you really going to the K-pop Festival?"
"Yeah. I think it's the right move. You should come along, you can be my personal assistant on the trip."
"Me?"
"Why not?" He leaned back in his chair. "Bring Lily and your friends too. Tell them its a reward for being such loyal fans. I'll handle the tickets, flights, hotels. Consider it a reunion trip." He said, flashing that charming smile Wes normally reserved for photoshoots.
Her eyes widened. "Uncle, that's… that's huge. Thank you."
He shrugged lightly. "It's no trouble. You've been cooped up here for days. Might do you good to get some fresh air, and see a little bit of the world again."
Mina smiled, her earlier embarrassment dissolving into quiet awe. Every time she thought she'd figured Wes out, he'd reveal another layer.
"Thanks," she said softly. "You're really being nice today."
"Am I?" he said, half-joking. "Maybe I'm just trying to make up for making you blush last night."
Her face turned pink again. "You're doing it again."
He laughed quietly, then gestured to her empty bowl. "Eat up. You'll need energy for for when you tell your friends the news."
The mood was almost domestic when Wes's phone buzzed on the counter. He checked the screen. Lisa Moreno.
He smiled, putting it on speaker. "Good morning, Lisa. How is my favorite former supermodel turned talent manager doing today?"
"Morning Wes. Looks like you're in a good mood..." came her voice, brisk and lively even through the static. "Where are you right now?"
"Home," he replied, glancing at Mina. "Why?"
"Good. Stay there. I'm on my way. Something came up. It's big news. You'll want to hear it in person."
He frowned. "How big are we talking?"
"You'll find out when I get there."
The call ended with a click.
Mina raised an eyebrow. "That didn't sound like a social call."
"No," Wes said, setting down his phone. "When Lisa says big news, it usually means its something worth getting excited over, be it good or bad."
Wes sighed and gave Mina a small wry smile, before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
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The morning sun filtered through the thick, amber-tinted glass of the Russian Embassy's 4th floor window. Long shadows stretched across his imposing mahogany desk as Ivan Petrov sat in contemplative thought. His office was an oasis of dark wood and polished bronze, located at the heart of the bustling city of Makati. Officially, the title on his ornate door plate read "Embassy Security Chief," but in reality, Ivan had another much more important role. That of being a Staff Officer of the SVR, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service. His jurisdiction covered the murky intersection of statecraft and geopolitical shadow games that often came when national interests of differing nations collided against each other.
Ivan was not a man easily disturbed. He was a creature of routine and discipline, and this morning his focus was razor-sharp. His hawk-like gaze sweept over the day's security reports, a dry litany of low level threats and mundane local concerns. He inhaled the faint, familiar scent of warm electronics and ozone from the embassy's secure local network.
A sharp, almost deferential rap sounded on the heavy oak door guarding the entrance of his office. "Войдите." (Enter)
An aide, tall and impeccably uniformed, slipped into the room, his eyes conveying a subtle, controlled excitement. "Товарищ Петров, похоже, у входа в посольство произошла неприятная ситуация. Антон Кузьмин только что вошёл с синяками по всему лицу." (Comrade Petrov, there seems to be a situation at the entrance of the embassy. Anton Kuzmin just walked in the door with bruises all over his face.)
A faint, almost imperceptible upturn of the lip softened Ivan's stern profile. "Anton Kuzmin, you say? Well, well." He leaned back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "It seems Wes caught up with him after all."
Ivan admired the man immensely. Wes Chai, the CEO of Transnational Global Logistics, was a titan of commerce, a man Ivan had spent years of calculated interactions cultivating a friendly relationship with. They usually saw each other in joint-nation meetings involving the sensitive geopolitics of shipping routes, as well as during petitions for crucial berthing rights at Russia controlled ports. To Ivan, Wes was like a known quantity, a rare diamond in the volatile world of international business. A man who always settled his debts and always returned what was given, be it a favor or a slight. He operated within these predictable parameters, and in the intelligence community, that kind of stability was not just a preference, it was the favorable foundation of a potential high value asset.
Ivan had first floated the concept of turning Wes to his skeptical superiors in Moscow. They were cautiously open but highly doubtful, that a man of Wes's wealth and influence could ever be brought into the fold. A deep, professional irritation settled in Ivan's gut. Someone had dared to interfere with his plans and attempt to kill the man he had set his eyes on.
"Send Kuzmin in. Immediately," Ivan commanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly, non-negotiable register.
The aide nodded and executed a silent, swift retreat.
Minutes later, the door whispered open and Anton Kuzmin shuffled in. The description "bruises all over his face" was an understatement. He was a wreck. His hand tailored suit was rumpled, and his demeanor reduced to that of a defeated boxer after an intense match. His cheeks were unnaturally swollen, a constellation of dark purple and yellow bruises painting his face, making him look grotesquely like a chipmunk straining against a mouthful of nuts. He moved with the tentative, aching gait of a man who knew what true pain felt like.
"Anton," Ivan said, his voice level, devoid of warmth. "I hear you ran into some trouble last night."
Anton winced visibly as he began his complaint, each movement of his jaw causing him pain. "It was terrible, Ivan. Five masked men. Professionals! They grabbed me right out of my own home. Dragged me to some abandoned warehouse where they tortured me."
Ivan's eyes, the color of cold steel, remained unsympathetic. He steepled his fingers, staring over the top of them at the pathetic figure before him. "It is your own fault, you know this, right?"
The question pulled Anton up short, a sudden, panicked flush replacing the bruises on his face. "Wh-what do you mean? This was clearly an unprovoked attack! I was merely—"
Ivan raised a heavy hand, cutting the whine off like a snapped wire. "Stop. I tolerated your various activities for the bratva because they were beneath my notice and did no harm to the Motherland. But this time, Anton, you have crossed the line."
Anton froze. His posture collapsed further as he realized his carefully guarded secret, that of his connection with the Russian mafia, was not only known to the men who abducted him, but to the Security Chief of the embassy as well. The blood drained from his face, leaving the bruises standing out like grotesque tribal markings. "Ivan... I..."
"Do not bother with pathetic excuses. The surveillance net cast by this embassy is wider than your small operations can comprehend. I know of your secret meeting with Aleksey Zotov at his hotel the other night. And I know, Anton, that Mikhail Vasilyev, the very man you have had the entire embassy staff looking for under false pretenses, came here with the objective of assassinating Wes Chai, the CEO of Transnational Global Logistics."
Ivan's voice held the quiet menace of a loaded gun. "I need to know why."
Anton seemed to physically shrink, cowering under the full weight of Ivan's focused, predatory gaze. "I—I did not know. I swear on my life! No one in the bratva knows why Vasilyev went rogue, or why he came here. I was only told to find him and clean up this mess."
Ivan stared, the silence stretching taut as piano wire. "By Aleksey?"
Anton nodded miserably, unable to meet his eyes.
A cold, satisfied glint entered Ivan's eye. He pushed his chair back, the sound echoing in the silent office. "Then it looks like I need to have a very pointed conversation with Aleksey Zotov. You see Anton, the SVR, does not look kindly on those who interfere with our operations. Especially not operations with a high priority target like Wes Chai."