The kitchen was warm again. Fragrant steam drifted up from a large earthenware pot of simmering broth, while the rhythmic hiss of the bamboo steamer punctuated the calm of the morning quiet. Wes had just finished another batch of hand pulled noodles, the pale strands coiled neatly on a floured tray.
He worked with his usual, quiet intensity. Every slice of the scallion, every fold of the dough, was a deliberate almost meditative action. His movements were precise and economical, reflecting the ruthless efficiency that governed his business and the formidable control that defined his management style.
Mina sat perched at the polished granite counter, a study in constrained emotion. Her chin rested lightly on the heel of one hand, her posture casual, yet her attention was utterly locked on Wes as he prepared a second, equally perfect serving of breakfast.
"For Lisa?" she asked, her voice deliberately flat, aiming for the tone of an uninterested observer.
"Yeah," Wes confirmed without looking up, his focus fixed on arranging thin slices of roasted pork. "She didn't sound like she had eaten yet. I figured she should at least eat some breakfast first before we dive into business."
Mina gave a slow, measured nod, fighting to keep her expression neutral. Intellectually, she knew it was just food, a polite offer to someone arriving in the middle of breakfast. But there was a disarming, almost heartbreaking intimacy to the way Wes operated in this space. The intensity of care he lavished on shaping each delicate shumai and the tiny, critical frown that creased his brow as he tasted the broth. It wasn't just cooking, it was a devotion to perfection that was fundamentally Wes.
Something that Mina had thought was exclusively hers.
A small, sharp, utterly irrational pang of jealousy stirred in her chest, tasting metallic and unpleasant.
Don't be ridiculous, she convinced herself, shoving the feeling down hard. He's just being nice. He's always nice.
The confident, resonant chime of the doorbell sliced through the quiet. Wes wiped his hands on a linen towel and moved with a relaxed stride towards the front door.
Lisa Moreno swept into the house, not just occupying the space but commanding it. She radiated an energy that felt like a sudden bright burst of static. Tall, poised and aggressively confident, she was wrapped in a tailored slate gray pantsuit. A sharp, angular design that emphasized her long, shapely legs and the innate grace of her body's natural curves. Her long dark hair was a sleek, disciplined curtain perfectly framing her symmetrical heart shaped face. Her skin was practically vibrating with excitement as she greeted Wes.
"Wes!" she exclaimed, her eyes bright, already launching into her announcement. "You are absolutely not going to believe—"
He raised a firm but gentle hand, cutting her off with a smile. "Before anything, sit first. Eat. Then we talk."
Lisa blinked, a flash of genuine surprise in her eyes. ""You're seriously making me eat before I tell you the biggest news of your career?"
"Yes I am. I made this for you because I know you probably skipped breakfast again."
"God, you are the most considerate, yet infuriatingly stubborn man I know," she murmured, shrugging off her expensive designer coat.
Wes moved to help her, draping it neatly over a chair. As he did, the motion revealed her fitted tube top underneath. Dark, minimal, and unmistakably flattering. Mina, who'd been quietly observing from the counter, immediately became aware of her own appearance, still in her loose pajama shorts and oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder.
She tugged the cotton hem down, heat rising in her cheeks, and fought the urge to run into her room and change, suddenly feeling childish and messy next to Lisa's effortless composure.
"Morning, Mina," Lisa said warmly, already moving toward the kitchen table, her gaze sharp but friendly. "You look cozy. Did he make you breakfast, too?"
Mina blinked, caught off guard by Lisa's friendliness. "Yeah," she said softly. "He's been doing that since I moved in."
"Lucky you," Lisa said with a genuine chuckle, unfolding her napkin with a practiced flick of the wrist. "The man cooks like a Michelin chef. Honestly, if I had him around every morning, I'd probably never leave the house."
Wes delivered a steaming bamboo basket of delicate dim sum and a sleek, ceramic bowl of the fresh noodles, both dishes glistening and perfectly arranged as if they came from the cover of a food magazine. "You'd get bored eventually," he said, his tone dry, though a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.
"Not likely." Lisa smiled as she picked up her chopsticks with confidence, and inhaled the aroma. "Alright, Wes. You've earned the right to delay my big news. I'll tell you everything later."
Lisa ate with the focused appreciation of a gourmet diner. Wes leaned back against the massive island counter, his muscled arms loosely crossed over his broad chest, his presence a quiet, immovable anchor in the kitchen. Mina couldn't help but notice Lisa's gaze. The way it kept lifting from the food to linger on Wes. Assessing, admiring, maybe even undressing him with her eyes. Wes didn't seem to notice, or maybe he was just pretending not to.
She couldn't tell anymore.
When Lisa finally set down her chopsticks, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and bristled with barely concealed excitement. "Okay, can I tell my big news now?"
Wes gave her an amused nod. "Go ahead, I'm all ears."
"Someone," Lisa began dramatically, "uploaded a video of you fighting three massive guys in a restaurant. It's everywhere and over a million views already, not counting the reposts. Reaction channels are eating it up."
Mina froze mid-sip of tea. "You mean the fight at the diner?"
Lisa turned to her, eyes wide. "Have you seen it?"
Mina set the cup down, trying to contain her expression. "Actually," she said softly, "I was there when it happened."
Lisa blinked, momentarily surprised. "You were?"
"Yeah," Mina said, meeting her gaze. "It was the morning we ran out of supplies in the pantry. We met at the supermarket later in the afternoon if you recall. That morning we decided to have breakfast at Denny's and those three guys suddenly appeared and started harrassing the wait staff and two teenage girls, and Uncle—" she glanced at him, a mix of admiration in her tone "—just stepped in. It wasn't planned or anything. He just did it."
Wes gave a quiet shrug, as if the act had been trivial.
Lisa studied him for a second longer before smiling faintly. "That sounds like him." Her tone was even and composed. No signs of jealousy or competitiveness. "I guess the rest of the world will finally get to see what I've known all along."
Mina felt a small flicker of disappointment. She'd expected at least a reaction, but Lisa's maturity was unshakable.
Lisa turned her phone toward them, the screen blazing with social media chatter. "Look at this. It's gone completely viral. The comments are breaking the internet."
Mina's jaw dropped as she scanned the screaming headlines and captions flashing across the display:
'Model Takes Down Three Thugs at Diner' 'Manila's David VS Three Goliaths' 'Who Is This Guy? Looks Like a K-Drama Lead, Fights Like a Marvel Hero'
Lisa's grin widened. "You want to know the best part? Everyone's asking who you are. Brands are calling, promoters, too. I've had to mute my phone twice already. They all want to meet you. There's lots of talk for sponsorships, deals, collabs and appearances. This could blow you up globally."
Wes stayed quiet, processing. He remembered that night vividly. The smell of alcohol on their breath, the sound of frightened teenaged girls crying, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor. He hadn't done it for the attention. He just stepped in because no one else did.
But now his mind was calculating how all this attention could be made of use.
He glanced at Mina, who was practically glowing with excitement. Wes ran a hand through his hair. "That's not exactly what I was going for. You know I treat modeling more like a hobby and a favor for you. I'm not really out to make a career out of this."
"And I'm thankful for it," Lisa said. "Wes, it's good for business. The exposure's already insane. Your name attached to my agency has already pushed my search rankings to the top 10 entries in the search listings. I've already gotten several callbacks from all those pending contracts and feelers we sent out prior... including the one for the K-Pop Festival in Seoul next month."
Mina perked up. "You mean the one where Uncle is being invited as a guest performer?"
Lisa blinked again, surprised. "You knew about that?"
Mina smiled sweetly. "I've got connections too you know. I hear things."
For the first time, Lisa hesitated, just for a breath, then nodded approvingly. "Good. Then you already know what a big opportunity this is."
Wes watched the exchange quietly, the unspoken, competitive tension threading beneath Mina's words were not lost on him.
Lisa resumed her brisk, professional air. "I need you to clear your schedule for the next two weeks, Wes. We have meetings, interviews, promo shoots, all of it. This kind of buzz is a lightning strike, it doesn't happen twice."
"Lisa, I have a company to run. I can't just disappear for two whole weeks," Wes said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Lisa stood up, moved around the table, and took Wes's hand in both of hers. She brought it up, pressing his palm firmly against the soft, warm curve of her ample chest, her eyes locking onto his with a desperate, professional intensity. "Wes, I need you to do this for me. I know your company can run perfectly fine without you."
Wes sighed, the sudden, intimate warmth of her touch and the earnestness of her plea disrupting his resolve. His mind raced, calculating the risk-reward ratio, factoring in all the potential permutations of this decision. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. "Alright. For two weeks, I'm yours."
Lisa laughed softly, a light, pleasant sound. "Careful with phrasing like that Wes, or I might just take you home with me tonight."
"Wouldn't be the first time," he winked back slyly, the easy familiarity of their history hanging in the air.
Mina forced a bright, brittle smile, maintaining the façade of amusement at their back and forth banter. She tried to distract herself with thoughts of the video, of Wes's impending global fame, but all she could taste was the mounting, unpleasant dread that Lisa's world was about to swallow Wes whole.
Lisa finally released his hand and retrieved her coat. "I'll send over the detailed schedule this afternoon. Wes, you might want to start getting used to cameras following you around. You're officially viral."
Wes managed a small, distant smile. Inside, his thoughts were already miles away, calculating, adjusting.
This fame could prove useful. One, for those still observing him, it could further distance his image away from his true identity as the leader of his shadow organization. And second, if it meant Mina's focus would stayed fixed on something bright, public, and safe, then it was a perfect distraction, a protective shield worth cultivating.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The air in the rented suburban house was thick and stale, a humid blanket woven from the exhaust fumes of EDSA and the faint scent of stale beer. It was a poor imitation of a safehouse, less a tactical headquarters and more a temporary cage.
Samuel Wong, a man whose tailored silk jacket looked utterly foreign in the cramped living room, paced the cracked tile floor like a trapped predator. He was surrounded by his men, each a hardened veteran of the Triad's grittier operations in Kowloon, but they stood now with the unnatural rigidity of schoolboys waiting for a beating. Their silence was a testament not to discipline, but to the sheer, volatile fury radiating off Samuel.
"𨳒那妈!" Samuel spat the Cantonese words, kicking a discarded plastic water bottle across the room. He ran a hand through his impeccably oiled hair, his knuckles white as he tightened his grip on the smartphone. "What is taking that useless fat idiot so long to find Aleksey Zotov? It's been two days and we still have no idea where he is!"
His constant cursing had the desired effect; the men avoided his gaze, eyes fixed on the peeling floral wallpaper. Samuel lifted the phone again, ready to unleash another round of venomous text messages, when the screen flashed with an incoming call. The name Lu appeared.
Samuel snatched the call with such suddenness that the room seemed to hold its breath. "Lu! Have you found where Aleksey is? I swear, if you give me another dead end..."
Lu's voice, filtered through the static of a poor international connection, was a tight wire of barely concealed panic. "Yes, Boss! I have him. I was able to trace his fake identity to the Peninsula Hotel in Makati. I was finally able to punch a hole into their internal security system. I definitely saw him in the feeds within the last twenty-four hours."
A slow, dangerous calm settled over Samuel, replacing the earlier frenzy. He paused, absorbing the name of the prestigious hotel. "Is he alone?"
"He seems to have two bodyguards, Boss. Moving with him at all times, bulky guys. They look professional."
Samuel gave a short, dismissive laugh. "Just two? That's what a man who thinks he's invisible hires. Good. We'll take care of them quick, then have a nice, long talk with Aleksey. Lu, I need the guns now. Where is our local contact? He should have been here hours ago."
"I'm tracing his phone now, sir. He's should be in your immediate area within minutes."
As if on cue, a sharp, insistent ring cut through the tension. It came not from the phone, but the metal gate outside.
"That must be him now," Samuel murmured, his voice now crisp and focused. He looked at one of his men, who scrambled toward the door. "Keep monitoring the location, Lu. Call me the instant he so much as steps toward the lobby. Do not fail me."
He ended the call just as the door opened.
The man who entered was small and wiry, his skin tanned dark from the Manila sun. He was wearing faded jeans and a baseball cap, and he carried the kind of nondescript, faded canvas bags that usually held tools or laundry. The sight of the half-dozen silent, grim faced Chinese made him hesitate only for a moment.
"Who is Samuel?" the wiry Filipino man asked in heavily accented but clear English, scanning the room with sharp, intelligent eyes.
"That would be me." Samuel straightened his jacket and strode forward, moving past the lingering tension of his crew. He gestured at the bags. "Let's see the merchandise."
The man dropped the bags onto the tile with a dull, heavy thud. Inside, under layers of rough cloth, Samuel found a handful of handguns: old but well-maintained Glock 17s and some venerable Beretta 92FS pistols, accompanied by neat boxes of 9mm ammunition. They were standard, reliable tools.
"Don't you have any automatic rifles?" Samuel asked, disappointment evident in his tone as he checked the slide action on a Glock.
The small man stared at him, incredulously. "Are you starting a war, boss? This isn't the US. Automatics aren't common here, and anything military-grade is usually only found in the far south, with the rebels. Very difficult."
Samuel's mouth twisted into a grim line. "The man we're after may have the support of the Russian embassy. We don't know how well armed his personal security is."
"Hold on." The contact turned and stepped back through the door, disappearing briefly toward a battered white van parked outside the gate. He returned a moment later with a fourth, bulkier canvas sack.
"These are locally made Floro MK-9s," he said, zipping open the bag to reveal compact, stocky submachine guns. "They're copies. I don't recommend emptying the entire mag on full auto with these; the mechanism won't hold up. Burst fire only. I normally sell these to collectors, so I really can't tell you how well they'll hold up in a real firefight."
"These will do," Samuel decided, nodding at the practical, if slightly crude, submachine gun. He switched briefly to rapid Cantonese, ordering one of his men to bring over a small sling bag. He then turned back to the contact, presenting the bag, which was heavy with tightly bound stacks of currency inside. "I only have Hong Kong dollars with me now. I came here in a rush. But I'm sure you can handle that."
The small man smiled, the first genuine expression on his face, as he took the payment. He effortlessly weighed the value in his hands. "No problem at all, sir. There are enough bullets and magazines in those bags to keep you shooting for a long time. Just... try not to get caught. I wouldn't want my supplier in the PNP to get into any trouble if they trace the guns back."
Samuel offered a thin, wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We'll do our best."
As soon as the dealer had gone, the air of hesitation vanished, replaced by a charged intensity. Samuel snapped his fingers and called his men over.
"Gear up! Now!"
He was already distributing the weapons, throwing magazines and handguns to his soldiers, who instantly moved with predatory efficiency, checking the bores and loading the magazines. Samuel himself took a Glock 17, testing the weight, and two extra magazines, which he slipped into the inner pocket of his jacket. The pistol disappeared neatly at the back of his waistband, concealed beneath the tailored silk.
"Let's go!" he commanded, his voice low and hard, the words slicing through the stale air. "We're headed to the Peninsula in Makati. This job ends today."