[Edward POV]
Summertime. Bikinis. Water guns. Girls dancing on cars.
Too bad I couldn't enjoy any of that—because I had to work.
A few weeks had passed since Cuba. It was already August, and my girlfriend and I were on completely different schedules. In the three weeks we'd been apart, we'd only managed to meet twice.
She was busy promoting her new song, doing interviews, and performing. Bad Monkey had exploded—she'd been on tour ever since.
We did get one break together. Coachella. Our schedules overlapped just long enough. We performed onstage, disguised ourselves, danced in the crowd, and even crashed in tents like regular fans.
Meanwhile, I was knee-deep in finishing Now You See Me. Over 90% of the film was shot, and all of my scenes were already done.
For the role of FBI agent Dylan Rhodes, I originally wanted Cillian Murphy—but he was tied up with another project. So I cast Nicholas Hoult instead, and honestly, he delivered.
And then there was the documentary. It shattered cinema records, grossing over $700 million worldwide. Abed was hailed as a genius filmmaker overnight and had already jumped into his next meta-style project. I handed him the Free Guy script, hoping his unique vision could elevate it.
Of course, he wanted me in the lead role. But I was already juggling too much.
"Edward, want some watermelon?" Vanessa asked, walking over with a plate of fruit in hand.
She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a golden bikini as we sailed across the ocean on my yacht, spending the last days of summer heading toward the Bahamas. We'd be staying at my dad's summer home for the week.
"Yeah, sure. But only if you feed me," I said childishly.
She grinned. "Open wide… Ahhh~"
"Not the kiwi—wait, not with the skin still on—!" I protested as she tried to shove it into my mouth.
I'd offered Frankie the chance to come along, but she decided to head back to work. "I'm already bored of traveling," she said.
Her early fears about late-age pregnancy had faded once she knew about my abilities. So she resumed her duties as usual.
"This is the first time you're actually using the yacht to go somewhere," Vanessa said, resting her head on my chest. "It's been collecting dust for months."
"Yeah, well, I never had time to relax. Always rushing somewhere."
I looked out over the endless ocean. Despite all the traveling I'd done, there was something romantic about being at sea.
"Makes me want to yell 'Yohohoho!' and sing Bink's Sake," I quipped.
"What? You want sake?" Vanessa blinked. "I think there's a bottle below deck—"
I pulled her back into my arms. "No, stay. "
She giggled and nestled closer.
"Hey, Ed," she said after a moment, her tone shifting. "You're not going to be held responsible for the boxing match, right?"
I gave her a small smile. "He was asking for it. But no—I don't think so."
It all started with a string of viral videos. A professional boxer—ten years older—kept calling me out on social media.
"I'd fold him in a round," he said in one. In another, he laughed, "I'll make that little punk my bitch in the ring. Then, he'll understand what a real man looks like."
Then he claimed the supersoldier stuff was fake. Even dragged my family into it, saying they were helping me lie to the world.
My fans didn't take it well. Neither did I. They were flaming the boxer relentlessly on the internet. Memeing him into oblivion. But they kept falling to his rage-baiting.
So I fired back with a short clip: "Pick a date. I'm not running."
Legally, I couldn't sign the contract—I was still 17. But I was emancipated, and I let my father co-sign the waiver to keep it clean.
The commission approved it as an exhibition. No headgear. Just gloves and a ring. The boxer was thrilled. His baiting had worked. He was banking on fame, endorsements, maybe millions in streaming royalties.
But before we confirmed the match, I made him sign a clause: all of his profits would go to charity.
"If this is about proving who's stronger," I told him, "then money shouldn't matter. You wanted this, right? Don't say it's all a plot to fatten your bank account with a fake match."
He stalled for three days while the internet mocked him into oblivion. Eventually, he caved and agreed—claiming he just wanted to teach me "a lesson in humility."
That was last week.
He still hasn't woken up from his coma.
The fight was streamed live on Netflix. A massive global event. It opened with a match between two female boxers—a fast, technical bout that fans loved.
Then came my fight.
The Irish guy walked into the ring with a grin, taunting, putting on a show. I ignored it.
The bell rang.
He stayed guarded for a moment, then lunged forward.
I sidestepped and landed a clean right hook.
His body hit the mat hard—bounced, even—before going still. Eyes rolled white.
The stadium fell silent.
Online, the trolls vanished. Even the loudest voices had nothing to say. The meme-makers stalled. The Twitter warriors went suspiciously quiet.
Then came the backlash.
Some conservative outlets clutched their pearls. "He should've forgiven him," they scolded. "Violence isn't the answer." A few even accused me of deliberately putting the guy in a coma—as if he were some fragile puppy I kicked out of spite.
But others pushed back. "He signed the papers. He knew what he was walking into. He asked for this."
For once, people started to grasp how I could go toe-to-toe with supersoldiers—not with brute rage, but clean, clinical efficiency.
And that's all it took. One punch.
One real punch to scatter the flies, clear the air, and send the leeches crawling back into their echo chambers.
The fans noticed how bored I looked in the match. It invoked masochistic tendencies in some. They wanted to get punched too– Like what?!
A few boxers reached out afterward—not to mock, not to bait—but to spar. Respectfully. As athletes. As professionals. They weren't chasing clout or clicks. They just wanted a clean match.
I accepted their offers. Honestly, that was more fun than doing the exhibition match.
The truth is, the fight wasn't a tantrum or a stunt. It was a surgical design. A calculated strike to cut through the layers of obsessive idol worship building around me.
People had started seeing me as a brand, a banner, a belief system. Untouchable. Perfect. Golden. The documentary wasn't helping me at all.
And I needed to remind them: I bleed too. I hit back. I'm not your fantasy. I'm real.
Even after all that, the dent in my reputation was barely a scratch. And that—more than anything—was what exasperated me. Idol worship was really dangerous, and I didn't want people to start calling me The Messiah. I'm not Timothee Chalamet in Dune.
I'd put someone into a coma for nothing.
The trip to the Bahamas took time. Two full days just to cross the Panama Canal. Ten days overall. We were moving fast—much faster than a typical yacht, which would've taken four to six weeks for the same journey.
Vanessa and I grew incredibly close during that time. Just the two of us, gliding over endless blue, sharing sunrises and silence… also sexy times. A lot of them.
But while I was at sea, something else surfaced.
The coma guy woke up a few days back.
Turns out he stayed silent deliberately—pretending he was still unconscious to frame me further, hoping the attack on me could get bigger.
Maybe he thought it would be a career-defining performance. I was even rooting for him! 'Do it! Destroy my reputation!'
Until the doctor in charge of his care—someone secretly in my fan club—blew the whistle.
The backlash flipped like a switch.
Suddenly he was the villain. People accused him of faking the entire coma. News outlets cited leaked medical reports showing I hadn't caused any real damage. No fractures. No brain bleed. Barely even swelling.
Professional therapists came forward, diagnosing the episode as psychological—trauma-induced catatonia, maybe, or just high-stakes humiliation with a side of ego collapse.
Because the truth was simple– I hadn't hit him that hard.
I used my Sharingan. Just enough to tip his mind over the edge and let it rest in darkness.
It wasn't supposed to blow up like this. It was supposed to humble him.
Instead, it came back and bit me—twice.
"I should plan another incident. Something else that would fracture my image." I muttered as I contemplated an idea. It was something I needed to be able to bounce back on– nothing irreversible.
"But I'm also afraid. If I did reveal stuff like smoking joints publicly, the people will petition for weed to be legalized earlier in this timeline."
…
After spending a week together in the Bahamas, we flew back to California while an employee drove the yacht home.
As soon as I returned, I was invited to a talk show with Conan O'Brien. Luckily, Conan's new studio wasn't in New York.
The audience cheered as I stepped on stage. The cheering was so overwhelming, Conan actually struggled to take control of the studio.
We had to sit there awkwardly, waiting for the crowd to calm down.
"Wow! Extra energy tonight, huh?!" Conan said, mock-scolding them, which made everyone laugh.
"So Edward. Nice tan," he said, eyeing my slightly darker complexion. "Is it from working under the sun, just shoveling dirt and all?!"
Conan mimed digging with exaggerated strain on his face, which made the audience laugh again.
I chuckled too, already expecting him to bring up that picture of me in Cuba.
"Well, I only did that for a day. The tan's from the Bahamas sun. I just got back from a short vacation."
Conan nodded and said, "Well, it's nice to see you took a break. I was shocked to see you working on the movie right after you got out of the hospital."
We chatted a bit, and then Conan got gossipy. "Did you go to the island alone?"
"Not alone," I said with a mischievous look, which made the crowd gasp dramatically.
Conan mock-gasped and slid his chair closer, resting his chin on his hand like a girl at a slumber party. "Who? Who did you go with?!"
"I'm not telling you," I replied playfully, acting bashful. "But, it's a girl."
We talked about a lot of things—mostly about the documentary. I had pulled it out of theaters after only three weeks, which confused people since the numbers weren't slowing down.
"We're going to donate the profits to charity. 350 million—will go to a good cause," I announced, which earned loud applause from the audience.
"Yeah, so you don't want the numbers to get any higher because you'd feel too difficult to keep the promise if you saw them, right?" Conan teased.
"That too. Like—I'm still shocked. It's a documentary," I said, gesturing to the crowd, which made them laugh again.
"You know, I haven't even watched it yet," Conan admitted, earning jeers from the audience.
He shouted defensively, "Oh come on! I've had no free time!"
I gave him a serious look—like questioning his audacity—which only made the crowd laugh harder.
"Well, you can still see it on Netflix. And then take a photo to prove you completed the assignment." I said with a teacher-like tone.
Some of the audience members were confused as to why I only donated 350 million instead of 700 million. Conan heard the murmurs and then stopped the interview to turn to the audience member and clarify it.
"The numbers are split between the cinema and the studio. In fact, getting half of it was already a testament to his studio's capability. 350 million, is everything his company gets, without him taking any profits from it at all."
The audience became more amazed when Conan told that. Well, studio audiences at least. It would be cut from the final edit of the talk show.
After the show aired, articles flooded the internet. Tabloids speculated endlessly about who the mystery girl in the Bahamas was.
Coincidentally, Taylor hadn't made any public appearances in the last two weeks. Neither had Barbara Palvin or Selena Gomez.
People also pointed fingers at Emma Stone, given her status as my 'best friend' in the celebrity circle.
Fans—mostly teenage girls—were crying online. The reactions were intense. I was honestly afraid to mention Vanessa's name anywhere.
"That's what you get for constantly flirting with people. Now they're acting like crazy ex-girlfriends trying to tear the new girl down," Alex commented while we worked on AIDS research in the lab back at the mansion.
"Alex, I'm really glad you're here, and we can research together. But why are you standing so far away from me?" I asked, confused, as I noticed she'd moved her things ten meters away.
She kept her gaze away from me, taking a step away when I took a step closer.
"Shut up, pervert! I'm not— I'M DEFINITELY NOT GOING NEAR YOU! YOU— You— PERVERTED HOUND DOG!"
"???"
Alex still couldn't shake the image of seeing Vanessa, Abby, and me stepping out of the same cabin. She kept blushing around me—especially around Vanessa.
Her fragile child-like innocence couldn't accept what I had done. If she could, she would make me walk down naked through the streets while she shouted 'Shame' at me from behind.
"Alex, be careful with that. That sample's dangerous," I warned as she carried a tray of highly infectious materials to the cryo storage.
"What? I am being careful," she huffed. She was being careful, not playing around recklessly in the lab.
But she dropped one of the vials as the cryo door edge hit the tray she was holding.
I couldn't reach it in time—she was too far.
"Alex!" I shouted, yanking her away as the vial shattered.
"ALERT! ALERT! THE LAB IS COMPROMISED! INITIATING DECONTAMINATION PROCESS!"
Oracle blared through the speakers, instantly locking the lab.
"Shit!" I pulled Alex toward the emergency shower and wrapped my arms around her before turning on the water. The shower was built for one, so we had to squeeze in together.
"Close your eyes, Alex. The decontamination ray'll hurt them," I warned.
"I–I'm sorry! I was careful—" she stammered.
"Don't worry. Accidents happen."
"Alert! Alert! Please remove all contaminated clothing. Alert! Alert! Please remove all contaminated clothing."
Oracle repeated itself, while ceiling-mounted lasers began tracking us.
"Oracle! That's fine—"
"All clothing must be removed. Level 4 contamination protocol requires complete removal. Please comply," it insisted.
Alex froze. "Wh–wha–"
"Fine! I'll take it off!" she snapped, glaring at me like it was somehow my fault.
"What?!" I blinked as she flung her lab coat aside. And then the laser began burning it.
"Please remove all items, Miss Dunphy," Oracle chimed again.
"You– YOU really are a pervert! Even your AI is perverted!" Alex shouted, blushing fiercely.
In the end, both of us stripped down to our underwear, standing back to back under the shower while Oracle performed the decontamination.
"This is all your fault!" Alex grumbled as she pressed her back skin onto mine.
"How is it my fault? You dropped it." I argued.
"But you designed the program." She argued again. "Now I have to be naked in front of a boy! No one had seen me naked before."
"If it'll make you feel better. I didn't peek yet." I told her.
She gasped and almost stomped on my leg, "Don't have the intention to peek at all! What do you mean yet?!"
Both of us closed our eyes as the decontamination ray was running. Only our touch senses were active, and honestly, it made the situation a little bit weird.
Thirty minutes later, the lab was secured.
"Decontamination complete," Oracle said. "Backup clothing is available in the compartment to your right."
I was about to turn when Alex shouted, "Edward! Don't look! Close your eyes! Let me change first!"
"Fine!" I sighed. "But hurry up. It's freezing in here—"
The lab door burst open. My girlfriend stepped in, clearly worried after hearing Oracle's emergency alert echo across the mansion.
"Edward! What happ—"
She froze.
Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: me, half-naked. Alex, half-naked. The two of us were still dripping wet under the decon shower.
"Wait! Ness! Don't get the wrong idea!" I shouted quickly.
Ness narrowed her eyes and said, "Oracle told me you need to be naked to decontaminate. So I understand it. But now, your reaction is telling me there's something more to it."
Then, she threw a towel at my face.
…
[General POV]
In a shocking but carefully negotiated move, the U.S. trade embargo on Cuba was officially lifted.
The island nation immediately declared its neutrality on the world stage—a decision that left some of its traditional allies feeling betrayed.
But after Sado personally visited several presidents across Latin America—offering private incentives and quiet reassurances—the tone shifted.
Public opinion warmed. And within days, Cuba was again considered a strong, if independent, friend to them all. Money makes the whole world go around, it's the same thing here.
The next bombshell came fast. Cuba had signed a massive deal to purchase next-generation maglev trains, fully designed by Edward Newgate himself.
The announcement sent shockwaves through international media, not just because of the deal's scale, but because of Edward's deep ancestral ties to the country.
Critics accused him of giving Cuba a sweetheart deal—"favoritism for his mother's homeland," they said. But Edward made no public comment.
Meanwhile, another project was quietly gaining momentum within the country. A biopic about Edward's mother, with Ana de Armas cast in the lead.
Her English still wasn't strong at this point, so Edward had her enrolled in private lessons—personally enhanced by his "teaching aura," which dramatically sped up learning. The film's development remained a domestic secret—for now.
Cuba's sudden growth seemed impossible to ignore.
Gold had been discovered. And something strange was happening with agriculture—something locals were calling a miracle.
Farms expanded overnight. Seeds planted in the morning bore fruit by sunset. And it all began the day Edward stepped foot on Cuban soil.
Locals whispered of the Carmen family's blessing, and that the land had simply been waiting for his return.
Now, Edward was no longer just admired—he was worshipped. Statues, murals, and shrines sprang up in days. Even skeptics found it hard to call it coincidence.
Work speeds across the country tripled. In weeks, the entire city sewer system neared completion—a project that had been stagnating for decades. Returning tourists—especially those from the U.S.—were shocked by what they saw.
Solar panels on every home. Kinetic energy pads on the roads. The dingy houses were transformed into luxurious apartments.
Wind towers, hydroloops, urban farming towers, efficient water systems—Cuba was running on renewable energy like a testbed for a futuristic eco-city.
Other nations, especially oil-rich ones, grew quietly alarmed.
And oil giants? They were beginning to panic.
Cuba's education reform, green infrastructure, high-speed transit, and rising cultural exports were now moving in tandem.
And at the center of it all stood one person.
Wayne Bruce, the ex-FBI agent who had quit after falling in love with Camila—Edward's aunt—found the Carmen house in the suburbs and was confused.
"When did they rebuild the house?" he muttered.
His presence alerted the occupant inside. His eyes widened as the person stepped out.
"Camila?" he whispered in shock.
Camila glared at him, her expression cold.
"Why are you here, Mr. Bruce?"
She was only there for a short visit, to check on the condition of the estate. Edward wanted to bring Miranda back home, and Camila had offered to return alone to make sure everything was perfect.
She didn't expect to find the man she once loved standing in front of the house gate.
"Did you get back from America to come and spy on me again?" Camila asked with a biting tone.
Wayne however, just smiled, his face filled with relief. "You're alive…" Tears began pooling in his eyes. "I thought you were dead."
He had been searching for her. His heart dropped when he heard that the entire rebel group was destroyed by the last regime.
He had stayed in Cuba for almost two years, searching for traces of her.