23:00
Espinas Palace Hotel, Tehran, Iran
Sohel stepped into his room, dropping his clothes in a neat heap before slipping into a hot, fast shower. He emerged in a robe, the steam still clinging to his skin, settled onto the low couch by the window, and slid on his AR glasses—AURA-integrated, bone-conduction feed humming to life at the press of a whisper.
"AURA, connect me with Captain Aphrodite," he said.
The android's voice, soft and immediate, whispered in his ear. "Yes, Major."
A faint, familiar voice threaded through silence—Mei, crisp and restrained through bone conduction. "Charlie One reporting."
"Sohel, Alpha One here. Give me a sitrep," he replied.
"Baby Cheetah has packages," Mei answered without preamble. "We've teamed up with SNA North Asian Command. We're taking the fight to them—prepping to strike before dawn."
"What about details on the packages?" Sohel asked.
"Not clear yet," Mei said. "Most packages appear to be premium."
Sohel let the word sit. Premium. High-value hostages. The term tightened something in his chest. "Good luck. Report any changes. And tell the princess to scout for a boatbuilding factory in Noshahr—dockside street. I want eyes on it. Alpha One out."
"Rogar that. Charlie One out," Mei confirmed. The connection died softly.
Sohel sighed, stood, changed into pyjamas, and let the day catch up with him in sleep.
15 July 2037
08:00
Room service arrived precisely at eight: tea without milk, spiced curd cheese, warm flatbread—and a thin envelope stamped with the hotel seal. A courteous note from the hotel authority. Sohel called down, asking whether an omelette was available; the voice on the line said yes, and he ordered one. He sat with the mail on his lap, idly watching steam rise from his tea.
Minutes later the omelette arrived, and, shortly after, Mitali and Leon appeared in the reception. Mitali's eyes were already running through the morning's logistics. "Arash is tied up at HQ," she said. "He can't make it today."
Sohel didn't hesitate. "Then we don't wait." He wanted Nowshahr—wanted to know what Meridian was building on that dockside street. He signalled Leon. "Call HQ for a vehicle."
Leon cocked an eyebrow. "With or without a driver?"
"You're team pilot, Leon. Without a driver." Sohel's voice was flat. "I don't want ordinary soldiers mixed into TF7 ops. They're already stretched."
Leon relented with a curt nod. "Fine."
They ate quickly and reassembled in the reception. thirty minutes later. Sohel and Mitali wore the same discrete outfits from the night before; Leon had opted for a full black suit and sunglasses. "Suit in this heat?" Sohel asked.
Leon smiled, sarcasm in the corner of his mouth. "Driver-cum-bodyguard. Gotta look the part. You two already match the story."
Outside in the parking lot, an ash-coloured Cadillac waited. Leon theatrically opened the rear door for Sohel and Mitali, the cover acting perfect: Samuel Clark's PS and bodyguard. As they settled in, AURA's calm voice threaded again through Sohel's glasses.
"Major, you've received a message from the princess."
"So, play it," Sohel said almost automatically.
Annabelle's voice came, clipped and efficient: "Meridien boatyard. That's the factory you want. Dockside Street—right next to the Caspian shore. You can't miss it."
Sohel acknowledged with a single nod. "Nowshahr. Dockside Street, Meridien Boatyard."
Leon cranked the engine and eased into traffic. The city rolled past in a hollowed blur: checkpoints at every corner, mobile SAM turrets mounted in slow-moving positions every few hundred metres, faces in the cafés drained of colour. War's slow, antiseptic imprint made the city feel like a stage with props placed for danger.
He watched the world through his window: barricades, sandbagged sentries, civilians moving with the wary economy of people who have learnt to ration hope. Sohel's jaw tightened. Time was collapsing inward—if they didn't act now, the war wouldn't be a headline; it would become the rhythm of life. He had one job left that mattered: end it.
The Cadillac merged onto the highway, the Caspian smearing into the distance like ink. Noshahr lay ahead, a dock-washed strip of industry and salt wind. Somewhere on that shore, Meridian hid its operations. Somewhere there might be a thread that led back to Liora or, god help them, to Kuroshima.
Sohel steadied his breathing and felt the old hunger—no, not for victory alone, but for answers. He had bartered patience for knowledge before; now patience must give way to movement.
15:50 — Nowshahr, Iran
They rolled into Nowshahr in the heat of the afternoon. Sohel told Leon to loop the city once before pulling up at the hotel — a quiet reconnaissance, a casual cover for the survey. Palm trees flanked the boulevard; villas and low bungalows fronted neat lawns; a handful of high-end hotels winked along the shoreline. The city looked at once sleepy and watchful, a seaside town that had learnt to keep its eyes open.
They pulled into the rounded drive of the Seven Seas Hotel, Nowshahr branch — part of the SNA-backed hospitality chain that had risen fast on foreign contracts and government guarantees. Polished marble, discreet guards, and the sort of white-glove service that smelt of money and influence. It was exactly the kind of staging ground they wanted.
Hungry, they booked rooms quickly and slipped into the hotel restaurant. At this hour the place breathed easily; a few businessmen nursed drinks, and a lone couple watched the sea. Sohel, Mitali, and Leon took a corner table and let the afternoon sun limp through the windows. Kebabs, roasted chicken, and a generous pulau arrived warm and steaming. For a few minutes the day folded into something ordinary: the scrape of cutlery, the soft murmur of other diners, the reassuring clink of glass.
Sohel leaned forward and spoke in the low voice he used for plans. "We infiltrate Meridian Boatyard at midnight. Mitali and I go in. Leon, you wait a few blocks away in the car."
Leon glanced up from his plate. "You said it yourself — I'm the pilot, not the spy."
"So: you hold the line," Sohel said. "If we're back within an hour, fine. If not, contact Arash. He'll know what to do." He tapped the table once, a small signal that made it official.
They finished their meal and checked into their rooms. The evening passed slow and unremarkable: Leon practised a dozen routes on a navigation app, Mitali methodically checked weapons and comms, and Sohel reviewed satellite imagery and a half-dozen grainy documents. By night they moved like shadows, preparing for a quiet hunt.
At 21:30 they met in the restaurant again. From the outside they looked as they had in daylight — calm, composed, and almost casual. Inside, beneath their jackets and smiling faces, they wore armour and intent. The hotel lights dimmed, and the sea beyond the windows turned the colour of iron.
Midnight was a thin line away. They ate in silence for a few more minutes, listening to the room breathe. When their plates were cleared, Sohel stood, a small silhouette against the hotel's warm light.
"One hour", he said. "Be ready."
They left the table and walked separately toward the elevators — three soldiers moving in different directions but the same rhythm. Outside, the shore wind came soft, carrying salt and the distant cry of gulls. The boatyard waited; so did whatever Meridian had hidden there.
The hour narrowed to minutes. In the quiet between decision and action, Nowshahr itself seemed to hold its breath.