July 21, 2025 · Playa Bacuranao, Havana, Cuba · 13:05 CST
The matte-black Bentley sliced along the coastal road like a blade through silk. Palm trees blurred past on one side, the turquoise Caribbean sparkling on the other. Alen drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear selector, posture relaxed yet perfectly controlled. The engine's low hum was the only sound inside the cabin.
Ingrid sat in the passenger seat, her fingers resting lightly on his organic arm. She had been quiet for most of the drive — but every now and then she squeezed gently, as if confirming something to herself.
The car turned onto a narrow private lane and glided into a discreet garage attached to a modest beachfront house. The automatic door rolled shut behind them.
Ingrid smiled as she stepped out. "Welcome to my safe house. I come here when I need to disappear for a while."
Alen stepped out after her, the Midnight coat settling around his frame. He scanned the interior with clinical precision — colourful Cuban tiles, open windows letting in the ocean breeze, simple wooden furniture, the faint scent of sea salt and fresh mango. Warm. Lived-in. The kind of place that exists specifically to be forgotten by the world.
"Looks good," he said.
Ingrid turned to him, stepped closer, and kissed him again — deep, slow, and deliberate. His titanium hand found her waist. She tasted like salt and lipstick and summer heat. She broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips.
"Come with me."
She took his hand and led him down the short hallway. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.
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July 22, 2025 · 10:00 CST
Alen woke slowly. Waves and tropical birds through the open window. He sat up, breath hitching slightly as he pressed his right hand to the left side of his chest — the familiar, grounding click-whir of the CIED beneath the black vein scarring, steady and mechanical and alive.
He looked around the room. Clothes scattered across the floor. He rubbed his forehead with his organic hand. He had come here for a mission. Ingrid had a way of making him forget everything else, even if only for a night — and he had decided years ago that forgetting everything else occasionally was not a failure of discipline but a sign that he had built something worth returning to.
He walked to the small desk where his prosthetic arm rested. He aligned it with the neural port, magnetic locks engaging with a heavy clack, micro-servos whirring to life. He flexed the titanium fingers. Perfect.
He pulled on his trousers and navy shirt and walked barefoot toward the kitchen.
Ingrid stood at the counter, already dressed for the day — an off-the-shoulder white blouse with red trim, a full layered skirt in bold reds, oranges, and deep teal that swayed with every movement, a large teal bow in her wavy brown hair, simple gold earrings and a pearl necklace. She looked radiant and completely at home in the Cuban sunlight. She slid a plate of eggs, plantains, and fresh fruit toward him.
"Good morning," she said with a warm smile. "Sleep well?"
"Yes," Alen said, sitting down. "You made me forget about the mission again."
Ingrid laughed softly, pouring coffee. "Your stamina is impressive. But now — let's get back to work."
She pulled out her tablet and laid the target profile on the table.
Cindy Lennox — now Cecilia Navarro. Playa Bacuranao, Havana. Waitress at La Perla, small beachside diner. Still single. Aged with quiet grace. A faint scar across the collarbone from the Raccoon City outbreak, kept hidden beneath the uniform collar. Warm with regulars. Cautious with strangers. Extremely alert — the kind of person who knows exactly which table gives her the best sightlines to every exit.
Alen studied the image. "She should be cautious. She survived hell. But we need to locate her before Raccoon City Syndrome advances. Unlike the A-Virus, it won't announce itself first."
Ingrid nodded. "Big festival today — Festival de las Olas. Lots of crowds. Perfect for blending in. I bought disguises." She gestured toward the bathroom. "Go change. Black hair dye, temporary. Plain glass wraparounds instead of the dark ones. Leave the prosthetic in the bag. You need to look like a normal tourist."
Alen stood without a word and walked into the bathroom. Thirty minutes later he emerged transformed. Jet-black hair slicked back in the same sharp pompadour. Plain glass wraparounds, vibrant ocean-blue eyes visible when he removed them briefly. The titanium arm packed safely in a nondescript bag. He looked — for the first time in years — like someone who was not a biological consequence of the worst institution the twentieth century produced.
Ingrid's eyes lit up. "You look completely different. Fresh. Let's go."
He glanced at her outfit — the colourful layered skirt, the off-shoulder blouse, the teal bow. "Traditional Cuban dress. The festival."
Ingrid spun once, the skirt flaring dramatically. "Exactly. No one looks twice at a couple enjoying the day. We blend in while we watch Cecilia."
He grabbed the bag containing the prosthetic and walked to the Bentley. He opened the boot and laid a matte-black suitcase on the hood. Inside: ten micro military drones — each the size of a hummingbird, matte black, tiny rotors — alongside a black military-grade phone and two earbuds.
Ingrid watched, eyes widening slightly. "Drones."
"Powered by Trinity," Alen said. "She will scan the entire crowd, flag dangerous individuals, track anomalies. The processing capacity of a full investigation team in ten units the size of your thumb. I came prepared."
Ingrid shook her head, something between admiration and exasperation. "Nine steps ahead of everyone else. That is why they call you Victor Frankenstein."
Alen handed her one earbud and inserted the other. He activated the drones with a single tap. The tiny machines rose silently from the case like a flock of black butterflies and dissolved into the bright Cuban sky.
"Mission started," he said quietly.
Ingrid slipped her arm through his as they walked toward the festival crowds gathering along the beachfront. Music was already rising — lively son and rumba rhythms mixing with the sound of waves. Colourful flags. Dancing in the streets. The smell of grilled pork and fresh guava juice drifting through the warm air.
They moved through the throng like any couple on a summer morning. The hunt had truly begun.
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