July 22, 2025 · Festival Grounds, Playas del Este, Havana, Cuba · 11:00 CST
The Festival de las Olas had transformed the entire stretch of Playas del Este into a living explosion of colour and sound. Palm trees swayed under strings of paper lanterns and revolutionary flags. On the sand, wooden stages hosted live rumba bands, their drums and trumpets pulsing through the humid air. Couples in traditional dress spun in conga lines, children darted between food stalls selling lechón asado and fresh guava juice, tourists snapped photographs of vintage 1950s Chevrolets parked along the promenade. The ocean breeze carried grilled seafood, salt, and distant fireworks waiting for nightfall. Murals of the Granma yacht landing. Old Fidel speeches mixed with modern salsa from overhead speakers. Revolutionary history hanging in the air like smoke.
Alen moved through the crowd like a shadow among fireworks. Black-dyed hair slicked back, plain glass wraparounds, simple white shirt and dark trousers — any other tourist. Beside him, Ingrid blended in perfectly in the vibrant traditional ensemble, the layered red-orange-teal skirt flaring with every step, the teal bow in her wavy brown hair. She held his arm lightly, playing the role of a loving companion while her eyes moved across the crowd with the specific, practised scan of a woman who has spent fifteen years being the most observant person in every room.
They had been walking the festival for nearly an hour. Music thumped. Laughter rose. Waves crashed steadily against the shore.
A soft chime in his earbud.
≪ Master. Drones have acquired the target. Cecilia Navarro is inside La Perla diner, one hundred and twenty meters east. She is serving customers. High crowd density around the entrance. ≫
Alen didn't react outwardly. "Understood."
Ingrid squeezed his arm, smile never faltering. "La Perla. Let's get a table."
They moved through the crowd with practised ease, weaving between dancing couples and children waving small Cuban flags. The diner came into view — charming open-air with a thatched roof, wooden tables spilling onto the sand, the smell of fresh coffee and arroz con pollo drifting out. Tourists and locals filled the seats. Cindy moved between tables in her waitress uniform, smiling warmly at regulars, the scar at her collarbone hidden beneath her collar, the constant subtle caution in her eyes behind the warmth — a woman who has been watching every door for twenty-seven years and has simply learned to do it without looking like she is.
Ingrid had already booked a corner table. They sat, picked up menus, and ordered like any normal couple. Alen's gaze swept the area with clinical precision — every exit, every face, every shadow that was the wrong shape.
Then Trinity spoke again, voice tight.
≪ Master. Two anomalies detected. East side, thirty-three meters. Standing near the promenade. Face patterns matched from old TRICELL and Federal Bioterrorism Commission files. ≫
His military phone vibrated once. The screen lit up with two clear images.
Jessica Sherawat. Raymond Vester.
Both in civilian clothes — Jessica in a light sundress and wide hat, Raymond in a casual button-up and sunglasses. Standing casually on the promenade, pretending to watch the dancers. But the body language was wrong. Too still. Too focused. Their eyes kept drifting toward La Perla.
"Confirmed," Alen said, voice cold and measured.
Ingrid leaned in, sharing a smile as if exchanging a private joke, but her whisper was precise. "What are those two doing here? They've been off the grid for years. Both of them betrayed the BSAA during the Queen Zenobia incident."
"Doesn't matter what brought them. They're watching Cindy." He set down the menu with a single clean movement. "I'm going in. Stay here. Order for me if they look this way."
Ingrid nodded once, her smile never slipping.
Alen stood casually, as if heading to the bathroom. He walked to the back of the diner, pushed open the bathroom door, and locked it behind him.
The lock clicked. The world shifted.
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. The air around him cooled to a precise, familiar cold. The blue hue bled into his vision like ink in still water. His Spatial-Phantom Movement activated — the Progenitor nervous system dropping into the processing rate that human perception could not track, the cold air pressure displacement that was entirely his own, built into his biology before he had words for it.
He stepped forward and disappeared.
∗ ∗ ∗
— The Tail —
Alen emerged from the bathroom wall like smoke, phasing through the solid concrete without a sound. He stood in the narrow alley behind La Perla, the Midnight coat collar up, the black hair blending into the shadows. The festival noise muffled. The ringing in his ears steady.
He began to walk.
Slow. Deliberate. Predatory.
The crowd on the promenade was thick. People laughed, danced, waved flags. He moved among them like a ghost in plain sight. Short, erratic Phantom displacements carried him forward in bursts — five meters, ten meters — appearing in front of a dancing couple one moment, behind a food stall the next. After-images flickered for a fraction of a second, confusing the eye before dissolving. No one noticed. No one could.
Jessica and Raymond were twenty-five meters ahead, pretending to watch a conga line. Alen phased through a group of tourists and reappeared behind a vendor cart selling fresh coconuts. He stood still and watched.
Jessica suddenly stiffened. She turned her head sharply, scanning the crowd.
"Raymond," she muttered. "I feel — watched."
Raymond glanced around, hand drifting toward the concealed pistol under his shirt. "You're imagining things. This heat is getting to you. Focus on the target."
They started walking — parallel to the beach, eyes on La Perla.
Alen followed.
He teleported ahead, phasing through a low wall and reappearing on the other side of a palm tree. Walking slowly toward them, ten meters behind, coat flaring slightly in the sea breeze. Jessica glanced back — nothing but dancing people and colourful floats. But the feeling remained. The specific chill of eyes on the back of the neck that the body registers before the mind can locate the source.
Raymond wiped sweat from his brow. "Something's off. Keep moving. We mark her apartment and report back."
They turned south toward the quieter end of the beach. Alen phased through the crowd, reappearing directly in their path for a split second — an after-image that made Jessica flinch and spin straight toward him. By the time her eyes focused, he was already behind them again, walking slowly, relentlessly, as if he had all the time in the world because he did.
The ringing in his ears deepened. The blue hue intensified. The Progenitor running the path between moments like a needle through fabric.
Jessica stopped, turning in a full circle. "I swear someone is following us."
"There's no one," Raymond said, voice tight. "Keep walking."
They reached the edge of the festival grounds where the beach met a row of small hotels and villas. Jessica and Raymond paused near a low wall and pulled out a small device. They marked Cindy's apartment on a digital map — a quiet beachside building just south of the main festival area. Alen watched from the shadow of a palm tree, phasing closer in short bursts, after-images flickering like ghosts in the bright sunlight.
Then they disappeared into the crowd near a beachside hotel, folding into the stream of festival-goers.
Alen stopped. He raised his right hand slightly. "Trinity. Deploy drones around that hotel. Full perimeter."
≪ Drones deployed. Live feed active. ≫
His earbud crackled.
"Alen." Ingrid's voice, calm and urgent. "Come back quickly."
"Coming," he said.
He activated the Phantom displacement again. The blue deepened. He stepped forward and vanished into the crowd like smoke.
Minutes later he phased back into existence inside the diner bathroom, the ringing fading as the blue drained from his vision. He straightened his shirt, checked his reflection, and walked out as if nothing had happened. He returned to the table and sat down.
"Did you get anything on them?" Ingrid asked, voice low.
Alen's gaze remained cold, stoic, clinical. "Yes. One of two scenarios — they are working for the Connections or for Victor Gideon directly. They marked her apartment. Either they take her or they kill her. Either way — I will deal with both of them tonight."
"And then?"
"You leave. Take the Bentley back to the safe house and handle comms from there. This end of the operation is not good for you."
Ingrid studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll go." A small, composed smile. "What about you?"
Alen's lips curved into the faint, clinical line that was the closest he came to a smile in the field. "Just go now. Let's eat first."
Outside, the festival continued — music swelling, laughter rising, waves steady against the shore — while the phantom sat calmly at the table, already planning his next position.
∗ ∗ ∗