February 12, 2030
The lobby shimmered under the neon glamour of a casino resort nestled deep within the American heartland. Its exact location was never marketed, only murmured—a secret destination for power brokers, oil barons, retired generals, and those who operated in the gray zone between nation and shadow. Beyond the gilded chandeliers and glass sculptures, where fortunes changed hands with every flick of a card, walked a man named Charles.
Late twenties. Charcoal tuxedo. Hair swept immaculately to the side. He wore the casual elegance of someone born into wealth—but there was something sharper behind the smile. A stillness in the way he sat. An edge in his eyes that betrayed calculation behind charm. Like someone who didn't play games—he solved them.
He sat at the blackjack table. Three opponents. One dealer. The cards came in waves—jack, three, king, seven. He never blinked. Never second-guessed.
"Hit," he said casually. A queen.
The others at the table murmured, eyebrows raised.
"Blackjack," the dealer announced.
Another win.
"Beginner's luck?" asked the woman across the table.
Charles smiled thinly. "There's no such thing as luck. Only information."
The croupier gave him a curious look, but Charles didn't return it. He was watching the whole room. Not obviously—but behind his placid gaze was an orchestra of movement. The overhead chandelier reflected a woman's hand adjusting her ring three tables away. A bodyguard near the entrance tapped his earpiece twice. The cocktail waitress with the peacock tattoo had passed the high-roller table four times in under twenty minutes.
All data. All patterns.
At roulette, he called red twelve before the spin. At poker, he folded with precision, then struck with confidence. It wasn't flamboyance. It was execution. Like a man rehearsing choreography with death.
He leaned into the dealer. "You've changed your cologne. Sandalwood and gunpowder... interesting choice for a card table."
The dealer stiffened slightly.
Charles sipped from his drink—a simple tonic water with a twist of lemon—and slid his winnings into his jacket pocket. To an outside observer, he was merely an eccentric gambler on a hot streak. But the casino's internal surveillance flagged him within the hour. Not because he cheated—there was no proof of that—but because he won without variance. Like someone who knew before the cards turned.
Then the hush fell over the casino.
The couple entered.
She was a flame among embers. A scarlet dress wrapped like poured silk, split elegantly at the thigh. Her heels clicked like punctuation. Her dark hair flowed down her shoulders, framing a face that belonged on wartime propaganda posters—elegant, severe, intoxicating.
The Colonel beside her was broad, square-jawed, and confident. His posture screamed military—boots polished, shoulders set, scanning every exit and shadow. He barked at the bar for top-shelf bourbon, gruffly demanding service with the casual tyranny of a man who expected the world to bend.
Charles barely glanced up.
But then their eyes met.
Just a flicker.
Recognition danced in that look. Yet the moment passed in a blink. She turned away, letting the Colonel's hand wrap around her waist like a leash.
Charles finished his game. Casually. Collected his chips. Nodded once to the dealer, and left the table.
The penthouse floor was quiet that morning. Golden light spilled across the corridor carpet. Room 1901 was silent. Then came the scream.
Housekeeping had entered at 9:03 a.m., expecting a simple turn-down and refresh.
Instead, the Colonel lay dead—eyes wide open. Lifeless. Fixed.
There was no blood. No bruising. No marks on the body at all. His pulse was gone, his skin clammy. Yet his expression—etched in terror. As though he had seen something unspeakable just before death.
The maid dropped her cleaning caddy, backed into the hallway, and shouted for help.
Within minutes, hotel security sealed the floor. The suite was locked down. Guests whispered behind cracked doors. The elevators stopped accepting penthouse keycards. On the security room's monitor, the footage from floor 19 was clear—until a perfect seven-minute blackout appeared in the middle of the timeline. A clean cut. Nothing before, nothing after.
Digital silence.
The woman in the scarlet dress was gone.
A single item lay untouched on the lacquered desk: a note.
Plain. White. A single word, handwritten in cursive ink:
"February."
In the surveillance control room, the hotel manager wrung his hands while two men in black suits watched the footage. Their expressions never changed. They made no phone calls. They didn't introduce themselves.
They merely exchanged a nod.
Back in the hotel's private breakfast lounge, Charles sat alone. He sipped his tea, stirring slowly.
The newspaper in front of him bore the headline:
"International Investigations Widen After Kremlin Broadcast Leak."
He flipped the page. His eyes didn't linger on the articles. He already knew the contents.
"Sir," a waitress approached, "would you like anything else?"
Charles looked up slowly. "No, thank you. But tell me—has anyone ordered room service to 1901 in the past twenty-four hours?"
She blinked. "I—I'm not sure I can give out that—"
"Of course," he smiled. "Just curious. Beautiful place. Shame if something… unfortunate happened."
The waitress hesitated, then nodded. "Only drinks. Bourbon. Neat."
"Interesting," Charles murmured.
Outside the lounge window, snow flurried softly. A black SUV pulled up to the rear of the casino. Unmarked. Tinted windows.
Inside, one of the men in black muttered into his earpiece, "Target confirmed. Operation February is active."
But by the time they reached the lobby, Charles was already gone. His tea cup still warm.
In a dark room somewhere else in the city, the woman in the scarlet dress pressed her palm against a biometric reader. The hidden panel opened. Inside, a small, cylindrical vial containing a faint blue mist glowed softly. She placed it inside a black case labeled:
"O.Y.A. – February"
Her eyes were cold. Calculating. She picked up a burner phone.
"He's dead. Charles is live."
She hung up.
In the silence, her eyes flicked to a small screen.
Charles. On camera. Walking out of the casino. Smiling.
The game had resumed.
And February had just made her move.