### Adaline's Perspective
I have been here countless times, too many to remember the first. The sun rises in the east, illuminating the busy streets where cars and other vehicles speed by, and the bustling sounds of people moving in every direction fill the air. The enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the scent of just-baked bread waft through the air, drawing many to this busy street to taste the specialties of the oldest coffee house in Paris, Café De Flore. The café's exterior is adorned with vines enveloping the rooftop, and outside, round tables with orange-cushioned chairs provide a cozy spot for patrons to sit, read newspapers, and watch the world go by under umbrellas. Inside, the vintage charm accommodates groups of two to four around square tables near the glass windows that separate the outside world, making everyone feel at home.
"Addie fille, voici votre Flore de chocolat spéciale avec du pain frais que vous avez toujours voulu." (Addie girl, here is your Special Chocolate Flore with freshly baked bread you always wanted), Marco says, carefully setting down the tray of food and noticing my open leather journal filled with blank cream pages on my usual round table outside. He gives me a charming grin with his perfect accent that delights the customers, complementing his messy blonde hair, towering height of 6 feet, obsidian blue eyes that draw you in, a sharp nose, and plump lips often curled into a flirtatious smirk. Dressed in white long sleeves, a black bow tie, a black vest, black slacks, black leather shoes, and a white apron reaching his ankles, Marco is the picture of elegance.
"Merci, Marco," (Thanks, Marco), I reply with a cheeky grin, and he leaves my table. I always remember his first day at this coffee shop when I was his first customer. It was his first job after many rejections from other restaurants following high school. He accidentally sprinkled coffee stains on my journal, even though he was being very careful, and the stain is still there. He was so embarrassed, thinking he would be fired immediately after finally finding a job. He apologized non-stop until the manager came over and reprimanded him, but I assured them it was fine, watching Marco feel so dejected. Since then, whenever I come for a hot drink, he always serves me with an additional order, which I always decline, but he insists, saying I saved him and this is his way of expressing gratitude—cocky Marco.
I pick up my cup of Special Chocolate Flore with my right hand, blow on it to cool it down, and take a sip, savoring the rich chocolate essence I always enjoy. Biting into the bread brings back nostalgic memories of my home country. Oh! How much I miss this! It's been years since I came here, the day I chose to escape the past and seize new opportunities. Setting down the cup, I pick up the pen on my table and begin writing in my journal.
**September 28, 2028**
Sometimes you ask yourself what your purpose is.
Sometimes you just let it go. But we don't really know who we are.
There are sacrifices that must be made, jealousies to set aside.
But someone tells you, "You can do it." In this race, it's just you for now.
There are dreams you must fulfill on your own.
The time has come. It's not easy to give and wait.
Wait briefly or for a long time. It takes a lifetime to lift heavy feet and move forward.
You know life isn't easy and never will be.
It will always test you, always make it hard until you can't take it anymore.
Sometimes you think of giving up. But that's where you're wrong.
Because you know you can, and you will. As they say, survival of the fittest.
You will prevail, even when you can't.
You will stand even when your knees are weak.
Because the fight continues as long as you live.
Smiling to myself after writing, I cheer for myself when I can't. Reminding myself I can, even when I can't. Pushing myself because this is my choice and these are the consequences.
"Skipper Over. Target spotted, it will cross over in less than 15 minutes; Over," says a voice in my earpiece, invisible to the naked eye. It's a tiny chip, about the size of a dot, fitting at the tip of a pinky finger, measuring around 3 centimeters wide and 2 centimeters high, which we use to communicate with each other, hidden within the earlobe.
I cover my pen with its lid, close my journal, and put it inside my bag. Placing the bills in the keepsake box on the table, I stand on the platform, ready to charge up.
I sprint across the parking lot, locating my black BMW Sedan parked near the café. The car's sleek, reflective surface glistens in the sun. Settling into the comfortable leather seat, I look out through the tinted windows that obscure the view inside. I open the hidden compartment in front of the passenger seat, pressing the bubble head of a cat figurine to activate the connected system.
"Wit on position," Brandon's voice crackles over the radio, the sound of keyboard clicks indicating he's targeting our locked positions.
"Wings will not let you flop," Baldwyn's voice follows, arrogant and accompanied by the sound of a revving car engine, signaling he's ready to race.
"Gap can see you," Zane's voice comes through next, indicating his sniper position.
"Lycans Over... Luna Vera spotted at St Germain, le Café de Flore est situé au 172 boulevard St Germain, 75006. I am currently following them," I say into the earpiece. "Wit, trace their location."
"Copy, Skipper," Brandon responds, the clicking keyboard confirming his actions. I continue to follow Luna Vera's trail.
"They assembled 72 Romeo Uniform Echo Delta Echo Tango Uniform Romeo Bravo India Golf Oscar, 75003 Papa Alpha Romeo India Sierra Foxtrot Romeo Alpha November Charlie Echo Hotel Oscar Tango Echo Lima. Over," Brandon's voice details the code for the rest of the team. "Moving forward to your place for over 15 minutes minimum time. Scope range approximately at 45° angle. Prepare for action, Lycans," Brandon adds, excitement in his voice.
I press on the brakes and accelerate to 250 km/h in 5.8 seconds. Spotting a police car, I slow down to the speed limit, then park in front of the Paris France Hotel. Adjusting my clothes, I step out of the parking lot.
"LV entered the premises at the top floor," Wit reports as Baldwyn and I simultaneously enter the hotel. I pull Baldwyn closer, posing as a couple in the crowded lobby. His towering height and classic Caucasian features contrast with my tanned skin and dark brown, loose curly hair. We make our way through the crowd to the staff room, donning maid and janitor uniforms.
"Skipper. Wings. Over," Wit announces as we reach the top floor. I push a cleaning cart while Baldwyn carries a broom and dustpan.
"Look at your 3 o'clock direction," Wit directs.
"What's the situation inside?" I ask, pushing the cart toward our destination.
"Dissing each other, Skip," Zane responds from his sniper position on a nearby building.
"Six people inside. No signs of the heads. They are the sub-department heads of the drug cartel," Wit provides more detail.
"Twenty-one (21)," I instruct, signaling Baldwyn to knock on the adjacent door to infiltrate the other room using our coded gestures.
"Gap on the radio. LV heading outside," Zane warns. I prepare for close contact with the Luna Vera Mafia members as Baldwyn enters the other room.
A group of six men in tuxedos, each carrying a silver suitcase, exits the room. I maneuver the cart, causing items to scatter and block their path.
"Je-- je suis désolé, Messieurs" (I -- I am sorry, Gentlemen), I stutter meekly, picking up the scattered tools. They pass by me as planned.
"Ici" (Here), one man in a tux offers to help, handing me a tool.
"Merci, Monsieur" (Thank you, Sir), I reply, discreetly planting a tiny black crystal-shaped tracing device on his sleeve.
"Hurry up, Mikhel," another man urges. Mikhel smiles at me before rejoining his group and entering the elevator. I finish picking up the items.
"Wings, finish picking the scraps," Baldwyn says, scanning the files for Brandon to save.
"Wit, activate and locate. Gap, change position. Wings, exit and follow them," I instruct through the earpiece, changing my clothes and leaving the hotel.
"Plate number BM-542-QY. Heading west on Rue de Turbigo toward Passage Sainte-Elisabeth, three hundred fifty meters now," Wit updates.
"Any news about the Captains?" I ask, accelerating to catch up.
"Port of Le Havre, Skipper," Wit replies as I speed up, determined to reach my destination.