The resort thought it had booked a quiet afternoon of predictable oligarch sunsets and unlicensed DJ remixes of the anthem. Instead, several flying reminders that reality exists arrived without baggage fees, seat assignments, or respect for towel reservations. A Kremlin-appointed narrator confirmed nothing and everything, like a weather app that only forecasts fog and plausible deniability. Guests were advised to keep calm, carry on, and internally scream in three languages.

According to the local proxy spokesperson, the incident was a non-event of considerable magnitude that occurred somewhere else in a place that does not exist, adjacent to an area that is very real and idyllic. The statement arrived with the energy of a yoga instructor explaining artillery. “No infrastructure was damaged,” it read, “though some structures experienced vigorous reimagining.” Officials then added that the strike targeted air molecules, who were asking for it.

State dachas down the road reportedly reached for their panic buttons, which are disguised as artisanal samovars. Landlords of the nation sipped tea so hard the saucers applied for hazardous duty pay. Beach-reading among the well-connected pivoted swiftly from thrillers to manuals titled How To Disappear a Deck Chair Without Looking Concerned.

Witnesses described the drones as beach-unfriendly birds with the vibe of a tax audit. They flew in with the grace of a tuba at a silent retreat and the timing of a fire alarm halfway through a proposal. Lifeguards briefly promoted themselves to air traffic control, raised a whistle to the sky, and downgraded hope to scattered.

Management rolled out new signage: “Please refrain from retaliatory cannon fire until after checkout.” The infinity pool announced it would no longer pretend eternity is relaxing. Housekeeping left chocolates on pillows and a complimentary disclaimer: any resemblance between your stay and stability is purely coincidental.

To soothe nerves, the resort introduced an upgraded cabana package promising shade, plausible stories, and a foldable signal-scrambling parasol. Guests were told it pairs beautifully with sunscreen SPF Don’t Ask Me I Work Front Desk. Mixologists debuted the Black Sea Negroni—equal parts amnesia, bitters, and a twist of maritime law.

Travel agencies marketed the incident as “immersive geopolitics with sea view,” priced suspiciously close to last-minute evacuation rates. Fine print clarifies that by “immersive” they mean you may have to learn the phrase all is normal while jogging. Loyalty points can be redeemed for silence.

Maritime authorities issued a notice to mariners, seagulls, and creative writers that the horizon would be under revision. Local dolphins formed a union and refused to escort yachts without hazard pay; one demanded dental for sonar fatigue. Somewhere a sunburned admiral declared shade a strategic asset.

Security hawks proposed installing a new protective dome that doubles as an art installation titled Don’t Look Up Until You Sign This Waiver. Procurement officers, believing in retail therapy, placed bulk orders for the battery-powered counter-UAV lawn sprinkler. The brochure promises it deters drones and waters narratives evenly.

Meanwhile, the Ministry of Unhappening Things reminded citizens that events only occur when televised, preferably after applause. A scrolling chyron announced: Nothing is on fire, please ignore the performance art. Ratings surged as viewers tuned in to watch nothing do something convincingly.

Logisticians traced the flight paths like a supply chain of uncomfortable truths, noting that delays began at Departures: Reality, terminal Closed For Renovation. Baggage claim reported a carousel full of consequences that nobody wished to identify. Detours were updated to include the direct route through denial.

By sunset, the surf returned to its scheduled programming, the dachas dimmed like stage lights, and management rebranded the day as complimentary sky entertainment with optional existential tasting menu. The official line remained beach-flat: everything is normal, including the abnormal. And as sandals slapped across the promenade, the Kremlin insisted it doesn’t own flip-flops—which explains why it keeps tripping over them.