The early morning drive was silent, save for the occasional groan of metal and the wind howling through the shattered windows. The car they had commandeered barely held together, rattling with every bump in the road. Blood stained the seats, sweat clung to their skin, and the acrid scent of gunpowder still lingered in their nostrils. They had survived, but just barely.
Cruz drove, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel. His face was pale, his body stiff with pain, but he didn't complain. Ms. Holiday sat beside him, her C96 resting on her lap. Her lip was split, her cheek bruised, but her eyes were still sharp.
Torres sat in the back, slumped against the torn upholstery. His coat was stained with blood. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit. His ribs ached with every breath, and his right hand, still raw from the fight.
It took an hour before they reached the safehouse.
It was a small resting house hidden among the trees, just outside Manila but near enough to Laguna that the weight of the battle still clung to them. Cruz had many of these old government hideouts, abandoned villas, places only men like him would know about.
The moment they stepped inside, the weight of survival settled over them.
Ms. Holiday collapsed onto a couch with a sharp exhale. "Fuck," she muttered, pressing her fingers against her temple.
Cruz dropped his coat, sat on the floor, and leaned against the wall. He reached into a bag and tossed a bottle of whiskey to Ms. Holiday, then grabbed another for himself. "This is the worst I've been fucked up in years," he muttered before taking a swig.
Torres sat down on a wooden chair by the window. He said nothing.
The only sound was the distant chirping of cicadas and the occasional clink of glass against teeth.
Then—
"What the hell was that back there?" Ms. Holiday spoke, her voice sharp. "Monzon was one thing, but him?" She turned to Torres. "The old man in uniform. The one who let us go. That wasn't just any government dog, was it?"
Cruz leaned forward, wiping blood from his brow. "Yeah," he said. "You knew him. I saw the way you looked at him."
Torres took a slow breath. He hadn't even touched the whiskey Cruz had tossed him. His fingers just toyed with the rim of the bottle, his mind elsewhere.
"He's General Manuel Ramos," he said finally. "Formerly Lieutenant Ramos. My superior. My mentor and my old friend"
Cruz and Ms. Holiday exchanged a glance.
Ms. Holiday scoffed. "Mentor, huh? That why he let us walk?"
Torres shook his head.
"Then why?" Cruz pressed.
Torres leaned back, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion heavy in his voice. "Because he wanted to."
Silence settled over them.
Ms. Holiday took a swig of whiskey. "That's a hell of a reason."
Torres didn't respond.
Cruz studied him. "You don't talk much about your past," he said. "But this guy, he's important to you. More than just a mentor, yeah?"
Torres exhaled, slow and tired. "He was everything I could've been. If I never left. If I stayed." He paused. "And now, he's not just another soldier. He's a general. He's at the heart of it all."
Ms. Holiday tilted her head. "And what does that mean for us?"
Torres finally met her gaze, his expression unreadable.
"It means next time," he said, voice low, "he won't let us walk away."
The weight of his words settled between them.
Ms. Holiday huffed, tossing her empty bottle aside. "Great. Another government dog on our tails."
Cruz sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. "Then we better make sure next time, we're ready."
No one responded.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees. The morning stretched on, thick and endless. The road ahead was unclear, but one thing was certain.
This was far from over.
The old safehouse had served its purpose. The trio had patched themselves up, caught a few restless hours of sleep, and now it was time to move. Cruz packed the last of their supplies into a battered duffel bag while Ms. Holiday sat on the table, idly flicking the lighter she had swiped from Torres earlier.
Torres, leaning against the doorway, adjusted his coat. His ribs still ached like hell, but nothing he wasn't used to. He exhaled through his nose, watching as Cruz checked the chamber of his revolver.
"We need to move soon," Cruz muttered, voice all business. "The Magic Man doesn't like waiting."
Ms. Holiday smirked. "No one likes waiting, Cruz. It's just that some of us look better doing it." She tossed the lighter toward Torres, who caught it without looking.
"I still don't like this guy's name," Torres muttered. "Magic Man? Is that a joke?"
Cruz rolled his eyes. "He was a known anchor on Radyo Veritas. He's careful, but he has sources nobody else has. If there's anyone who can help us untangle this mess, it's him."
Radyo Veritas. The only station that dared to broadcast real news in a country drowning in propaganda. If "Magic Man" was an anchor there, he wasn't just some rebel shouting into the void
He had reach. Connections.
Torres grunted. He wasn't convinced yet, but it was their best lead.
Ms. Holiday swung her legs back and forth. "Well, before we hit the road, I need to know something very important."
Cruz zipped up the bag.
She leaned forward, grinning. "I just realized I don't know your real names."
Torres and Cruz exchanged a glance.
Ms. Holiday pointed at Torres. "I know yours now. Elpidio Torres. Real old-school. But does anyone actually call you that?"
Torres shrugged. "My wife did."
Cruz glanced at him. "She still does?"
Torres didn't answer.
Ms. Holiday, perhaps sensing she had stepped too close to something serious, clapped her hands together. "Anyway! What about you, Cruz? What's your real name?"
Cruz sighed. "Just Cruz."
She narrowed her eyes. "Liar. What does it say on your birth certificate?"
Cruz hesitated, then muttered, "...Eduardo."
Ms. Holiday nearly fell off the table laughing. "Eduardo?! Oh my God."
Torres actually cracked a smirk.
"Shut up," Cruz grumbled.
Ms. Holiday wiped a fake tear from her eye. "Wow. Eduardo. What were your parents thinking? You sound like a priest."
Cruz pinched the bridge of his nose. "You wanted to know. Now you know."
"Well, now I have so many jokes to make," Ms. Holiday said, looking far too pleased with herself. "What about your middle name? Is it something even worse?"
Cruz sighed again. "Antonio."
That only made her laugh harder. "Eduardo Antonio Cruz! Oh, that's rich!"
Torres crossed his arms, amused. "At least it's not Francisco."
Cruz glared at him. "What's your middle name then, Detective?"
Torres hesitated.
Ms. Holiday grinned. "Come on, detective. Spill it."
"...Salvador."
There was silence.
Then
Ms. Holiday burst into laughter again, practically wheezing. "Oh, we are killing it with these names!"
Cruz smirked. "Elpidio Salvador Torres. Sounds like a retired general."
Torres rolled his eyes.
Ms. Holiday gasped dramatically. "Cruz! Are you telling me you're a tragic hero with a dark past?"
Cruz exhaled sharply. "I'm telling you to shut up before I leave you on the side of the road."
Ms. Holiday wiped at her eye again. "Okay, okay. But now I have to ask—what about me?"
Torres shrugged. "I figured Elizabeth Holiday wasn't your real name."
She gave a mock-offended look. "Excuse me, that name is carefully curated for maximum impact. But my real name?" She grinned, pausing for dramatic effect. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Cruz groaned. "God, just say it already."
She hopped off the table, stretched her arms. "Hmm... nah. I think I'll let you two suffer a little longer."
Torres sighed. "We don't have time for this."
Ms. Holiday winked. "Oh, don't worry, detective. You'll find out eventually."
Cruz shook his head. "You're impossible."
Torres pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the dull ache in his ribs. "Are we leaving or not?"
Cruz, still grumbling, slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."
Ms. Holiday spun on her heel, already walking toward the door.
Cruz scoffed.
Torres exhaled slowly, trailing behind them.
It was the calm before the storm. And somehow, he knew things were only going to get more complicated from here.
North Harbor Port Pier
The early morning air carried the scent of salt and fish, the quiet hum of Manila Bay lapping against the wooden docks. He had always loved this time of day—the way the water stretched endlessly, the way the world seemed to pause before the chaos of the city swallowed it whole.
Noel Esperanto kissed his wife on the cheek, his calloused hands briefly brushing against his child's hair. "Be home before dinner," she said.
He nodded, grabbing his pack of cigarettes as he stepped out the door. He would never see them again.
The pier was quiet except for the occasional whistle of dock workers and the rustling of nets. He stepped onto the wooden planks, heading toward his boat, when he noticed them—six men in casual clothing, standing too still, too deliberate, He had always kept an eye out for danger, always scanning the crowd, listening for the faintest hint of footsteps behind him. But today... today, his focus faltered.
His stomach tightened.
One of them turned, catching his gaze. A brief pause. Then they moved.
They were on him before he could run.
A sack was yanked over his head, rough hands pinned his arms behind his back. The butt of a rifle crashed into his ribs, sending pain rocketing through his body. He gasped but barely had time to register the agony before he was dragged backward.
The pier disappeared.
All he could hear was the sound of water, footsteps, and his own ragged breathing.
The last thing he saw before the hood blinded him was the beige Chevy G20 waiting in the alley.
An Abandoned Building in Intramuros
Standing before him, calm as death, was General Ramos.
Ramos stepped forward, and for the first time, Noel felt fear. He had faced danger before, but this... this was different.
The General's voice was cold, devoid of mercy. "Do you know why you're here?"
Noel didn't answer, his chest rising and falling with labored breath. The blood from his split lip dripped down to his chin.
A flash of movement—Paulo's hand on his hair, jerking his head up, forcing his eyes to meet Ramos'. The man's grip tightened painfully, making him grunt in agony.
"Tell us," Ramos demanded. "What did you tell the Detective?"
Noel's head swam. He had said nothing. But they didn't believe that. They would make him speak.
A sharp pain cut through his cheek. Monzon had moved, his fist connecting with Noel's face with sickening force. The world spun again. Blood flooded his mouth, but he stayed silent.
"Tell us what you know about Locker 047," Ramos continued.
Noel clenched his jaw, trying to block out the pain. They wouldn't break him. He wouldn't say a word. Not for them.
A slow chuckle echoed from Paulo. "He's a stubborn one." he said. "But it won't last."
Then came the Meralco treatment.
Before he could react, the cold metal wires were wrapped around his fingers, his neck, his chest, every inch of his skin screaming as they tightened. Noel's blood ran cold. He had heard of this before, the rumors of how the government used electricity to break men, to turn them into puppets. The fear coiled tighter in his gut.
"Please," he gasped, his throat tight. He was already begging, his pride crumbling beneath him. They wouldn't show mercy. They would show only pain.
The generator hummed, the sound deafening in the silence. Then it roared to life, sending a wave of electricity crashing through his body. Every nerve in him screamed as his muscles contracted violently, the raw energy ripping through him like fire.
His body spasmed uncontrollably. The pain was worse than anything he had ever known, worse than the blows he had taken, worse than the fear. Every part of him felt like it was on fire, each nerve ending screaming in agony.
The second surge came without warning, throwing him forward. His mouth opened, but the only sound he could make was a tortured scream, a primal sound that didn't even resemble a man anymore.
"Who sent you?" Ramos barked, but Noel couldn't answer. His body wouldn't obey. The electricity was like a flood of raw agony, shutting down his thoughts.
Another shock, this one more intense, lasting longer, sending his body into violent contortions. He was slipping away. His vision blurred, his body burning with electrical rage.
His entire body felt like it was being ripped apart, and still they didn't stop. The machine hummed, waiting for them to decide if he had learned enough. He could taste blood now, his mouth filled with the iron taste of his own pain.
In the chaos of his suffering, he managed to gasp out, "Photograph... Velasco's wife... Locker 047..." The words barely made it past his cracked lips, drowned under the thunderous agony.
The electricity stopped immediately.
Monzon didn't flinch. He was used to this, to the cruelty of it. His gaze was cold as he glanced at Ramos.
Ramos nodded. "Good."
The Meralco treatment had broken him, but it wasn't enough. Noel's body sagged in the chair, barely holding on to the scraps of his consciousness.
But then, they went further.
One of the men, his face an unreadable mask, pulled out a knife. He didn't hesitate. The blade sank into Noel's side with a sickening squelch, the flesh parting easily. Noel's scream was drowned in the cut, blood spilling over his skin, staining his clothes. It wasn't just a wound,
"You'll tell us everything, or we'll make this last longer than you can stand," Ramos said softly, his voice cold, almost bored now. "I think we're done here."
Monzon stepped forward, his M16 raised.
One shot. It rang through the room like an executioner's bell. The bullet tore through Noel's skull, leaving no room for doubt. He slumped forward, lifeless.
Paulo whistled lowly as Noel's body crumpled to the floor. "Messy," he remarked. "But effective."
"Chop it up. Cement it in a drum."
The men moved immediately. They had done this before.
As the corpse was dragged away, Ramos adjusted his uniform. He turned to Monzon and Paulo.
"We need to move faster."
Monzon simply nodded, wiping the blood off his cheek.
TO BE CONTINUED.