November 4, 2035

  The sky hung low and colorless, like wet cement poured and left to dry over the city. Somewhere inside those clouds was the threat of rain, thick, bruised water waiting to fall, but the Metro, stubborn as ever, held its breath and nothing came. Instead, humidity clung to the skin like a fever dream, slicking Pol’s shirt to his back.

  Pol stood ankle-deep on the battered metal barge, half-floating, half-stranded in a creek that smelled of rust, rot, and the patient decay of things once useful. The creek itself was neither dead nor alive. It gurgled with hidden plastic and sunken dreams: a window pane, a tire, bones of chairs, bones of cats, bones of history, all half-swallowed by black water.

  On the bank, informal shanties clung to the concrete like barnacles, patched-together sanctuaries of corrugated tin and faded tarpaulin, propped by the stubbornness of those who refused to vanish. Faces peered out from small, jagged windows: women rinsing rice, shirtless men smoking, children balancing on beams like tightrope walkers above the flood. They watched the cleanup with curiosity sharpened into amusement, as if the sight of strangers dredging up their refuse was an unexpected afternoon show.

  The barangay officials stood safely on the embankment, bright smiles painted across sweat-slick faces. Branded polo shirts (the barangay seal stamped above pocketed bellies) strained under the weight of midday heat. One of them, a man whose hair was so carefully pomaded it seemed sculpted, barked gentle instructions that went nowhere. Another official, a woman in designer sunglasses, flitted between angles, making sure her profile faced the camera as she pointed dramatically at floating garbage.

  Beside them, two men in collared shirts clutched smartphones like priests holding relics. Click. A pose. Click. A thumbs-up. Click. A shot with the shanties blurred into background shame. The officials nodded among themselves. Yes, this would look good on Facebook, captioned with hashtags about “change” and “care.”

  Pol felt the weight of their gaze pass over him, then slide off like oil. To them, he was part of the scenery: a human prop with fairly tanned arms and a wary, half-bored look. He gripped the hooked pole in his hands, pulling a sodden tapestry of plastic bags and rotting palm fronds toward the barge, each motion met by the creek’s sluggish resistance.

  The others on the barge, men older than him, faces lined with old disappointments and faint defiance, worked in silence, save for a few resigned jokes about what they’d fish out next. A dog skull. An old election tarp. A slipper without its pair. The jokes tasted of fatigue, but they kept them going, like men whistling through a graveyard.

  Time blurred. The barge sank a little lower as the garbage piled up, and the air filled with the sour smell of wet plastic and silt. At some point, more trucks had to be called, rust-patched dump trucks that arrived belching smoke, driven by men who seemed half-asleep. The garbage slid off the barge into the trucks with a dull, wet slap, each load barely scratching the surface of the creek’s memory.

  When the work ended, Pol stepped off the barge, boots sinking slightly in the mud. A barangay staffer, young, polite, holding a clipboard as if it were a shield against the world, handed Pol a crisp envelope. Inside: cash, counted and signed by invisible hands, government subsidy wrapped in brown paper. Enough for rice, rent, and a spare cigarette or two.

  Pol signed his name on the form, Leopoldo Santos, the new name Witness Protection Program gave him, gracefully allowing him to keep the nickname Pol. The ink bled slightly from sweat-damp fingers. He thanked the staffer out of habit, voice rough with the dust of the afternoon. The staffer nodded but was already looking past him, toward the next man in line.

  Behind Pol, the officials were packing up, congratulating themselves on a successful “environmental initiative.” The smartphones were pocketed, smiles faded, and the day’s performance quietly ended.

  Pol glanced once more at the creek. It still gurgled, dark and unmoved. A dull ache in his back reminded him that tomorrow, it would look the same. The water might rise in the night, swallow fresh trash, and offer it back again next week, like a confessional priest with no memory.

  He slipped the envelope into his pocket, wiped sweat from his forehead, and walked toward the waiting jeepney, boots leaving faint tracks in the wet mud. The sky above remained undecided: rain would come later, or not at all. The Metro would keep breathing either way.

  The jeepney ride was short, an unsteady drift through Quezon City’s patchwork calm. Metal rattled against metal, advertising decals peeled like scabs, and Pol’s shirt still smelled faintly of creek rot and government goodwill. When the corner of his street appeared, a cracked curb painted half-heartedly red, he slapped the roof, voice hoarse as he barked to get off.

  Gravity felt lighter here. His feet found concrete unmarked by mud, his lungs caught a gentler air. This part of the city was neither rich nor poor: a small refuge of rented rooms and small cafeterias, alley cats twisting between parked scooters, laundry swaying above like surrender flags.

  The creek he left behind felt impossibly distant now, as if it belonged to another Manila, the part that hid behind billboards and half-finished towers.

  Pol’s building was a squat, six-story husk of painted cement. No guards in crisp uniforms, just a tired hand-painted sign on the wall: NO LOITERING AFTER 10PM. He climbed the stairs quickly, boots still sticky with memory, lungs holding back the smell he feared might follow him.

  On the top floor, his door waited. Painted a dull blue, lock half-rusted but obedient. Inside: a room small enough to see everything from the doorway: bed, folding table, the hum of a tiny Fujidenzo refrigerator holding nothing more expensive than eggs and leftovers.

  Clothes peeled off him in tired motions, each shirt thread carrying a story of sweat, mud, Manila’s swampy breath. He stepped into the bathroom, tiles chipped like forgotten teeth, and twisted the shower knob, waiting for the small miracle: hot water.

  Two months of living here, and still it felt unreal. Steam rose, coiling around his head like a tame spirit. Warmth washed over bruises he barely noticed, over calluses earned in forgotten summers. The water became a curtain between him and the city.

  Pol sang under his breath, a viral tune spilled out of tricycle radios and sari-sari store speakers all week. His voice, half-cracked, echoed against the bathroom walls like a confession.

  He caught a fragment of sunlight knifing through the tiny window, catching the curve of his shoulder. His skin was clearer than it had been in years. No fresh burns, no blistering from cruel sun. He owed it to Celine, her stubborn kindness, the sunscreen bottles she’d forced on him as if fighting off a curse. “Use it, Pol. Everyday. Or else.” Her laughter still hummed around him.

  Soap spiraled down the drain in cloudy streaks, carrying with it stray thoughts of nothing in particular, just the city’s hum, the smell of wet cement outside, and the low whine of a tricycle engine fading somewhere down the street.

  Then: a knock at the outside door. Three quick, confident taps that seemed to reach right through the steam.

  Pol turned off the water, droplets trailing down his arms, heartbeat skipping in the small quiet that followed.

  “Sino ‘yan?”

  (“Who’s that?”)

  “Joseph ‘to, bro!”

  (“It’s Joseph, bro!”)

  Something inside Pol stirred, a small, unspoken spark that he couldn’t name, blooming sharp and fast under his ribs. He reached for the thin towel, wrapping it around his waist in a hurry, steam still rising from his skin. His hair dripped onto the tiles, cold in the warm air.

  The doorknob felt slick in his hand as he opened the door.

  Joseph stood there, backlit by the dim hallway light, freshly dressed in a plain black shirt and faded jeans. His presence felt like a breeze blowing into a stale room: easy, warm, a little reckless. Pol tried not to smile too obviously, tightening the towel around his waist, heart thudding louder than it should.

  “Nareceive mo ba yung message?” Joseph asked, head tilted just slightly, grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  (“Did you get the message?”)

  “Hindi pa eh. Bakit, ano meron?”

  (“Not yet. Why, what’s up?”)

  “Lalabas tayo mamaya. Samgyup, bro. Celebration lang.”

  (“We’re eating out later. Samgyupsal. Just celebrating something.”)

  Pol’s mouth opened, then closed. His first thought wasn’t about the food or the celebration, it was the warmth in Joseph’s voice, the effortless pull of his invitation.

  “Wala pa kasi akong budget para mag samgyup ngayon,” Pol said, scratching lightly at his damp neck, trying to keep his tone light, casual.

  (“I don’t really have the budget for samgyupsal right now.”)

  But deep inside, a stubborn flicker of wanting: the soft clatter of side dishes on metal tables, smoke curling from the grill, and Joseph across from him, laughing about something Pol wouldn’t fully understand but would love hearing anyway.

  Joseph’s grin widened, unbothered, almost teasing.

  “Treat ko, bro. Wag ka na mahiya.”

  (“It’s my treat, bro. Don’t be shy.”)

  The words landed like warm coals in Pol’s chest. He tried to hold back the way his face wanted to lift into a smile, a small surge of something embarrassingly light and bright.

  “Ah, sige. Sama ako.”

  (“Alright. I’ll come along.”)

  He forced the answer out with practiced cool, though inside it tumbled awkwardly, like coins in an empty pocket.

  Joseph nodded, eyes briefly dipping from Pol’s wet hair down to the towel, then back up with a small, amused spark.

  “Ayos, bro. Bihis ka na, ha? Baba tayo mga eight.”

  (“Nice, bro. Get dressed, okay? We’re heading out around eight.”)

  “Oo, sige.”

  (“Yeah, okay.”)

  Joseph gave a small, two-finger salute, half-turning toward the stairs. The air between them felt charged, a warm current passing so quickly Pol almost wondered if he’d imagined it.

  The door clicked shut again. Steam clung to the mirror, blurring Pol’s reflection into soft edges. For a moment, towel still clutched at his waist, he just stood there, breathing in something that felt like excitement, fear, and something gentler, unnamed.

  Then, almost shaking it off, he turned back toward his room, the tiled floor cold under his still-damp feet.

  Pol dried himself carefully, towel scratching away the last of the shower’s warmth until his skin felt clean, bare, and real. The small room smelled of soap and damp cotton, the cheap fan stirring the lingering steam into slow spirals.

  He opened his plastic drawer and paused, hands hovering. Tonight wasn’t just any dinner, he felt it in his chest, a nervous energy coiled under the ribs. Slowly, he sifted through his clothes: shirts folded with uneven care, denim still stiff at the seams, and those pieces that stood out, given to him by friends, neighbors, people who, for reasons Pol never quite understood, had decided he should look good.

  A shirt with a small embroidered logo of a knight on horseback, brand probably real, probably not. Dark jeans that fit better than any pair he’d ever bought himself. Bracelets and simple earrings, things he would’ve once called frivolous, now worn like quiet armor. Fashion had been a language Pol hadn’t known he’d needed to speak; here, it felt like a small claim to belonging and self.

  He slipped on a thin chain around his neck, fingers brushing the cool metal, then added a plain stud earring, an afterthought that still made him glance in the mirror, surprised by his own reflection.

  Phone screen lit up: the group chat. Messages stacked from earlier in the day, laughing stickers, jokes. Nothing concrete about what they were celebrating. Pol guessed it had something to do with wherever the crew had gone last night, a vague mention of “trabaho” and an equally vague photo of packed boxes. He didn’t ask questions; they hadn’t offered details. What mattered more was the single short message:

  “Bro, sama ka ha. 8PM.”

  Just being included felt like enough.

  Before long, the phone’s clock read 8:00. Pol wiped his palms on his jeans, took one last look around the small room, then bounded down the stairwell, each step echoing lightly in the concrete shell of the building.

  Outside, night had already claimed the street. Neon light spilled from Ate Lina’s restocafe two doors down, catching puddles left by a lazy drizzle. And there was Joseph, leaning casually against his motorcycle, helmet balanced on the seat.

  Joseph’s motorcycle was a beast reborn countless times: frame painted a matte gunmetal gray, handlebars slightly lower than stock, small scuffs on the engine cover speaking of long nights of tinkering. Every piece seemed chosen, tested, then chosen again. It was impossible to look at it without thinking of Joseph himself: a collection of decisions, quietly deliberate, built into something singular.

  Joseph caught sight of Pol, his grin spreading naturally, like it belonged there.

  Without a word, he handed Pol the helmet. Pol took it, fingers brushing Joseph’s knuckles, heat rising behind his ears.

  “San sila Celine?” Pol asked, adjusting the helmet strap.

  (“Where are Celine and the others?”)

  “Nauuna na sila. Diretso sa samgyup. May dadaanan lang akong isang errand bago tayo pumunta.”

  (“They went ahead. Straight to the samgyupsal. I just have to run one quick errand before we go.”)

  Pol nodded, curiosity flickering, but he didn’t push. He trusted Joseph, maybe more than he trusted anyone else here.

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  He swung a leg over the seat, the leather still warm from the day. Joseph, with that same offhand gentleness that Pol had come to expect but still wasn’t used to, reached back and pulled Pol’s arms around his waist.

  “Hawak ka mabuti, bro. Para safe.”

  (“Hold on tight, bro. For safety.”)

  Pol’s arms circled Joseph’s torso, the fabric of his shirt soft under Pol’s palms. The contact was sudden, close, real; the helmet muffled Pol’s breath, but he could feel the steady rise and fall of Joseph’s chest against his forearms.

  The motorcycle’s engine rumbled awake, low and confident, as if amused at Pol’s heartbeat racing above it.

  They rolled forward, leaving behind the quiet street, past windows still glowing with late dinners, and turned into the deeper hum of the city. Warm air caught at Pol’s face where the helmet left a gap, headlights and signs blurring into soft streaks. Somewhere between the first corner and the next intersection, Pol let the world slip into motion, the errand ahead unknown, and Joseph’s steady presence pulling him forward.

  They arrive. The motorcycle’s engine settled into a soft idle, heat still rising off the metal as Joseph swung a leg down. Neon washed the curb in flickering greens and reds, painting the cracked sidewalk in restless color.

  They’d stopped in front of a pawnshop: thick glass window behind rust-framed metal bars, the kind of place that always looked half-lit, half-tired, yet stubbornly open late into the night. Inside, shelves lined with small tragedies: gold chains that had lost their owners, phones with half-peeled stickers, wedding rings waiting to be redeemed or forgotten.

  Joseph turned to Pol, voice low but easy.

  “Bro, wait ka lang dito. Di magtatagal.”

  (“Bro, just wait here. Won’t take long.”)

  “Sige.”

  (“Okay.”)

  Joseph walked toward the pawnshop door, steps measured, posture unhurried. Pol stayed beside the motorcycle, one hand resting lightly on the seat, its engine ticking quietly as it cooled.

  Curiosity prickled at him, impossible to fully ignore. Through the dusty glass, Pol caught sight of Joseph at the counter, speaking to a clerk whose face was hidden behind the reflection of moving headlights. Joseph took something from his pocket, a small cloth pouch, dark and roughly tied. Pol couldn’t see what lay inside, only the smallness of it in Joseph’s palm, the brief glint of metal or stone, and the steady way Joseph placed it on the counter.

  The night around him felt alive in that moment: the smell of grilled chicken drifting thick from the Andok’s next door, its window fogged by sweat and steam. Buyers crowded close, elbows brushing as they peered at rotating racks of golden-brown liempo and sizzling lechon manok.

  Pol watched, letting the moment stretch, when three children approached, skin darkened by sun and streets, clothes patched and thin. Their eyes flickered over Pol’s flashy shirt, the shiny bracelet on his wrist, and the motorcycle that wasn’t his but made him look, at least tonight, like someone with more.

  “Kuya, limos po?”

  (“Big brother, spare some change?”)

  The smallest of them looked no older than eight, voice rough with tiredness. For a moment, Pol hesitated. He really didn’t have much: a few coins, a folded bill for snacks later tonight.

  But these kids, he didn’t know their names, hadn’t seen them before, but he knew them. Or rather, he knew what it felt like to be them: to look at someone standing next to a machine that cost more than you’d ever hold, and ask anyway.

  He dug into his pocket, the coins cold and thin between his fingers, and pressed a twenty peso coin into each outstretched hand.

  “Pasensya na, ito lang kaya ko.”

  (“Sorry, this is all I can give.”)

  They muttered complaints, half-playful, half-real disappointment. But their hands still closed over the coins, and after a moment, they drifted away, laughter low and private as they turned back toward the light spilling from the Andok’s window.

  Pol looked again to the pawnshop. Joseph was already finishing up, signing something on a crumpled receipt, his expression unreadable through the window glare.

  When Joseph stepped back onto the sidewalk, he slipped the now-empty cloth pouch back into his pocket. His eyes caught Pol’s, calm as always.

  “Anong dinala mo, bro?” Pol asked, keeping his tone light.

  (“What did you bring in, bro?”)

  Joseph gave a small smile, as if he’d expected the question.

  “May kaibigan lang na nangangailangan. Kailangan ko lang kumuha ng kaunting cash.”

  (“Just a friend in need. Needed to get a bit of cash out.”)

  And really, that was enough. The answer settled Pol’s curiosity, or at least quieted it. Joseph had always seemed like someone who knew when to speak and when to keep a thing close.

  Pol nodded.“Ah, ok.”

  Joseph tossed him the helmet again, quick and practiced, and Pol caught it, sliding it on. He swung his leg over the seat, hands hovering for a moment before wrapping around Joseph’s waist again, the motion somehow easier this time.

  “Tara na, bro. Gutom na ‘ko.”

  (“Let’s go, bro. I’m starving.”)

  The motorcycle rumbled back to life, heat rising under Pol’s knees. They pulled away from the pawnshop curb, the Andok’s smoke and neon slipping into the rear view, heading toward laughter, clinking side dishes, and the warm, crowded glow of a restaurant.

  They rode through streets that felt wider and softer than the cramped alleys Pol had grown up threading in Tondo, where rust and concrete pressed close on every side. Here, the roads stretched out under orderly streetlights, lined with quiet condos, sleepy cafés, and strip malls whose glass fronts caught passing headlights like ripples of water. The motorcycle hummed between SUVs and taxis, slipping past students gathered around milk tea shops and office workers drifting toward late dinners. Overhead, billboards glowed steady rather than shouting, and the air felt lighter somehow, less thick with soot, more touched by the hush of trimmed trees and small gardens tucked behind fences. Holding onto Joseph, Pol watched the storefronts roll by: beauty clinics, call centers, and chain restaurants whose polished signs promised a taste of somewhere else, until the familiar glow of the samgyupsal spot rose ahead, warm and welcoming as an open door.

  The motorcycle’s hum faded behind them as they stepped onto the pavement, Pol tugging at the hem of his borrowed outer shirt to smooth out the creases. Ahead rose the samgyupsal place, a big, boxy three-story restaurant squeezed confidently between a glassy Starbucks and old office buildings whose windows still reflected the bruised blue of early night.

  Pol had only been here twice before, both times invited. Each visit left him quietly thrilled, the same bright flicker he used to feel whenever his father brought home bags of Jollibee during paydays. But here, it was all-you-can-eat. No counting pieces, no saving the last one out of quiet politeness. An overflowing promise that, at least for a few hours, nobody had to pretend hunger wasn’t there.

  He let Joseph take the lead, stepping into the polished lobby where waiters moved in steady, practiced patterns. The smell hit him first, sweet smoke and tang of marinade, a low sizzle carried up from every table. Joseph spoke briefly to the host, voice low and certain. Without hesitation, they were waved toward the stairs.

  Two flights up, through corridors lined with framed photos of sizzling platters, until the private room’s frosted glass door slid aside.

  Inside: noise, laughter, and the blur of familiar faces.

  They saw Joseph first, one quick, loud cheer breaking out from the table. The room wasn’t fancy, but big enough for elbows and laughter to spread. Pol caught fragments of it: the scrape of chairs, a metallic clatter of tongs, someone’s half-told joke cut off by surprise at their arrival.

  In that swirl of movement, four faces fixed into place: Celine, already halfway turned in her seat, grin flashing; Banjo, mid-sentence, hand still in the air as if punctuating a thought; Tonette, leaning forward, the glow of the grill reflected in her eyes; and Ricky, whose voice cut sharp through the noise.

  “O, kumusta? Yun na ba yun?”

  (“So? Was that it?”)

  Ricky’s words were quick, almost careless, but Pol’s ear caught something heavier under the tone. He guessed, only guessed, that it was about the pawnshop, but Ricky hadn’t really said it out loud. And Joseph, stepping into the room with his usual calm, just shook his head once, a small “no” shaped in silence.

  Whatever question floated there evaporated. The others didn’t push.

  Pol didn’t dwell on it either; Celine was already turning to him, eyes lighting up.

  “Uy, ang ganda ng ayos mo ngayon!”

  (“Hey, you look good tonight!”)

  She pointed the letters on his shirt, LV, neatly embroidered, a gift she’d handed him weeks ago with an almost offhand “para sayo, bagay sayo yan” (“for you, it’ll suit you”).

  Before he could sit, someone was already making space: the chair next to Joseph left empty, as if it had been waiting just for him. He slid into it, shoulders brushing briefly against Joseph’s arm, Celine settling on his other side. Across the table, Banjo had already started turning strips of pork belly on the grill, the metal tongs tapping softly against the hot grate.

  The table was already crowded with trays: thin slices of marinated pork and beef, curled shrimps, vegetables, bowls of steaming white rice, and small metal dishes of kimchi and pickled radish catching the light. The grill hissed gently under the fan above, smoke swirling and parting as hands moved across it.

  It smelled of salt, char, and something richer Pol couldn’t name, but it pulled at his hunger like a tide. For a moment, he let himself sink into the warmth of it: the sizzle, the easy teasing, the quiet promise of full plates and familiar voices.

  And beside him, close enough to share the heat of the grill and the low rhythm of conversation, was Joseph, quiet now, half-turned toward Pol, as if ready to speak but letting the moment choose its own pace.

  Pol leaned forward a little, warmth from the grill licking at his face, and asked the question that had been circling quietly in his chest since they’d sat down.

  “Ano nga palang sinecelebrate natin?”

  (“By the way, what exactly are we celebrating?”)

  For a moment, the table seemed to trip over itself: smiles widening, laughter sparking up but no words quite landing. Banjo made a vague hand gesture, Tonette let out a small laugh, and Ricky just raised his eyebrows like the answer should’ve been obvious. The air held that playful pause of a secret half-kept.

  It was Joseph who cut through it, leaning back in his chair, voice low but easy.

  “Nagkatrabaho kami kahapon,” he said, glancing around the table first as if to get silent nods of approval. “Malaki ang kinita, so ayan, celebration tayo.”

  (“We had a job yesterday. Made good money, so here we are, celebrating.”)

  Pol’s curiosity sharpened.

  “Anong klaseng trabaho?”

  (“What kind of job?”)

  Joseph’s gaze flicked around the table again; the others answered in small nods and crooked grins that seemed to say why not. Then Joseph turned back to Pol, a small spark in his eye.

  “Pakita ko na lang mamaya,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “Pero ngayon, kain muna. Celebrate tayo.”

  (“I’ll show you later. But for now, let’s eat first. Let’s celebrate.”)

  And that was that. Someone pushed a cold beer can into Pol’s hand, another clinked it against his own. Iced tea for Joseph, who raised his glass anyway, the small smirk on his face making the toast feel just as real.

  They ate. They laughed. Meat hissed and curled on the grill, its edges crisping gold under Banjo’s careful watch; sauces smeared plates, and bowls emptied only to be refilled by a patient server who seemed more amused than annoyed by their noise. Pol drank, not heavily, but enough for warmth to creep under his skin, softening the usual edges.

  In the swirl of smoke and bright conversation, Pol let himself sink into the easy closeness of it all: the taste of sweet marinated pork, the heat of the grill, the ache in his jaw from smiling too much. And always, beside him, Joseph, laughing quietly, passing him a bowl of rice without asking, a presence steady as the table’s hum.

  For tonight, the why hardly mattered; the being there did. And Pol had his fill: of laughter, of grilled meat wrapped in crisp lettuce, of beer bubbling against his tongue, and of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joseph, caught up in something bigger than himself, even if he couldn’t name it yet.

  Eventually, the night wound itself down slowly, like the last ember of charcoal fading under a grill gone cold. Bellies heavy with pork belly and laughter, they all sat for a while in that comfortable quiet that follows a shared feast, leaning back, letting the noise of other tables blur around them.

  Pol felt the weight of beer in his blood: not enough to drown him, but enough to sand down every sharp thought, to wrap the world in something soft and warm. Across the table, Joseph leaned back too, arms crossed over a full stomach, eyes half-lidded in that satisfied, lazy calm that only good food can bring.

  Eventually, they had to move. Chairs scraped back, checks were settled, leftover lettuce packed away in thin plastic bags. Outside, the night felt cooler, the city gentler under streetlights and scattered taillights.

  The others, laughing and still talking over each other, booked Grab taxis, two cabs that would drop them all off by the same cluster of apartments they called home. Tonette, already half inside the back seat, turned and called out:

  “Pol, sama ka na!”

  (“Pol, come with us!”)

  Pol shook his head, words slow but sure.

  “Di na, sasabay na lang ako kay Joseph.”

  (“No need, I’ll just ride with Joseph.”)

  Joseph tipped his chin in agreement, already straddling the motorcycle. Pol climbed on behind him, arms wrapping around Joseph’s middle almost before he realized it, his forehead coming to rest lightly against Joseph’s back. The warmth of cloth and skin under his cheek felt grounding, real.

  Eyes half-shut, the low rumble of the engine in his chest, Pol let the road slip by unseen. The ride felt smoother than usual, as if the city itself had softened its edges for them, just for tonight.

  They pulled up quietly by the curb, the motorcycle’s engine ticking into silence. Pol, still heavy-limbed from beer and grilled pork, peeled himself off the seat, blinking away the faint spin of the streetlights overhead. Across the street, the yellow glow from Banjo’s apartment window was lit, a small confirmation that at least some of the group had made it back. The others lived elsewhere inside the compound, their windows hidden from view, but Pol trusted they’d arrived too.

  His head ached, dull but stubborn, and the world gently tilted whenever he moved too fast. Still, something itched at the edge of his mind, Joseph’s promise from dinner.

  “Ano nga ulit yung trabaho kahapon?”

  (“So, what was that job yesterday?”)

  Joseph, already pocketing his keys, turned back, brows lifting slightly.

  “Ayos ka pa ba? Hindi ka ba nahihilo?”

  (“You sure you’re okay? Not too dizzy?”)

  Pol shook his head, too quickly, regretted it, and steadied himself.

  “Okay lang. Gusto ko lang malaman.”

  (“I’m fine. I just want to know.”)

  Joseph studied him for a moment, then nodded, almost amused by Pol’s stubbornness.

  “Tara, sa taas tayo.”

  (“Come on, let’s go upstairs.”)

  Joseph’s apartment was small, a single tidy room above a closed auto shop. It smelled faintly of engine oil, but only just, mostly it smelled of fabric softener and the light scent of something green he must’ve kept by the window. The floor was bare but clean, tools arranged carefully along a low shelf, a desk crowded with half-finished projects and a battered laptop.

  Joseph gestured to the bed.

  “Upo ka diyan. Hahanapin ko lang yung gusto kong ipakita.”

  (“Sit there. I’ll just look for what I wanted to show you.”)

  Pol, already halfway folding himself into the bed, didn’t stop at sitting. The alcohol tugged at him, made the softness of the mattress impossible to resist, and he lay back fully, eyes half-closed.

  “Sige lang, sabihan mo lang ako pag ready ka na…”

  (“Go ahead, just tell me when you’re ready…”)

  His voice trailed, warmth curling in his chest, the edges of sleep catching him in quick, meaningless flashes, faces in smoke, the flicker of taillights, Joseph’s laughter.

  He jolted awake to a gentle nudge, blinking as Joseph settled beside him, a plain cardboard box balanced across his lap. Pol sat up quickly, blood rushing to his cheeks for reasons he couldn’t name.

  Without thinking, he shifted closer until their shoulders touched, shirts brushing with the smallest warmth between them.

  Joseph’s voice filled the small, quiet room, low and measured as he opened the box on his lap. Pol blinked, trying to keep his eyes open, and caught flashes of gold chains, fat bangles, heavy watches that caught the lamplight and sent soft reflections dancing over Joseph’s hands.

  “Ito yung ginagawa namin,” Joseph said, words rolling calm and steady. (“This is what we do.”)

  “Pumapasok kami sa bahay ng mayayaman, minsan bodega, minsan mansion. Kinuha namin ang puwedeng ibenta, puwedeng mapakinabangan.”

  (“We go into rich people’s houses, sometimes warehouses, sometimes mansions. We take what can be sold, what can be useful.”)

  Pol tried to focus, the words sinking in through the fog of beer and tiredness, but not quite landing where they should. Joseph kept talking, voice a warm hum beside him.

  “Pero hindi lang para sa amin. Ibinabalik namin sa barangay, sa mga kapitbahay, bigas, gamot, paminsan tuition o pang-eskwela.”

  (“But it’s not just for us. We bring it back to the neighborhood, to the people around us: rice, medicine, sometimes money for tuition or school supplies.”)

  Pol’s gaze slid over the jewelry, the way Joseph’s fingers moved almost carelessly across them, familiar, like these weren’t trophies but tools. And somewhere, underneath the fuzz of alcohol, Pol’s mind drifted: to the creek that morning, the barangay captain smiling for photos rather than rolling up his sleeves; to the eviction team back in Tondo; to the three barefoot kids outside the pawnshop, whose small hands Pol filled with coins he barely had to give.

  Even half-drunk, it wasn’t hard to see the shape of the city Joseph was talking about, the same city Pol knew, only tilted, turned back against itself. Joseph’s confession didn’t shock him. In that moment, it felt almost inevitable.

  Pol shifted closer, shoulders brushing Joseph’s arm, and felt his pulse quicken, heat crawling up his neck that had nothing to do with the alcohol. His chest felt tight, breath catching. Joseph turned to him then, their faces inches apart.

  “Gusto mo bang sumama saamin?”

  (“Do you want to join us?”)

  The question should have been heavier. Instead, Pol found the answer already sitting on his tongue, warm and unguarded.

  “Oo.”

  (“Yes.”)

  The word left him before guilt, doubt, or even thought could weigh it down. The nearness of Joseph, the softness of lamplight on gold and skin, the quiet thrill running through Pol’s blood, it blurred out everything else.

  His body moved before his mind could catch up. Almost without thinking, Pol leaned in. Shirts brushed, shoulders pressed, breath mingled, and he kissed Joseph: soft, unsure, searching, the taste of beer and adrenaline still fresh on his lips.

  For a breathless moment, Joseph froze, then answered the kiss, gentle at first, then steady and warm, the kind of kiss that told Pol it wasn’t a mistake, that it was seen and wanted too.