November 5, 2035

  The NBI cafeteria was a low-ceilinged aquarium of fluorescent guilt. Outside the reinforced windows, Manila’s early afternoon sagged under its own heat, streets twitching with jeepneys, pedestrians pinned in amber traffic. Inside, the coffee steamed in stained ceramic cups, and the ensaymada looked like they’d been sugared by ghosts.

  Lino Ilagan sat opposite Seline Torres, his posture stiff as rebar under a tailored shirt, a threadbare calm in the lines around his eyes. The collar itched. His right thumb traced the handle of the coffee cup as though circling some ancient scar.

  Seline, for her part, seemed at home. Her blouse was pastel, embroidered in forget-me-not flowers, sleeves ruffled like an indulgence. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, looking every bit the benevolent tita at a Sunday merienda. Only the hard glint in her eyes betrayed the fact that she could map a killer’s soul like a surveyor charts swamp land.

  “Any major progress?” Lino’s voice came out gravelly, older than it had a right to sound.

  Seline sighed, exhaling a fog of disappointment. “Lino,” she chided, gently but with a lash in her tone. “You handed this to me with barely time to boil water. You should’ve brought me in while you were still chasing after Gino Sanchez.”

  Lino’s shoulders sagged, just slightly. “You’re right. That was a lapse. Back then…” he looked past her, past the particle board table and coffee, “...Severino wasn’t even on our radar.”

  Seline laughed then, a cold, brittle laugh that cracked across the table like dropped porcelain. She reached for her coffee, took a deliberate sip, then bit into the ensaymada, powdered sugar leaving a small constellation on her lipstick.

  “Well,” she said, wiping her mouth, “it’s what I get for not charging the bureau overtime.” Her voice softened, play-acting domestic ease, but the joke hung in the air with something darker curled inside it.

  She pulled her tablet from her leather bag. Perfectly manicured nails, scarlet and glossy, clicked the screen in decisive, almost violent taps. The screen glowed, washing her face in blue, turning her from tita to tactician in an instant.

  “Want me to start from the top,” she asked, eyes flickering up over the tablet’s edge, “or do you just want the fresh meat?”

  “From the top,” Lino decided, settling deeper into his chair. His tone was deliberate, heavy with responsibility. “Let’s be thorough. Just in case I missed something when the blood was still warm.”

  Seline chuckled again, this time warmer, almost affectionate, though the humor cut like a surgeon’s scalpel.

  “Always the careful one, Lino. Fine.”

  She tapped the screen. Somewhere deep in the building, an old LED light flickered and died, but neither of them noticed.

  Seline cleared her throat, her voice slipping into something clinical, polished and precise, like an autopsy report read aloud.

  “Victims: Mr. and Mrs. De Vega. High-profile political couple out of Visayas. Time of death, November 1st, 2035, somewhere between 11:45 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. Location: National Museum of Fine Arts.”

  She glanced over the edge of her tablet, brow arched, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips.

  “Main suspect: Severino Arguelles. I assume none of this is news to you?”

  There was something almost playful in her tone, though the facts themselves hung in the air, heavy as stone.

  “Yes,” Lino said, voice quiet, a single word weighed down by its own gravity. “Go on.”

  Seline’s nails clicked across the tablet screen again. “Museum security guard Juan Paolo Villafuerte,” she said, words measured, almost bored. “Confirmed to be Severino himself. DNA from his employment certification blood work matched with PNP records from his time in the force.”

  Lino leaned back slightly, fingertips drumming against the coffee cup. “And that scar line running around Juan Paolo’s face… Is it significant?”

  “Perhaps,” Seline replied, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The face recorded in the museum’s employment files doesn’t match Severino’s old PNP photo. Best guess? Severino wore an artificial face. Or worse, he borrowed someone else’s.”

  She let that linger a moment, her voice losing the teasing edge, turning sober. “Either way, it fooled the cameras.”

  She continued, her tone steady and matter-of-fact.

  “Three more bodies turned up the next morning along the shores of Manila Bay. Two bodyguards and the couple’s secretary. The PNP took over the investigation on those, and they’ve been minimally cooperative. That’s all I’ve been able to get about the bodies.”

  “I’m aware they’re stonewalling,” Lino replied, nodding slightly. “I’ve arranged to meet with a PNP liaison later. Hopefully smooth things over.”

  Seline raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk appearing. “Another date, then?”

  Lino let out a short chuckle, the sound low and brief.

  She shifted her attention back to the tablet. “Based on the forensics team’s findings, Mr. and Mrs. De Vega were still alive when they arrived at the museum. Cause of death is still pending, but…” She paused, almost as if weighing the words. “They were alive when Severino cut them up.”

  Something stirred at the edge of Lino’s thoughts, dark, unformed, but he pushed it away before it could take shape. That part was new to him.

  Seline didn’t dwell on it. She took a slow sip of her coffee, then went on, “The body parts were arranged in a sun and moon pattern right on the floor, in front of the Spoliarium.”

  “Surface-level analysis of the pattern,” Seline began, tapping the screen, “suggests it’s a symbolic killing of justice. The couple were notoriously corrupt, evaded litigation and allegations for decades. The sun sees all, the moon serves justice. And placing it in front of the Spoliarium is deliberate. A parallel to the painting’s theme of suffering and state violence.”

  She paused, scrolling down her notes. “Severino’s PNP file always hinted at a… unique sense of justice. This lines up perfectly.”

  Lino nodded slowly. “James picked up on some of that when we went to the scene that night,” he said, voice low. “Anything more to be gleaned from the pattern?”

  “Yes, actually,” Seline replied, leaning forward slightly. “My profile on Severino suggests that he isn’t the type to do anything at random. Every organ, every body part placement means something. The location alone already screams that he wanted an audience. He wants people to dissect this, to interpret it.”

  She pointed to the tablet. “See here, the positioning and orientation of these organs and limbs. It points to something. I’m still working through the meaning of it, but it suggests he already has a next target in mind. Someone who has suffered great loss… and who possesses great wealth.”

  Lino let out a short, humorless laugh. “That barely narrows it down in this city.”

  Seline’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Well, it wouldn’t be much of a game if Severino just carved the name of his next victim into the floor in blood.”

  She swiped again, revealing another photo. “There’s a second clue, this time more obvious. Most of the bones had carvings on them, seemingly random marks at first. But when you reassemble the skeletal form, they spell out a message: 1109.”

  “November 9,” Lino said, almost to himself.

  “The date when he plans to unveil his next victim,” Seline confirmed.

  “That’s just 5 days from now.”

  She spoke calmly, almost casually, and took another slow sip of coffee, while across the table, Lino’s mind raced ahead, already piecing together what little they had before that day came.

  Seline set the tablet down on the table, folding her hands over it. Her tone shifted, cool, focused, a subtle gravity settling in her voice.

  “Alright,” she began, “the profile you asked me to make.”

  She let the words hang a moment before continuing.

  “Severino Arguelles is not just a killer. He’s a highly intelligent, methodically trained individual. Background in tactical operations and psychological warfare, he understands not just how to use force, but how to make it resonate. That makes him especially dangerous.”

  She paused, glancing at Lino to make sure he was following, then went on.

  “Though once shaped by institutional discipline, he’s become a solitary force. His ideology blends justice, vengeance, and something almost artistic. Every act of violence isn’t just an attack, it’s a performance. A message to whoever’s willing, or brave enough, to interpret it.”

  She lightly drummed her fingers on the tablet. “We’re looking at a hybrid profile here. Severino is meticulous in planning. But when it comes to the act itself? He can be… erratic, emotional discharges that spill into cruelty or excess. Despite that, he has remarkably high emotional intelligence. Reads people well. Understands fear, guilt, power.”

  Her expression darkened, her voice steady. “What he lacks is balanced empathy. He sees suffering, but filters it through his own ideology. To him, these aren’t crimes, they’re moral statements. Each killing carefully constructed to be both punishment and spectacle. Layers of metaphor, history, rebellion.”

  She let out a slow breath. “In short: Severino isn’t just trying to kill. He’s trying to speak, and force the rest of us to listen.”

  Lino watched her for a moment, absorbing the weight of what she’d laid out. Then, quietly, he asked, “Do you have any suggestions on how to catch him?”

  Seline tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful but calm. “In a way,” she said, “we’re already doing it. By keeping these murders out of the news, we’re denying him what he wants most: an audience.”

  She shifted in her seat, leaning back. “That hunger for recognition, for people to witness and interpret his work, I surmise it’s who Severino is now. By keeping the details buried, we’re cutting off his voice.”

  She paused, her gaze steady. “Maybe it’s a mistake on his part that he hasn’t leaked the story to the press himself. Or maybe it’s intentional, part of a larger design we haven’t seen yet.”

  Her voice lost its warmth entirely for a moment. “In any case, we should be ready for the possibility that the next murder won’t be so easy to hide. If he feels unheard, Severino might make very sure the next one is impossible to ignore.”

  She pauses, deep in thought. “Wasn’t there someone who had extended contact with Severino?”

  “Who are you referring to?” Lino asked.

  “That man whose charges you dropped for a lack of evidence. He might have some insight into Severino’s mindset as well.”

  “Jiro Lim Uy,” Lino answered, a name that tasted sour on his mouth, “I can try, but I don’t think he’s going to be receptive to questioning.”

  Seline nudged the last piece of ensaymada across the table toward him. “You want the last one?”

  Lino shook his head, a faint smile crossing his face. “No, go ahead.”

  Without hesitation, Seline pulled the plate back and happily finished it, washing it down with the last of her coffee.

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  Lino glanced at his empty cup, then at his watch. The seconds felt heavier than they should. “Thanks, Seline,” he said, standing and smoothing out a crease in his barong. “Keep me updated if anything new comes up.”

  “Of course,” she replied, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Her tone softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “And Lino… be careful. Severino’s targets, they’re not the kind that stay silent, even when they’re dead.”

  Lino gave a small nod, the weight of her words settling in. Then he turned, stepping out of the cafeteria, and headed back to his office.

  Lino paused just outside his door, the quiet click of his shoes against the polished floor the only sound in the corridor. His secretary looked up from her desk.

  “Sir, there’s a man from the PNP already inside waiting for you.”

  Lino nodded his thanks, hand brushing lightly against the door handle before he pushed it open.

  Inside, standing near the window, was Col. Isidro “Sid” Alano. His uniform looked crisp despite the Manila heat, and the faint lines around his eyes suggested weariness earned rather than worn.

  They crossed the room toward each other, shaking hands firmly, then, after the briefest pause, stepping in for a hug. It was the kind of greeting shaped by old battles shared, and a quiet relief at seeing a familiar face.

  “It’s good to see you, Sid,” Lino said, stepping back. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Something to eat?”

  Sid shook his head, offering a small, polite smile. “Still full from lunch, Lino. Water will do.”

  Lino glanced at his secretary through the open door. She gave a quick nod, turning to fetch the glass.

  They moved over to the low sofas that faced each other near the window. Lino lowered himself into his seat, Sid following suit, settling in with a quiet composure that spoke of habit, used to conference rooms, briefing tables, and conversations where every word carried weight.

  Lino settled back into the sofa, elbows resting loosely on his knees. “I’ve heard,” he began, tone level but edged with something pointed, “that the PNP has been… a bit uncooperative about sharing information. Especially on the three bodies that washed up on Manila Bay.”

  Sid didn’t flinch. His expression remained composed, hands loosely clasped in his lap. “If I were to stick to the official line,” he said evenly, “I’d tell you that the three dead bodies are being treated as a separate case, one where we’re the primary investigators.”

  He let that sink in for half a breath, then added, “But I know you don’t buy that.”

  Lino chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “No, Sid. I don’t.”

  Sid inclined his head, just slightly. “And you probably know why the higher-ups aren’t rushing to open the files.”

  “Because the prime suspect is an ex-PNP officer,” Lino replied, his voice calm but unflinching. “One with a record of behavioral problems during his time on the force. Doesn’t exactly look good on the PNP’s already dented reputation.”

  Sid exhaled through his nose, almost an acknowledgment. “That’s part of it,” he said. “But there’s more. Severino wasn’t just any officer, he was a member of Gino Sanchez’s squad. And you remember what happened there. We only wrapped the media fallout last month, and it was a shitshow. The higher-ups don’t want that wound reopened.”

  He paused, gaze steady. “They don’t want more attention drawn to us. Especially not now.”

  Lino exhaled, folding his hands together. “Attention’s going to come to the PNP, Sid. It’s only a matter of time. The question is whether it happens on your terms, or theirs.”

  Sid’s mouth tightened at the corners. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “But the top brass… they’re not as open-minded about that reality.”

  Lino held his gaze for a moment. “Alright. What can you tell me about the three victims?”

  Sid hesitated, his eyes shifting as if weighing each word. “All three had their throats slit. Forensics found particulates on their clothes, metal filings, cement dust. Suggests they were killed in some kind of industrial building.”

  “Nowhere near the profile of a museum,” Lino added.

  Sid shook his head. “No. Likely executed before Mr. and Mrs. De Vega were taken to the museum. We also interviewed the couple’s chief of security. He said they’d received blackmail material the day before. They flagged it with their lawyer. The chief advised them to go home straight after the orchestra.”

  “And they ignored him.”

  Sid gave a small nod. “Seems that way.”

  Lino’s brow furrowed slightly. “How many in the PNP know about this?”

  “Only a very small circle,” Sid replied. “And on the couple’s side, just the chief of security and their lawyer.”

  “Good,” Lino said, his tone tightening. “Keep it that way. Severino wants an audience, don’t give him that.”

  Sid inclined his head in agreement. “I’ll send over what documents the brass allows,” he promised. “And I’ll try to keep you updated as our investigation moves.”

  He paused, lowering his voice. “By the way, the couple’s son Crispin de Vega is here in Manila right now. He’s making noise about his parents’ disappearance.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Lino asked, his expression tightening.

  Sid shook his head. “No. But he’s leaning hard on PNP contacts to get answers, threatening to go public if he doesn’t get answers.”

  “I’ll handle him,” Lino said, his voice quiet but firm.

  Sid stood, smoothing the front of his uniform. “Don’t blame my bosses too harshly, Lino. The force has been through a lot these past few months.”

  Lino rose too, meeting Sid’s gaze evenly. “I know,” he replied, voice softer. He gave a small nod, the weight of old camaraderie settling between them.

  As Sid stepped out of the office, the soft thud of the door closing behind him, Lino turned to his secretary, who sat poised behind her desk.

  “Call for Rocco,” he said, his voice low but clear. “We’re heading out.”

  Moments later, the heavy footsteps of Rocco announced his arrival even before he stepped into view. Broad-shouldered, head shaved clean except for a stubborn shadow, and a thick neck that made even his tailored jacket look slightly strained. Despite the imposing build, there was something quietly relaxed in the way he carried himself, a faint humor always at the edges of his eyes.

  They made their way to the basement car park, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The black SUV hummed to life, the air conditioning filling the silence as they pulled out into Manila’s afternoon traffic.

  For a while, only the muted sound of tires rolling over asphalt and the distant, rhythmic wail of jeepney horns. Then Rocco spoke, voice a low rumble that somehow fit the vibration of the engine.

  “Boss,” he asked, glancing sideways, “are you expecting trouble?”

  Lino kept his gaze on the road ahead, eyes narrowed slightly against the shifting sun. “No,” he said. “Just going to talk.”

  Rocco’s thick brows furrowed. “What kind of talking?”

  “The kind that uses words,” Lino answered, a dry humor bleeding into his tone.

  Rocco scratched his chin, the motion almost thoughtful despite his size. “You sure bringing me’s the right move? I’m not exactly James with the silver tongue.”

  Lino turned his head, looking at Rocco fully for the first time since they left. No words needed, just a steady, deliberate gaze.

  Understanding dawned across Rocco’s face. He let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rumbling. “Ah,” he grinned, broad and genuine. “Leave it to me, boss.”

  The car rolled on, slipping past the guarded gates of Bel Air, Makati, the guards announcing their arrival to the De Vega house. The neighborhood exhaled quiet wealth, tree-lined streets, high walls draped with trimmed vines, and houses that stood behind steel gates like old royalty behind their courtiers.

  Finally, they slowed before the De Vega residence: a large two-story home in muted stone and glass, the driveway lined with potted palms. The afternoon light glanced off polished windows, giving the whole place a guarded, almost watchful calm.

  Rocco shifted in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders as if preparing for something heavier than words. Lino quietly opened his door, stepping out into the hush of Bel Air’s private streets.

  A woman in a pale blue blouse and pencil skirt stepped briskly out the front door as they approached, offering a practiced, polite smile. “Good afternoon, sirs. I’ve already informed Mayor De Vega of your arrival.”

  They followed her inside, shoes brushing across polished marble that gleamed under the recessed lighting. The living room they entered was expansive, almost theatrical in its opulence: high ceilings, gilt-framed mirrors, heavy drapes gathered at each window. Art on the walls, a mix of classical prints and what looked like hastily bought modern pieces, gave the uneasy impression of someone trying to project old money, but not quite succeeding.

  Lino had walked through enough rooms of real power to sense the difference. This one felt like it wanted to look untouchable, but was still afraid of being overlooked.

  Bodyguards in dark polos and ear pieces stood at discreet but deliberate points: one near the staircase, another beside a standing lamp, a third half-concealed by a carved screen. Rocco’s gaze tracked each of them with idle calm, his broad form relaxed but unmistakably ready.

  The secretary motioned for them to take seats on a pair of overstuffed leather armchairs. Neither Lino nor Rocco moved, choosing instead to remain standing, waiting.

  Minutes stretched, each tick of an unseen clock accentuating the calculated pause. Finally, Crispin de Vega made his entrance. He came down the wide staircase with slow, deliberate steps, each footfall a statement. His shirt, open at the collar, and his gold watch caught the afternoon light. His voice, when it came, was loud and abrasive.

  “So you’re the agents from the NBI?” he called out, almost as if testing how far his voice could carry in his own house.

  Lino met his gaze without flinching. “We’re here to discuss the disappearance of your parents, Mr. De Vega.”

  Crispin reached the last step, planted his hands on his hips. “Sure,” he barked. “We can talk right here. I’ve been asking questions all weekend, and everywhere I go the useless authorities keep telling me they don’t know. I need answers now. And I hope you won’t turn out to be another useless cop.”

  “The matter is highly sensitive,” Lino replied, voice calm but firm. “I’d like to request a more private room.”

  Crispin waved a hand dismissively. “My staff can be trusted with anything,” he shot back, his tone sharp with entitlement.

  Lino didn’t move, but his voice dropped just slightly, carrying more weight. “It’s non-negotiable, Mr. De Vega.”

  A hush settled in the living room, thick as humidity. Neither man blinked, both waiting for the other to yield.

  Behind Lino, Rocco stood silent and immovable, arms folded across his chest. His bulk was impossible to ignore; muscles pulled against the seams of his sleeves as he waited, calm but unmistakably present, like a wall that had decided to grow eyes.

  Crispin’s jaw worked silently for a moment, then he let out a sharp breath and turned. “Fine,” he snapped, voice clipped. “Follow me.”

  They walked down a short corridor paneled in dark wood, into a study dressed to impress: glass cabinets of leather-bound books no one had read, an antique globe, and a heavy mahogany desk that looked more ceremonial than practical.

  As Crispin reached for the door handle, a bodyguard stepped to follow, but Rocco was already there, planting himself in the doorway. The bodyguard hesitated, eyes flicking between the massive figure blocking him and Crispin’s expectant look.

  “What is your goon doing?” Crispin barked.

  Lino stepped into the room, unhurried. “He’s just doing his job,” he said calmly, letting the door close behind them.

  Crispin turned, arms crossed, posture tense. “So?” His tone dripped impatience. “You going to parrot what every other government hack has told me? ‘We’re so sorry for your distress, Mr. De Vega’?”

  Lino kept his gaze level. “I know how distressing this situation must be for you.”

  Crispin’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what they all say,” he shot back. “Do you actually have something new to tell me? Or are you just here to look serious in a suit? I already have private investigators working this, they’ll probably solve it before you useless waste of tax payer money can lift a finger.”

  “Good,” Lino replied, voice dry, his expression almost amused. “If that’s the case, there’s no need for us to investigate, then.”

  “Don’t mock me,” Crispin snapped, his voice rising. “Do you even know who I am?”

  Lino’s tone stayed measured, but the words cut clean. “You’re the chief of a small village,” he said, “who dreams himself a king.”

  Crispin’s face turned red, his breath catching in fury. “Your badge number,” he demanded, voice trembling. “Give me your badge number right now. I can end your boring little bureaucratic life with a single phone call.”

  Lino’s lips curved into a small, humorless chuckle. “Oh I’d like to see you try.”

  Crispin’s jaw tightened. “I’m ready to go public, you know. I’ll call a press conference, tell the media how useless bureaucrats like you are failing a respected family. You think they won’t run with that?”

  “The press,” Lino said, his voice sinking lower, darker, “will do no such thing.”

  He stepped forward deliberately, each footfall heavy on the polished floor. Crispin, so loud just seconds ago, found himself shrinking back, the air between them tightening like a rope.

  “I’m going to tell you this once,” Lino continued, eyes locked on Crispin’s. “The forces your parents got themselves involved with? They’re worse than anything you can imagine.”

  Another step. Crispin backed up, the bravado in his shoulders draining away, replaced by a stiffness that betrayed fear.

  “You making noise about this,” Lino went on, voice cold and steady, “will only catch the attention of a monster. And that monster feeds on the exact kind of people your family is.”

  Crispin’s back pressed into the wall now, the framed certificates and family photos rattling slightly with the force of his own retreat.

  “You’re a mayor of a minor city,” Lino said, his tone cutting through the space between them. “That means nothing to me, no matter how big of a deal you like to think it is. This is Manila, you have no power here.”

  He let the next words hang, heavy and deliberate. “Unless you want an investigation to open up on your… let’s just say, real estate dealings in Davao and Cebu, I don’t know if they’ll even find anything, but I can assure you the process will be painful and humiliating.” Lino paused, voice softening only in tone, not in threat, “So I suggest you stay low. Stay quiet. And don’t draw any attention.”

  Crispin’s mouth opened, but the words caught in his throat. His eyes turned red, the dawning of something heavier than anger.

  “I truly am sorry for what happened to your parents,” Lino added, his words deliberate, each syllable sinking in. “And if I were you… I’d start the mourning process now, quietly.”

  Crispin swallowed hard, his breath ragged. “You mean…?”

  “There’s an invisible wall in our world,” Lino said, voice measured, as if explaining a simple fact. “A wall that protects people like your parents. People on the other side don’t attack the people on your side unless invited in. Those are the rules. Well, someone just wondered why that wall even existed in the first place. So, the wall is now gone. Your parents were the first to fall. Someone is hunting now, on your side of the wall.”

  Crispin’s face blanched, the words sinking past pride and into real fear.

  “No matter how strong you think your security is,” Lino finished, his tone flat and final, “it won’t be enough. So take my advice: go back to your little castle in Visayas, grieve your parents… and let us handle this.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the study was Crispin’s uneven breathing, the hum of the air conditioning suddenly loud in the silence.

  His chest heaved, the fight draining out of him all at once. His back slid down the wall until he hit the floor, knees drawn up awkwardly in a suit meant for standing tall. His breath came in ragged pulls, and then the tears spilled, heavy, helpless, raw.

  “I… I feared the worst,” he choked out, words stumbling over sobs. “But I still kept hoping… maybe it was a kidnapping, maybe… maybe they were in a hospital somewhere. Maybe they’d come back.”

  Lino crouched down beside him, the room now seeming smaller, quieter, holding only grief. He laid a steady hand on Crispin’s trembling shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. De Vega.”

  Crispin turned his reddened eyes upward, voice cracking like old paint. “Can… can I see them?”

  Lino paused. The truth was a cruel thing to carry, and the silence between them grew heavy before he spoke. “It would be best not to,” he said quietly. “They’re… not in a state you’d want to remember them by.”

  At that, something inside Crispin seemed to crumble completely. His shoulders shook, sobs tearing free without the restraint of pride or position. All that remained was a man, not a mayor, a son, lost in grief, grasping at pieces that would never come back.

  A small king of a small kingdom, now reduced to a shaking mess on the floor, while the afternoon light from the window fell across the lacquered shelves and the unmoved, silent portraits of a family that would never be whole again.