November 6, 2035

  The lights in Jiro’s office were soft and diffused, filtered through thick curtains that hadn’t been drawn in weeks. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus, sweat, and old Versace cologne. One of the scented candles on his alabaster coffee table had drowned itself in wax days ago, still unlit, still loyal. Somewhere, behind his eyelids, Manila hummed. A constant, petroleum-laced tinnitus.

  He was sprawled on his office’s leather sofa like an offering to some minor, decadent god. One hand over his eyes. The other loose at his side, still clutching a glass with half-melted ice and the memory of gin. Around him, his empire coughed blood through balance sheets.

  One of his managers Leonard stood at a respectful distance with his tablet held like an x-ray of a dying body.

  “The spa’s operating at half capacity. There’s been fewer foreign clients. The regulars are complaining about the service rotation, too few masseurs, too many new faces,” the manager said.

  “The Zone’s bookings?” Jiro asked, his voice hoarse, but not from sleep. There was no sleep here. Not anymore.

  “Down, way down. We’ve had to comp drinks just to get influencers to show up. Two VIP booths booked last weekend. Two. One of them asked if we were closing soon.”

  There was a sound of water dripping from somewhere behind the air conditioner. Possibly condensation. Possibly a metaphor. Jiro didn’t move.

  “Jade Fortune’s Megamall and MOA sites are done,” said the second manager, Rami, the one with the careful tone. “Kitchen staff already walked, it would take months to find replacements for all of them, mall admins aren’t allowing us to stay closed for more than a month.”

  “And the construction firm?” Jiro asked.

  “Subcontracting bids last month all got bounced. DPWH said there were compliance concerns. Didn’t elaborate.” Rami hesitated. “Unofficially... we’re being blacklisted.”

  Another silence stretched. The candle sagged further into itself.

  “I don’t like being sad,” Jiro finally said, still not removing his palm from his face. “Sadness is... it’s so bourgeois. So pedestrian. Next thing you know I’ll be eating at a roadside pares.”

  The silence dared to chuckle. Leonard looked like he wanted to sit down, but didn’t.

  “What about movement on Uncle Calvin’s assets?”

  Rami clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a nervous tic he’d picked up since Calvin died.

  “The import-export chain’s in limbo. We’ve been trying to open the books, but Ka Freddie has gone solo. Still running the smuggling ops out of Navotas, but none of the kickbacks are showing up on our end.”

  “Freddie was always loyal to the money, not the man,” Jiro muttered.

  Leonard cleared his throat. “Sir... the Chua brothers have forcefully taken over Calvin’s loan shark ops in Caloocan. They’ve got their own collectors running now. People are scared to deal with us. Especially with NBI sniffing around every one of your properties.”

  At this, Jiro finally moved. Just slightly. A tilt of the head. His fingers dragging down his face slowly, as if removing a mask he didn’t remember putting on.

  “They know I’m the rightful heir,” he said. “This isn’t a fucking democracy. You don’t vote for emperors.”

  “No, sir,” Leonard said, eyes downcast. “But they smell blood. Weakness.”

  “And the condo?” Jiro asked.

  Both men shifted uncomfortably.

  “No serious buyers,” Rami said. “Too much history considering it’s a double death site. People say it’s haunted. Superstitious crap.”

  “It is haunted,” Jiro replied flatly.

  Leonard shrugged. “It’s still one of the nicest condos in the city. Maybe if you moved in, show people it’s not cursed…”

  “I was there,” Jiro said, sitting up finally. “I watched his brains get splattered on the wall, I watched when his body hit the carpet. I remember the hate in Gino’s eyes when he pointed his gun a me. That smell never left the carpet. The sounds didn’t leave my head. Every creak in that place sounds like another bullet shot.”

  His eyes, heavily bagged and glossed with last night’s pills, stared at the floor, as if memory had pooled there like oil.

  “I should be a man,” he said. “Should roar. Raise hell. Declare war.”

  Neither manager spoke.

  Instead, Jiro exhaled, long and slow, like the dying breath of a collapsing tent. Somewhere outside, a jeepney backfired, and it sounded almost like gunfire.

  Then, a knock. It was almost polite, like a waiter with a wine list, not an omen with a badge. It came once, then again, softer. Almost embarrassed to exist.

  Through the lacquered oak, his secretary’s voice:

  “Sir... there’s someone from the NBI. He says he needs to speak with you.”

  Jiro’s stomach twisted in a way that didn’t come from hunger or hangover. Something reptilian inside him flinched. That acronym: NBI. It wasn’t just law enforcement. It was trauma. It was nightmare. It was anger.

  “Tell him to fuck off,” Jiro snapped, still lounging on the couch like a sultan on bad news.

  But the door opened anyway.

  Of course it did.

  Jiro turned his head lazily, already rehearsing the tirade he’d unleash. But then he saw the man. Crisp suit. Posture like steel poured into a trench coat. There was a stillness to him that wasn’t calm, it was coiled. His face was marked by time, but not tired by it. Dark, heavy eyes. A faint scar across the lip, faded into permanent disinterest.

  He didn’t need to speak. The badge flicked open, gold gleaming under the fluorescents like a guillotine blade.

  “Lino Ilagan. NBI.”

  The name hit Jiro like a slap. One that awakened memories and connections.

  A name dredged from the headlines, whispered through luncheons, muttered over club ashtrays at four in the morning:

  The man who ended Calvin by accident.

  The hammer behind the fall.

  The ghost in the rearview mirror.

  “You…” Jiro started, but the words snagged. They didn’t come out as accusations or bravado, just breath.

  Lino nodded, already turning his gaze to the two managers. “If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind… I’d like a word with Mr. Uy. Alone.”

  No raised voice. No threats. Just the quiet certainty of a man who never repeated himself.

  They scurried out like they’d rehearsed this before.

  The door clicked shut. The air changed.

  Jiro stayed where he was, sprawled wide like he owned the earth. Both arms over the back of the couch, legs splayed. A peacock in a lion’s den.

  Lino took the seat across from him. Didn't ask. Didn’t hesitate. His hands rested calmly on his knees. There was no weapon in sight. But somehow, everything in the room felt like it could be a weapon now.

  He looked at Jiro the way an architect might look at a burned-down house.

  “How’ve you been Jiro?” Lino asked, voice sandpaper-low, like it had just one setting and that setting was interrogation.

  Jiro sneered, a curl of the lip that was more instinct than expression.

  “Unless you're here to arrest me for some other drummed-up bullshit,” he said, “you can fuck right off.”

  A silence passed. Thick. The kind of silence that makes the air hum and the walls remember things.

  But Lino didn’t rise to it. He didn’t even blink. He just kept looking at Jiro, gaze unwavering, like he was watching a star slowly implode.

  “I see Calvin never taught you how to handle fear,” Lino said quietly. “You know how to hide it. They’re not the same thing.”

  Jiro tried to breathe slower. Be cooler. More composed. But Lino's presence was heavy, primal. Like the room itself had chosen sides, and it wasn’t his.

  “So you came all this way just to chat?” Jiro asked, eyes narrowed. “Is this how you get your kicks? Intimidate grieving men in their own offices?”

  “Grief implies love,” Lino said. “I’m not here about Calvin.”

  That hit a nerve that Jiro restrained. How dare he.

  Lino didn’t speak for a while. He just sat there, like a cliffside watching a storm form offshore. He let the silence stretch, thicken, simmer. Let it fill the room like invisible smoke. Jiro could feel it curling around his ankles.

  The agent finally spoke again, with that same low, measured tone that felt like it was being used to discuss weather, not history.

  “Your experience with Gino must’ve been rough,” he said. “Being kidnapped like that.”

  It came out with no emphasis. Just... placed on the table, like a cup of tea laced with arsenic.

  Jiro didn’t move. Not even an eyebrow twitch. But inside, something wriggled.

  He knew that was bullshit.

  There was no kidnapping. Gino Sanchez had been on his family’s payroll for years, security contractor, sometimes driver, sometimes cleanup crew. When everything had gone to hell, Calvin had needed a cover story. One that painted Jiro as a scared boy dragged along for the ride, not a willing heir at the table of wolves.

  And it had worked. More or less. The media loved a rich boy in chains.

  Jiro kept his face still now. Didn’t blink. Didn't confirm. Just let the silence do the work.

  Lino, however, wasn’t fishing for facts. He was planting them. Watching the ground to see what might sprout.

  “I’m not here to snoop into your businesses,” he said, “I’m not interested in your club or your spa or your shuttered restaurants.”

  He leaned forward slightly. Just enough for his voice to slide under Jiro’s skin.

  “I came here for a name.”

  That sent a flicker down Jiro’s spine.

  Lino paused. Then said it:

  “Severino Arguelles.”

  The bell rang in his skull instantly.

  Loud. Jagged. Red.

  He could see it, the name painted in smeared crimson on the walls of his memory. A name that stank of iron and sweat and duct tape. A name that haunted the edges of every locked door in his mind.

  Severino.

  The man with the blunt hands and soft voice.

  The man who laughed like nothing was wrong.

  The man Gino never quite controlled.

  Jiro inhaled slowly through his nose. Let his pulse steady before he responded.

  “It might have,” he said, blinking slowly. “You’ll have to be more descriptive.”

  Lino nodded, like he expected that.

  “Severino’s the one responsible for that butchered family of three,” he said. “We also assume he’s likely behind the men we found hanged in the warehouse. Both incidents happened while Gino and his crew were on the run.”

  Another pause.

  “While you were in tow. So I assume you know what I’m talking about.”

  Jiro’s mouth was dry. He wanted to smirk, to dismiss it all with some jaded sneer. But his throat had other ideas.

  Severino’s face lingered behind his eyes. That calm demeanor. That way of humming while slicing through bone. He remembered a boy, young, maybe twelve, looking up at him with a bloodied face that didn’t understand why this was happening.

  Jiro tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, not in suspicion, but amusement.

  “Why the sudden interest in Severino?” he asked, voice light, mocking even, like he was entertaining a child’s ghost story.

  Lino didn’t blink. “Because he’s been active again,” he said. “Another killing late last week.”

  That made Jiro chuckle.

  It came out dry and bitter, like the aftertaste of some high-end liquor left open too long. He leaned back into the sofa, the leather creaking beneath his weight like it, too, remembered things best left buried.

  “So now the big bad NBI comes crawling to me for clues,” he said, grinning. “That is funny.”

  “I’d like to know what you think of him.” Lino replied.

  Jiro gave it some thought, composing his words carefully. “Out of all of Gino’s people,” he said, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if searching for a memory carved in plaster, “Severino was easily the most cultured. He could go on for hours about Camus, Bataille… existentialism this, eroticism that. Had all these grand ideas about human suffering. About spectacle.”

  His tone soured.

  “All while violating the bodies of his victims. He was a philosopher of blood. The others in Gino’s squad were just followers. Cult types. They worshipped Gino like he was some fucked-up messiah.”

  He looked back at Lino now, something darker glinting behind his eyes.

  “But Severino? He had a mind of his own. That made him worse.”

  Lino still didn’t respond. Just watched. Measured. Waited.

  Jiro gave a little nod, then smirked again. “Did your people ever figure out why all the hanged men were Gino’s own crew?”

  “No,” Lino said, voice low. “We closed the case. Loose ends stayed loose. You weren’t willing to talk back then.”

  “Well,” Jiro said, spreading his arms wider, a hollow kind of openness. “I’m willing to talk now.”

  He let the silence pause before slicing through it.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Gino knew it was over the moment you got close. You had his position. There was no time to move everyone discreetly. Too many people. Too little time. So he ordered them all to kill themselves. They were zealots. So they did.”

  Lino leaned in, almost imperceptibly.

  “Severino was the one who came up with the... presentation,” Jiro went on. “The warehouse. The ropes. The theatre of it all. He wanted to give you a show. A last performance.”

  He shrugged.

  “Gino dragged me out while Severino set it all up. Said he’d hang himself last.”

  A beat.

  “Guess he had other ideas.”

  The air thickened.

  Jiro’s smile faded, his eyes dimmed, the smirk retreating into something older. Something worn.

  He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, fingers steepled together. The veneer of arrogance still clung to him, but it trembled at the edges, like old wallpaper over a cracked wall.

  “I don’t want to dwell on those days,” he muttered. “Those were... some of the darkest points of my life. I don’t even know how I got through it.”

  He laughed once, short, bitter. “Scratch that. I do know. Drugs. Sex. Disassociation. The whole buffet.”

  A pause.

  “But I can’t help you find him. I don’t know where Severino is. And I don’t want to know.”

  Lino didn’t blink. He let the silence sit a beat longer before breaking it with words shaped like small warnings.

  “His targets,” he said, voice slow, “are people he considers menaces to society. Parasites. Pigs in expensive shoes. We believe he’s cleaning house, and that his next target may be someone who has suffered great loss, and is in possession of great wealth.”

  That made Jiro look up, jaw tightening.

  “Are you insinuating,” he said carefully, “that I’m not an honest businessman? Who was tragically tied up with a horrible gang?”

  Lino gave him a look. Not sharp. Not smug. Just flat and factual, like a ledger closing itself.

  “I’m saying,” he replied, standing now, adjusting his coat, “you should be careful.”

  He started toward the door, but paused just before opening it.

  “Thank you for the info,” he said over his shoulder. “And good luck. You may need it.”

  And then he was gone. The door clicked shut like a sealed vault, and the air in the room finally exhaled.

  Jiro was alone again.

  But now, it felt like someone, something, had been let in.

  Later that noon, Jiro found himself across from his mother in the hushed luxury of a Makati hotel restaurant, where the air smelled faintly of lilies, polished marble, and wealth pretending to be casual.

  Why was he here? Because she had summoned him. Perhaps she was simply in the mood, or perhaps she wanted to remind anyone watching, and herself most of all, that the Lim Uy name still had a place among the Filchi elite.

  Aurelia Lim Uy wore her self-curated elegance like armor: a pearl-colored silk blouse so smooth it barely moved with her breath, a designer handbag draped neatly by her chair, both gifts from Jiro, tokens chosen as much for what they said about her as for what they cost. The faint floral perfume clouding around her (also from him) seemed to complete the tableau: the scent of curated status, of carefully constructed distance.

  She had been ranting about the past week, voice kept low under the clink of cutlery and the hush of air conditioning:

  「你知我昨暝無受邀去伊个派對！」

  (“You know I wasn’t even invited to her party last night!”)

  Her tone had the brittle edge of someone used to being wounded by slights only she could see.

  「還有，上禮拜个同鄉會，伊們安排我坐佇啥無名小卒个桌。」

  (“And at the Association banquet last week, they put me at a table with nobodies!”)

  Her tone cracked with a crying whine, as though these were tragedies worthy of mourning, as if the world as she knew it was about to end. All the while, she picked delicately at foie gras dumplings, chased by noodles lacquered with imported crab roe, her chopsticks moving with rehearsed elegance. Her complaints dripped with wounded pride, as if proximity to the mundane threatened to stain her carefully burnished image.

  Jiro didn’t argue. He never did. He had long learned that to her, disagreement was betrayal, and silence at least preserved the appearance of filial respect.

  Then, like a needle slipping beneath skin, she brought up the name that still made something in him tighten:

  「你个舅舅，唉……命真苦。」

  ("Your uncle… what a hard life he lived.”)

  Her voice trembled, not with vulnerability, but with something heavier. A sorrow calcified into resentment.

  「伊從細漢就疼你，疼到會疼入心肝裡。」

  ("Since you were little, he loved you… loved you like you were carved from his own heart.")

  She turned away, blinking fast, though no tears fell.

  「講真，咱家若有一個人心肝軟，是伊。伊最憨、也最親情。」

  ("If anyone in this family had a soft heart, it was him. He was the fool, but he was the one who truly cared.")

  Her words faltered for a breath. Then hardened again.

  「若無是你牽伊落水，伊今嘛猶活咧笑，食咧燒肉飯。」

  ("If you hadn’t dragged him into this, he’d still be alive, smiling, eating roast pork on rice.")

  She looked at Jiro then, but not as her son, more like the cause of a funeral.

  And then the poison slipped in, soft and effortless, as though it had always been waiting:

  「我早就講過，番仔是食人米無人情。」

  ("I told you, huan-á eat your rice, but give no loyalty.")

  Her face twisted, not into cruelty, but conviction.

  「看來伊是人，骨底是畜生。親像豬狗，養大嘛會咬人。」

  ("They look human, but underneath, they’re beasts. Raise pigs and dogs, they'll still turn on you.")

  A pause. She spat the next line like it was scripture:

  「番仔天生肚破洞，食甲滿，嘛嫌人飯粒骯髒。」

  (Huan-á are born with holes in their stomachs, no matter how much you feed them, they'll still call your rice dirty.)

  Her grief didn’t contradict her hatred. In her eyes, they were one and the same, two hands of the same old ghost that whispered in their community: never trust outsiders.

  Jiro didn’t raise his voice.

  Something inside him had snapped, not like glass shattering, but like thread pulled too tight for too long. It gave way with a soft finality. His voice, when it came, was steady. Cold at the edges. Clear.

  「伊个死，不是我个錯。」

  (“His death isn’t my fault.”)

  His eyes never left hers, though his chest tightened with each word.

  「我愛伊。」

  (“I loved him.”)

  It came quiet. Full. No argument could stand against it.

  「伊是我大漢个手，阿爸死去彼年，是伊看顧我, , 不時罵我，嘛不時偷偷放錢咧我書包裡。」

  (“He raised me. After Dad passed, it was him who watched over me. Scolded me, sure. But he also used to slip money into my schoolbag when he thought I wouldn’t notice.”)

  He blinked, slow and deliberate, as if holding back more than just tears.

  「我嘛後悔伊死去，伊是欲保護我。」

  (“And yes, I regret that he died trying to protect me.”)

  Then the shift, like steel sliding into place beneath flesh.

  「毋過，媽, , 伊知影會發生啥代誌，當伊派律師去NBI个時。」

  (“But Ma… he knew what would happen when he sent that lawyer to the NBI.”)

  He didn’t say the name. Calvin. He didn’t need to. It sat between them already, like a third presence at the table.

  「伊無傻。伊是心肝軟，嘛袂見死不救。」

  (“He wasn’t stupid. He just had a soft heart, and he wouldn’t stand by and watch someone else die.”)

  The air in the room grew still, save for the sound of her fingernail tapping against porcelain.

  「生意猶有賺錢啦。規模雖然變小，毋過咱無流血賠錢。」

  (“The business is still profitable. The scale’s smaller, yes, but we’re not bleeding money.”)

  He let that sink in before continuing.

  「你嘛猶有錢去辦你愛辦的派對。新加坡、香港、彼條項鍊我嘛有看到。」

  (“You still have money to throw your parties. Singapore, Hong Kong, I saw that necklace too.”)

  His voice was sharper now. But not angry. Just done.

  「所以無需要假仙做一個啥都無个受害者。」

  (“So stop pretending you’re some helpless victim left with nothing.”)

  He let it rest there, for just a moment.

  Then, softer, yet firmer than ever:

  「伊是被害，無是你。」

  (“He was the one who was hurt. Not you.”)

  A pause. Then he added, almost like an afterthought, but precisely placed:

  你講『番仔』的時，我感覺你連他也罵咧。」

  (“When you say huan-á like that… it’s like you’re cursing him too.”)

  He didn’t raise his voice. Just let the words settle.

  「伊請个員工，攏有一半是番仔。」

  (“Half the people he hired were huan-á.”)

  That was all. No edge, no argument, just something she could sit with.

  He sipped his tea and set the cup down, careful not to make a sound.

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It had weight. But for once, it didn’t press down on him.

  Aurelia scoffed, sharp, bitter, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  「你講愛伊？狗嘛會搖尾仔啦。」

  (“You say you loved him? Dogs wag their tails too.”)

  Her chopsticks clicked against the bowl with controlled fury, every gesture small but cutting.

  「伊從你細漢時就罩咱家，什麼代誌攏是伊出面，伊處理。」

  (“He’s the one who’s been holding this family up since you were little, every problem, he stepped in, he handled.”)

  She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. The ice in her tone did the work.

  「你以為有賺錢生意，咱就安全了？」

  (“You think just because the business turns a profit, we’re safe?”)

  Her hand swept the air lightly, as if waving off the very idea.

  「錢嘛會來，做小販的也會賺錢。」

  (“Money comes and goes, street vendors make money too.”)

  She leaned forward slightly, words low and pointed, aimed to pierce:

  「你知影伊頂幾年是怎樣應酬、交際？那是咱家的命脈。」

  (“Do you even know what he’s done all these years? The favors, the connections? That was our lifeline.”)

  A breath. Just long enough to let it sink in.

  「今嘛，伊無在了，咱家就像無牆壁的厝，一個風吹就倒。」

  (“Now he’s gone, and this family’s a house without walls, one gust and we’re done.”)

  She didn’t accuse him outright. She didn’t need to. The silence after was louder than anything else.

  But Aurelia wasn’t finished. Her gaze swept over him, disappointed, assessing, weighing him like an asset on a ledger, never quite seeing the son beneath the silk shirt and tired eyes:

  「你咧幾時才會清醒，找个女朋友，結个婚？」

  (“When will you finally wake up, find a girlfriend, and get married?”)

  Her voice softened, but it was softness like velvet stretched over iron; the pressure behind it never truly eased:

  「我有个朋友尚有情面，伊个女兒乖巧又聽話，阿爸嘛是有頭有臉个人。」

  (“I still have a friend who keeps her face with me. Her daughter is obedient and proper, and her father is a man of real influence.”)

  The words were not just a suggestion, but a thinly veiled command dressed up as maternal concern, her gaze pinning him to the polished table like a butterfly behind glass.

  Something in Jiro broke again, or maybe just flared up, too fast to stop:

  「我已經講幾若遍，毋通提起結婚个代誌！」

  (“I’ve told you so many times, stop bringing up marriage!”)

  His voice was sharper than he intended, words spilling out before he could catch them:

  「我無興趣！」

  (“I’m not interested!”)

  For a breath, the table felt colder, the silence louder, echoing through imported caviar and unfinished tea, hanging between mother and son like something they’d both rather pretend wasn’t there.

  Aurelia’s eyes, half-lidded behind the faint sheen of humidity and irritation, sharpened like a blade finding its edge. Her chopsticks hovered above a dumpling, as though the next words required precision.

  「你猶咧跟伊交配？彼个Julius Go？」

  (“Are you still fucking around with that Julius Go?”)

  She didn’t say it with venom. She said it like it was obvious. Expected. Like gossip passed at the salon.

  「我無反對啦，」

  (“I’m not opposed,”)

  She added quickly, before Jiro could react.

  「伊嘛算是個有出息的後生， 不像你，咧搔頭抓耳攏無出頭。」

  (“He’s a proper and capable young man, not like you, always fumbling around, getting nowhere.”)

  Jiro’s chopsticks stopped mid-air.

  「你攏當做伊做的事情袂使幫著咱？」

  (“You really think his work with the organization can’t benefit our family?”)

  She leaned in, whispering now.

  「你若會曉曉的去講一聲，伊一定幫忙。」

  (“If you had half a brain, you’d convince him to work with us.”)

  She smiled thinly, slicing again:

  「你其他的男朋友，我攏嫌。愛打電玩，愛畫畫，愛發夢。」

  (“All your other boyfriends? Useless. One plays video games. One paints. One just dreams all day.”)

  「只有Julius，我看有未來。咱嘛攏看你們咁親近，為啥無在一起？」

  (“Only Julius has a future. And you two seemed so close, why aren’t you together?”)

  Jiro’s cheeks flushed, a deep pink that crept up to his ears. His jaw clenched.

  「夠啦。」

  (“Enough.")

  His voice was tight.

  「我無想講這種事，妳免再煩我。」

  (“I don’t want to talk about this. Stop bothering me.”)

  He looked away, gripping the edge of the table like it might hold him down.

  Aurelia just watched him, cool, unreadable. A thin smirk curled at the corner of her lips.

  「欸，我嘛只係問問。」

  (“I was only asking.”)

  The lunch ended with a whimper. His mother had mahjong plans, one of the few pastimes that still brought her genuine joy, and left early, discreet bodyguards in tow, without a proper goodbye. Jiro paid for the meal, lingering just a little longer than necessary to trade flirtatious glances with the cute waiter who brought him the bill. He slipped the boy a calling card with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A little thrill never hurt.

  Later, at a long red light on the way home, Jiro slumped in his seat and sighed. The business being profitable wasn’t a lie, but the truth was, if he really wanted to pull himself together, he’d need to make sacrifices. No more midnight bottle service. No more disappearing to Taipei for “meetings.” He had responsibilities now. His uncle’s empire. His mother’s claws, always hovering. He knew the steps. He could take them. He had a detailed and actionable plan in mind already.

  But he was tired. So very tired.

  The light turned green. He rolled forward.

  The black SUV of his security detail followed at a polite distance.

  Back at his condo, he stripped off his sweat-stained clothes and walked straight into the shower. The afternoon heat had soaked into his skin despite the car’s AC. He let the water hit him harder than necessary, scrubbing as if he could rinse off the malaise clinging to his ribs. Afterward, he threw on a robe and collapsed onto the couch, letting some forgettable Taiwanese variety show play on the TV while his thoughts dissolved. Eventually, he dozed off.

  A beep woke him. A soft, mechanical chirp. The condo door.

  His eyes snapped open.

  That wasn’t right.

  The security team usually called first. They always buzzed when someone stepped onto his floor. His staff all lived in the other units, they’d know. They should have known.

  Lino’s voice echoed in his skull.

  “Be careful.”

  Was it him? Severino? To end his misery?

  Jiro shot up, but before he could react further, the door swung open.

  A figure entered, framed by the light from the hallway. Tall. Sun-burnished. Black hair. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, luggage rolling behind. A smile like sunrise after a typhoon.

  Julius.

  Before Jiro could think, his body moved. He let out a sound, half-laugh, half-sob, all joy, and ran, arms wrapping tightly around Julius just as the door clicked shut.

  「我真的是有夠想你啊。」

  (“I missed you so much.”)

  His voice cracked. So much had happened. The words caught in his throat.

  「这阵真的是太多代志发生了。」

  (“So many things have happened lately.”)

  Julius hugged him back with firm, steady arms. Familiar. Grounding.

  「好啦好啦，先畀我放个行李啦。」

  (“Alright, alright, let me drop my bags first.”)

  He smiled against Jiro’s shoulder.

  Jiro held on a second longer.

  He turned his head from where he lounged against Julius’ chest and asked softly,

  「你有渴無？」

  (“You thirsty?”)

  Julius grinned, messing with Jiro’s hair back as he looked around.

  「你彼支好喝的梅酒猶有留無？」

  (“You still got that good bottle of plum wine?”)

  Jiro’s smile widened.

  「有啊，攑等我一下。」

  (“Yup. Wait here.”)

  He walked toward the kitchen, slow and unhurried. During the hug, the robe’s belt had loosened and now hung completely undone. He didn’t bother fixing it. The silk fabric fluttered lightly with each step, and the cool breath of the condo’s air conditioning kissed his entirely bare skin. He liked the feeling, weightless, at home, just shy of decent.

  Behind him, Julius had already set his bags down and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the arm of the sofa with the casualness of someone who belonged there. His voice followed Jiro into the kitchen.

  「我有听人讲Calvin叔过身了，真歹势，殡殮我无法到场……」

  (“I heard your Uncle Calvin passed. I’m sorry I missed the funeral…")

  Jiro knelt to open the wine cooler, his voice even.

  「无要紧啦，我知你个工作真忙。」

  (“It’s okay. I know your work keeps you busy.”)

  He found the bottle and stood just as Julius unzipped his backpack.

  「我有带土产，上海个肉饼，你爱吃彼种，我有记得。」

  (“I brought souvenirs, meat hopia from Shanghai. You love those. I remembered.”)

  He placed the red box carefully on the coffee table.

  Jiro brought out two crystal glasses, setting them down beside the pastries on the kitchen counter. He poured the plum wine, its soft, golden hue catching the low light.

  Julius was already crossing the room.

  Jiro passed him a glass, glancing up.

  「你欲咧留马尼拉留偌久？」

  (“How long are you staying in Manila?”)

  Julius took the glass, the heat of his palm brushing Jiro’s fingers.

  「有一个project拢安排好咧，本地个。」

  (“Got a project lined up. It’s local.”)

  They clinked their glasses, a soft, precise sound. And drank.

  Julius stepped in close behind Jiro.

  Jiro gave a half-laugh and asked:

  「你个 project 是啥物？」

  (“What’s the project?”)

  Julius didn’t answer right away. His arms wrapped gently around Jiro’s waist from behind, and his lips found the side of Jiro’s neck. He whispered:

  「是你。」

  (“You.”)

  Jiro’s breath caught. The robe had parted further, stirred by the air conditioning. Julius’ lips trailed slowly. Jiro felt himself stir, responding to every breath and touch. He asked, quieter now:

  「啥物意思？」

  (“What do you mean?”)

  Julius tugged gently on his hair, tilting his head back into a kiss. The taste of wine still lingered between them. Then Julius murmured:

  「我知 Calvin 的人有問題。我要幫你接手。」

  (“I heard Calvin's people are acting out. I want to help you take over.”)

  His hand slid over Jiro’s chest, fingertips teasing along sensitive nips. Jiro gasped softly, leaning back into his touch.

  「我無法度讓你為我煩惱。」

  (“I can’t ask you to carry my problems.”)

  Julius’ voice was firm, close against his ear, hand slipping lower, testing the wakefulness of Jiro’s already exposed genitals:

  「我知啦。」

  (“I know.”)

  He kissed Jiro again, slower this time, deeper. The robe slipped off completely without a sound, pooling to the kitchen floor. Julius turned him around, pressing Jiro’s back lightly against the counter. Jiro reached for Julius’s pants, fingers tracing the line of Julius’ belt, palm feeling the bulge below.

  Julius caught Jiro’s wrist, guiding his hand inside.

  「來，予你看。」

  (“Here, let me show you.”)

  It was fully awake.

  Julius unbuckled his belt with calm precision, letting the sound of it echo in the dim kitchen. His other hand threaded through Jiro’s hair, not rough, not gentle either, but firm, purposeful. He guided Jiro downward, and Jiro followed without protest, his hands steady against Julius’ thighs, pulling Julius’s pants down at the same time. He knew what Julius liked. Knew the rhythm. The pace. The subtle tells in his breath. He licked Julius’ wakeful appendage first, then swallowed it full. He moved with experience, with intent.

  Above him, Julius let out a breath between a sigh and a groan.

  「我無法看汝予人欺負，知影無？」

  (“I can’t just stand by and watch them bully you, you know?”)

  Jiro didn’t reply. He just quickened the rhythm in response. Julius’ hips tensed slightly.

  「哎喲…」

  (“Damn…”)

  Jiro kept it up, as Julius squeezed his hair tighter. Jiro’s hands found themselves squeezing Julius’s buttocks.

  Then, with amusement thick in his tone:

  「看來有認真練習喔？」

  (“Looks like someone’s been practicing.”)

  Jiro pulled back slowly, saliva dripping and at the corners of his mouth, grinning up with a mix of mischief and defiance.

  「真皮喔。」Julius muttered, before slapping him, not hard, but sharp, the kind of gesture laced with control.

  (“You’ve been very bad.”)

  Jiro only smiled wider. He liked it.

  Julius ran his hand down Jiro’s cheek, then down his neck, and guided his mouth across his abdomen, slow and deliberate. Jiro kissed him there, tasting the salt of old memories and present hunger. Then Julius slowly gestured him to move upright, removed the last of his shirt, and for a moment, they were just two silhouettes in low light, bare, breathless, known to each other far too well.

  Julius leaned over for a kiss, tracing his hands over Jiro’s skin, as Jiro did the same.

  Jiro let himself be lifted onto the cold counter. Objects clattered and fell. He didn’t care. Julius spread Jiro’s legs open, palms pressing firm into his thighs.

  「你有想我無？」

  (“Did you miss me?”)

  Jiro’s reply was barely audible:

  「真有。」

  (“So much.”)

  Julius’ grin softened only for a beat before determination returned to his eyes. He moved closer, looked down, maneuvering his treasure like an archer would find his target, pressing in until Jiro felt the solid weight wishing to enter, the heat, the pressure, the claim of it.

  Then a push, deliberate, sure. Jiro’s head fell back, breath stolen, mind empty except for the rush of sensation and the man in front of him.

  Julius moved again, deeper this time, and the world shrank to heat and closeness and the sharp smell of sweat mixing with leftover perfume. Words rose to Jiro’s lips, but none came out, only soft sounds torn from someplace deep.

  Julius slowly increased his pace, making sure Jiro can handle it, before finding a steady rhythm that left Jiro panting, letting out moans and cries for more.

  Jiro’s breath hitched, not from pain, not even from the motion, but from the sight in front of him. Julius' face. That same face.

  Half-shrouded in sweat and shadow, panting and focused and impossibly close. His brows furrowed in concentration, like he was solving something, like he always did when they were kids and Julius insisted on fixing Jiro’s broken toys, his bike, his busted pride. That same stubborn face.

  Jiro’s hands trembled where they clung to Julius’ shoulders. He wasn’t sure what was happening more, his body responding to the rhythm, or his mind falling backward into old, buried places.

  Back to the cracked tiles of the old elementary school gym where Julius bloodied a classmate’s nose for calling Jiro bakla.

  Back to that mangled plastic chair outside his grandmother’s house in the provinces, where they sat side by side eating iced candy, talking about what they would do when they grew up.

  Back to that one long silence in high school, when Julius had kissed him, just once, behind the gym, and neither of them had spoken about it for two years.

  Back to the time Julius beat up the thugs bloody, who dared to try and kidnap him to force Calvin's hand.

  And now, now this.

  He looked at Julius’ mouth, slack with breath, flushed and biting back a groan. He looked at his eyes, almost soft now.

  You’re still the only person I’ve ever trusted enough to fall apart in front of, Jiro thought.

  He wanted to speak, to say something, anything. A joke, a protest, a prayer. But no words came.

  So he just stared. At the man in front of him. At the man he had known forever.

  And he thought: I’m going to need you again, Julius. And I hate that I do.

  But I do.