November 12, 2035

  Pol tightened the last nut, he reached over with his other hand and gave the valve a careful twist, then waited. The pipes held. No hiss, no drip. He exhaled, wiped his hands on his shorts, and called out, “Ayos na po, Ate Nelly! Wala nang tagas.” (“It’s done Ate Nelly! There’s no more leak!”)

  From the kitchen came her voice, sharp over the sound of sizzling oil. “O, good! Mag linis ka muna and wash your hands, ha! I’ll show you something.” (“Oh good! Clean up and wash your hands, I’ll show you something.”)

  Pol gathered the wrenches and pliers into the dented red toolbox, each clink of metal echoing off the tiled walls of the restaurant’s bathroom. The air smelled faintly of soy sauce and soap. He slid the box back onto the low shelf beside a stack of plastic basins in the storage room outside, then returned to the sink.

  He scrubbed his hands like she’d taught him, palms, between fingers, under the nails, until the smell of iron and grime gave way to the clean bite of hand soap. He checked his fingers for dark patches of grease. None. Only then did he step into the kitchen.

  Ate Nelly was already there, sleeves rolled up, a thin film of sweat glistening on her arms. On the counter lay rows of metal bowls: chopped octopus glistening in their own brine, spring onions bright against the pale batter, shreds of cabbage, flakes of dried bonito still shifting like they were alive.

  “Hoy, come here,” she said, sliding him a bowl and a whisk. “Aaral kang mag gawa nang takoyaki ngayon.” (“You’re learning takoyaki today.”)

  Pol blinked. “Yung bestseller natin?” (“Our bestseller?”)

  She grinned. “Yun nga. Maraming estudyante bumabalik-balik dito dahil diyan. So if I’m busy, you can help. Pero dapat pareho lasa, ha?” (“Yes that’s it. A lot of students come here just for the takoyaki. So if I’m busy, you can help. But the flavor must be exactly the same, ok?”)

  She began to move with a rhythm that was smooth from years of muscle memory. One hand poured the flour and dashi into a large steel bowl, the other cracked eggs in quick succession, the yolks slipping in like coins. “Always mix in one direction,” she said, circling the whisk through the batter. “Clockwise lang. Don’t rush. If you trap air, it gets tough.”

  Pol mirrored her, his strokes uneven at first, splattering a bit onto the counter.

  “Slow, steady,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Hindi yan karera.” (“It’s not a race.”)

  When the batter reached the right smoothness, she guided him to the round iron takoyaki pan heating on the stove. The metal shimmered faintly. She brushed each dent with oil, the scent immediately blooming, warm, nutty, comforting.

  “Now pour just half,” she instructed, her tone softer now. “Then drop the fillings, the octopus, onion, cabbage, wag masyadong marami.” (“Not too much.”)

  Pol followed her hands. Her motions were precise but unhurried, like someone who’d done this thousands of times but still found meaning in every step. He turned each ball with a skewer when she told him to, watching the batter puff and turn golden.

  The smell filled the kitchen, rich, savory, touched with the sweetness of the sauce she was already stirring on the side.

  “See?” she said, smiling faintly as she turned one perfect sphere onto the tray. “Ganito. Not too soft, not too brown. Dapat may bounce.” (“There should be a bounce.”)

  Pol tried one of his own. It wasn’t perfect, a bit lopsided, but it held its shape.

  Ate Nelly leaned over to inspect it. “Pwede na,” she said, nodding. “Pag na-perfect mo yan, baka ikaw na magturo sa iba.” (“It’s enough. Once you perfect it, perhaps you would be the one to teach others.”)

  Pol chuckled under his breath. The heat of the stove warmed his face, and for a moment, the day’s noise outside felt far away. Only the smell of takoyaki remained, and Ate Nelly’s voice, steady and sure, guiding his hands.

  Suddenly, the bell above the glass door chimed. A small, cheerful sound that cut through the hiss of oil and the murmur of the electric fan. Pol glanced through the square window above the sink. Celine had just stepped in, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, her white blouse and green plaid skirt still crisp from school, her lanyard swaying as she looked around.

  Ate Nelly caught his glance and gave a small flick of her chin toward the dining area. “Go,” she mouthed.

  Pol wiped his hands on a rag, cleared the counter of stray cabbage shreds, and was about to leave when Ate Nelly pressed something into his palm, two crumpled peso bills, folded tight. He accepted it silently, slipping it into his pockets without movement.

  Then she slid a plate toward him, takoyaki still steaming, some perfectly round, others slightly uneven, betraying which ones were his.

  He nodded his thanks and pushed the swinging kitchen door open with his shoulder.

  Celine had already claimed the big table by the window, her bag set neatly beside her chair. She smiled when she saw him, eyes dropping to the plate in his hands. “Uy, ang dami ah. Anong okasyon?” (“Hey that’s a lot, what’s the occasion?”)

  Pol set the plate down between them, the aroma curling in the air. “Tinuruan ako ni Ate Nelly magluto ng takoyaki.” (“Ate Nelly taught me how to cook takoyaki.”)

  Celine raised her brows. “So… ibig sabihin alam mo na buong menu?” (“So… does that mean you now know the entire menu?”)

  Pol paused, halfway into sitting. He blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Oo nga, no. Parang… oo. Alam ko na halos lahat. Kailangan ko lang mag-practice sa takoyaki.” (“Oh right, yes. Like… yes. I now know almost everything. I just need more practice with the takoyaki.”) He started counting on his fingers. “Katsudon, bangus, tapa… lahat na.” (“Katsudon, bangus, tapa… all of it.”)

  Celine grinned, reaching for a toothpick. “Aba, di magtatagal, may sarili ka nang karinderya. ‘Pol’s House of Katsudon’.” (“Soon enough you’ll have your own restaurant. ‘Pol’s House of Katsudon’”)

  Before he could answer, Ate Nelly’s voice carried from the kitchen window, sharp but fond. “Hoy! Malayo pa yan. Baka sumabog pa yung pan mo pag nag-iisa ka.” (“Hey! He’s still got a long ways to go. His pan might explode if he goes solo now.”) She leaned on the sill, wiping her hands on her apron. “Pero siguro, give it ilang weeks, kaya mo na tong pwesto mag-isa.” (“But maybe, git it a few weeks, and you can solo this place.”)

  Celine turned toward her, grinning. “O, Ate Nelly! Pwede ka na pala mag Singapore! Di ba matagal mo nang gusto pumunta?” (“Hey, Ate Nelly! You can finally visit Singapore! Haven’t you been planning to go for a while now?”)

  Ate Nelly laughed, shaking her head. “Yan na naman. Laging ikaw nagpapalala niyan.” (“Look at you, worrying about others again.”) Ate Nelly retreats back into the depths of the kitchen, and disappears out of their sight.

  Celine picked up one of the misshapen takoyaki, one that is slightly flattened on one side, like it gave up halfway through turning. She dunked it deep into the sauce until it glistened, then took a bite. The crunch gave way to heat; she puffed out her cheeks and exhaled steam, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

  “Wait,” she managed between breaths, pointing at the plate. “Yung mga pangit na takoyaki, ikaw gumawa, no?” (“The ugly takoyakis, you made them yeah?”)

  Pol feigned offense, hand to his chest. “Grabe ka naman. Masakit yan, ah.” (“That hurt.”) Then he grinned, scratching his neck. “Pero oo. Ako nga.”

  Celine nodded slowly, chewing with care this time. “Deformed, oo. Pero tama lasa. Yung sauce, yun talaga bida. Sobrang okay na to, Pol. The shape doesn’t matter.” (“It’s deformed, yes. But the taste is right. The sauce is the real main character. This is very much alright, Pol. The shape doesn’t matter.”)

  Pol stared at the remaining pieces for a moment, then took one and bit in. She was right. The edges were uneven, but the flavor, rich, sweet, smoky, was there.

  Silence settled for a few seconds, broken only by the low hum of the aircon and the faint noise of the street outside.

  Then Pol asked, almost too casually, “Yung sinabi ni Miss Sabina nung Sabado… anong ibig niyang sabihin na facing ten years daw yung tito mo?” (“About the thing that Miss Sabina said last Saturday… what did she mean when she said your uncle was facing 10 years?”)

  Celine didn’t flinch. Her face stayed calm, too calm. She leaned back until her head rested against the glass, the afternoon light tracing the edge of her jaw. “…Since tatanungin niyo rin naman mamaya, sabihin ko na lang ngayon.” (“Since they’ll be asking the same question later, I might well say it now.”)

  Her voice dropped quieter. “He embezzled fifteen million pesos from his old company. Nahuli siya early this year. Nasa korte pa yung kaso. Hindi naman malaking kumpanya yung tinirhan niya, pero aggresive silang habulin siya.” (“He embezzled 15 million pesos from his previous employer, he got caught earlier this year and the case is still in the courts. His previous employer isn’t some big company, but they’ve been aggressive in pursuing the case.”)

  She stabbed another takoyaki, stuffed it into her mouth before she could say more. While chewing, she lifted her hand to cover her mouth, her words muffled. “Sinabayan pa ng mga bangko, lahat ng account niya, frozen agad. So ngayon si Mama yung gumagastos sa abugado. Laban sa kumpanya na may pera, hindi biro yung gastos.” (“The banks froze all his bank accounts, so now my mom’s been using her money to fund my uncle’s legal battle, but fighting against a wealthy company like them isn’t cheap.”)

  Pol hesitated before asking, “Close ka ba sa tito mo?” (“Were you close?”)

  Celine nodded once, still staring at the plate. “Oo. Siya yung lagi kong kakampi. Nung bata pa ako, siya yung nagturo sa akin magbisikleta, siya yung sumasama sa akin manood ng PBA games, kahit pagod galing trabaho. Lagi niyang sinasabi, ‘Celine, wag mong hayaan na matakot ka sa may pera. May utak ka, gamitin mo.’” (“Yes. He had always been my ally. When I was a child, he was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, he was the one who would go with me to watch PBA games, even when he was tired from work. He always used to say, ‘Celine, don’t let yourself be afraid of those who have money. You have a brain, use it.’ ”)

  Her voice thinned a little, barely above the clatter from the kitchen. “Kaya kahit ganito, kahit alam kong may kasalanan siya o wala, mahirap lang tanggapin.” (“So even in this situation, even if I know whether he did something wrong or not, it’s hard to accept.”)

  Pol looked down at his hands. “Pero… ginawa ba talaga niya?” (“But… did he do it?”)

  Celine’s answer came steady, measured. “It doesn’t matter. Kahit hindi, talo pa rin siya. Malalaki kalaban, may mga abogado. Meanwhile, kami nung nanay ko, yung mura na abogado na nakuha nung nanay ko, at sya lang.” (“It doesn’t matter. Even if he didn’t, he would still lose. His opponents are powerful, they have lawyers. Meanwhile, it’s just me, my mom, the cheap lawyer she found, and him.”) She gave a dry laugh. “Nakakatawa nga, no? Fifteen million. Akala mo malaki. Pero alam nating lahat, di mo nga mabibili ng condo yan sa Maynila ngayon.” (“It's funny, right? Fifteen million. You’d think that’s a lot. But we all know, you can't even buy a condo in Manila with that now.”)

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  The words hung heavy between them. Pol nodded faintly, more to himself than to her.

  After a while, he asked, “Kung sayo… kung ikaw magdedesisyon, tatanggapin mo ba yung alok ni Marius? Kung makakatulong siya sa kaso ng tito mo?” (“If it was up to you, would you accept Marius’ offer? If he can help with your uncle’s case?”)

  Celine met his eyes, then looked away. “Inisip ko yan nung kahapon,” she said softly. “At oo… malamang tatanggapin ko.” (“I thought about it yesterday, and yes, I will take it.”)

  The silence between them stretched, thick and idle, broken only by the faint whirr of the aircon and the sound of their toothpicks clinking against the plate. Pol reached for another takoyaki, then stopped mid-motion. Half the plate was gone already, nothing but sauce streaks and bonito flakes curling on the surface.

  He leaned back, toothpick in hand. “Kelan ba darating sila Joseph?” (“When will Joseph and the others arrive?”)

  Before Celine could answer, the door swung open, the bell above it jingling with a bright, chaotic energy that filled the quiet space. Joseph, Ricky, Banjo, and Tonette piled in, still half-talking over one another, bringing with them the street’s humid air and a clatter of sneakers and laughter.

  Joseph spotted them first. “Uy! Nandito pala kayo!” (“Hey! You’re here!”) He made his way over and dropped into the seat beside Pol. The others followed, claiming the rest of the table like they always did, effortlessly reordering the room around them.

  Celine gestured toward the plate. “Pol made those.”

  Joseph’s eyebrows rose. “Talaga?” (“Really?”) Without hesitation, he stabbed one takoyaki with a toothpick and tossed it into his mouth. His expression brightened instantly. “Grabe, same na same kay Ate Nelly to!” (“Damn, it’s exactly the same as Ate Nelly’s”)

  Celine smirked. “’Yan kasi yung gawa ni Ate Nelly.” (“Because that’s the batch Ate Nelly made.”)

  Laughter broke out around the table. Even Ate Nelly snorted from behind the kitchen window.

  “But seriously,” Celine said, still grinning, “yung gawa ni Pol, halos pareho rin.” (“Pol’s creations are the same in taste already.”)

  “Di halata,” Ricky said, grabbing two more. “Pwede na magtayo ng stall sa tapat ng LRT.” (“The difference is not obvious… you can already open a stall in front of the LRT.”)

  Banjo, meanwhile, had already flipped open his laptop, its fan barely whirring. He pushed aside a plopped bag to make space, his fingers tapping against the keys like a bad habit.

  “So,” Joseph said, mouth still half-full, “Banjo, may nakuha ka bang info tungkol dun sa Marius Zhu?” (“Banjo, have you gotten any info about this Marius Zhu?”)

  Banjo nodded, eyes fixed on the screen. “Oo. Medyo interesting nga.” (“Yes, it’s also quite interesting.”) He adjusted the laptop for his comfort. “According to what I dug up, second generation Chinoy siya. Parents run a small local furniture business, tatay karpintero at welder, nanay accountant. Halos sala siyang social media. As in zero presence.” (“According to what I dug up, he’s second generation Chinoy (Chinese Filipino). His parents run a small local furniture business, his dad’s the carpenter and welder, while his mother is an accountant. He has no social media presence. As in zero.”)

  Tonette leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Walang Instagram, walang LinkedIn?” (“No Instagram, no LinkedIn?”)

  “Wala, I even asked friends inside these companies. Wala.” (“No, I even asked friends inside these companies. He doesn’t have a presence.”) Banjo confirmed. “And here’s the weird part, wala ring school records dito (Also no school records here). No graduation photos, no honors, no public competitions. Nothing.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a guy who ends up living in a Makati penthouse,” Tonette said, frowning slightly.

  “Exactly,” Banjo replied, already scrolling through another document. “Pero based sa public filings abroad, nakainvest siya sa civil infrastructure AI sa Vietnam, Thailand, at Indonesia. Mga government projects yan. Diyan siya yumaman, literally overnight billionaire.” (“But based on public filings abroad, he invested in civil infrastructure AI in Vietnam, Thailand, and Indonesia.Those are government projects. That’s where he got rich, literally an overnight billionaire.”)

  Ricky returned from the fridge, bottles of soda and beer crowding his arms. He distributed them across the table, then asked, “Okay, pero saan niya kinuha yung initial capital for those? Hindi naman mura pumasok sa ganun, at parang wala din ganung klaseng pera ang parents nya.” (“Okay, but where did he get the initial capital for those? It’s not cheap to get into something like that, and it seems his parents didn't have that kind of money either.”)

  Banjo exhaled through his nose, eyes still on the screen. “Yan yung tricky part. I don’t think it was his money. Either he loaned it, or he was managing someone else’s fund. Pero kung sino nagpaikot ng puhunan, wala pa akong lead. Ang alam ko lang, pagkatapos ng investments, karamihan ng tubo, napunta sa kanya.” (“That’s the tricky part. I don’t think it was his money. Either he loaned it, or he was managing someone else’s fund. But as for who put up the capital, I don’t have a lead yet. All I know is, after the investments, most of the profit went to him.”)

  Joseph leaned back, a skeptical grin forming. “So basically, money laundering.”

  Banjo closed the laptop with a soft click, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kung naglalakad parang pato, at kumukwak parang pato…” (“If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…”)

  “…pato nga yan,” (“Then it likely is a duck.”) Joseph finished, raising his bottle.

  The table laughed again, but with it a kind of unease at these revelations, one that none of them wanted to name yet. Pol looked around the table, everyone else seemed to understand the implications. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the idea of using someone else’s money to make billions,

  Billions… a number Pol’s only ever heard in news headlines, in scandals, in rich people’s number of wealth. How much is a billion anyway? He’s still not quite sure. But he knows it’s a number he will never see in his wallet in this lifetime,

  Pol leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his voice cutting through the soft buzz of conversation. “So… anong ginagawa niya ngayon dito sa Pilipinas?” (“So… what has he been doing in the Philippines?”)

  Banjo tapped a few keys, the laptop’s faint glow lighting his face. “Ginamit niya yung pera to open a news company, Truthspan Media. Headquarters sa Makati. Pero interesting part: hindi siya Editor in Chief, hindi rin CEO, hindi rin Chairman. He just owns fifty percent.” (“He used the money to open a news company, called Truthspan Media. Its headquarters are in Makati. But the interesting part: he’s not the Editor in Chief, nor the CEO, nor the Chairman. He just owns fifty percent.”)

  Celine frowned. “Then who owns the other half?”

  “Eight private equity firms,” Banjo replied. “Spread out sa buong mundo, Singapore, Zurich, Vancouver, Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, and… isa ay based in Seoul. Wala sa kanila local.” (“They are spread out all over the world: Singapore, Zurich, Vancouver, Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, and… one is based in Seoul. None of them are local.”)

  Joseph tilted his head. “Any of those connected sa investments niya sa Southeast Asia?” (“Any of those connected to his investments in Southeast Asia?”)

  Banjo shook his head. “Akala ko rin ganun, pero wala. Checked what I could find, no overlap sa company names or records.” (“I thought so too, but no. I checked what I could find, and there is no overlap in company names or records.”)

  Ricky popped open his soda. “Shell companies?”

  Joseph nodded. “Shell companies.”

  Pol nodded as well, though he was not sure what a shell company was.

  Banjo sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Siguro. Pero by who, yun ang hindi ko makuha. (Maybe. But by whom, that’s what I can’t figure out.) The names of the PE owners are scrubbed clean from the SEC filings. Either he’s got really good lawyers, or someone else is protecting the trail.”

  The group fell silent for a moment, the fan ticking faintly as it rotated. Then Banjo scrolled down again, his tone shifting. “Anyway, dead end yun. Pero busy pa rin siya lately. Marami siyang kinokonsulta, both sa government at private sector. Official consultant daw siya sa JICA funded MRT 12 project. Nag consult din siya sa construction ng Montejo Heights, kaya may penthouse siya dun, most likely part ng deal. And he’s also been consulting for the National Museum, DOST, DoTr, DoT, basically kahit saan, may Marius Zhu somewhere in the background. Guy’s been busy.” (“Anyway, that’s a dead end. But he’s still been busy lately. He consults with many people, both in government and the private sector. He is reportedly an official consultant for the JICA funded MRT 12 project. He also consulted on the construction of Montejo Heights, which is why he has a penthouse there, most likely part of the deal. And he’s also been consulting for the National Museum, DOST, DoTr, DoT, basically, wherever you look, there’s a Marius Zhu somewhere in the background. The guy’s been busy.”)

  Joseph leaned back, drumming his fingers lightly against the table. “This is one powerful person to make an enemy of.”

  Banjo’s lips curled faintly. “Or a powerful person to work under.”

  Ricky took a long sip from his bottle, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Power’s power. He’s still a shady billionaire.”

  No one argued with that. Pol is quite sure he knows the meaning of it as well. These is someone they should not make an enemy of. The hum of the street outside filled the space, the scent of cooled takoyaki now faint in the air.

  Celine lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, what about Sabina? Legit ba talaga siya as Marius’ chief of security?” (Is she legit as Marius’ chief of security?)

  Banjo scrolls, thumb resting on the trackpad like a metronome. “Sabina was easier to trace. British–Filipino. Father’s a big-shot magnate in the UK, mother’s an old-money socialite, they’re in magazines, so hindi problem ang public records (so public records aren’t an issue).” He taps a few keys and the glow paints his face. “She joined the Philippine Navy after graduating from the Philippine Military Academy, moved to ISAFP, then five years ago shifted to the private sector.”

  Joseph narrows his eyes. “How long was she in ISAFP?”

  “Six years,” Banjo says without looking up.

  A pause. Tonette tilts her head. “Ano yun, ISAFP?” (“What’s the ISAFP?”)

  Joseph answers like he’s repeating a lesson he’s tired of but knows by heart. “ISAFP is the AFP’s intelligence arm. Parang CIA nang Pilipinas. Covert ops, surveillance, manga ganun.” (“ISAFP is the intelligence arm of the AFP. It's like the CIA of the Philippines. Covert ops, surveillance, things like that.”)

  Banjo shrugs. “In short: she was a spy.”

  Tonette lets out a half-laugh that smells more like a sob. She leans back, fingertips braced behind her head. “We’re in deep trouble, then. Accidentally rubbing shoulders with… with people who can make things disappear or make you disappear.”

  A nervous ripple runs through the table. Pol thinks of special agents in the TV wearing expensive suits and fighting bad guys. He tries to imagine Sabina as one, the tall imposing figure that night fits into the imagined scenario like a glove. Even back then Pol knew she had the physicality to take on the group if they were to fight.

  Joseph’s smile is thin. “Sabina might have strong-arm tactics. But she did give us an out that night. Maybe it was an illusion of choice, but it was still a step they could’ve skipped.”

  Ricky’s fingers drum the tabletop until he snaps, “Wait, Celine, anong sinabi ni Sabina about your tito, about ten years in prison?” (“Wait, Celine, what did Sabina say about your uncle and 10 years in prison?”)

  All eyes pivot to Celine. She exhales and repeats, steady and quiet, the same facts she already told Pol: the fifteen million, the frozen accounts, Mama paying the lawyers, how the employer is pushing relentlessly. The words fall into the room like stones in a shallow pool, small ripples, wide-reaching.

  Joseph folds his hands, thinking. “Getting help from someone like Marius… would change the odds. Dramatically.”

  Ricky slams his palm down. “So we take handouts from a corrupt billionaire now? We become his puppets because he buys us forgiveness?” His voice tightens. “He made us look stupid that night, he dangled this offer like bait, fuck that guy.”

  Tonette’s face hardens, but her voice is measured. “It’s not just pride or money. Sabina saw us. She knew how we operate, knew us long enough to set a trap. If she can sniff around like that, yung ibang tao sa law enforcement ay kaya ding mahanap tayo (The others in law enforcement would also be able to catch us). You get stitched into a case, or you get collateral in someone else’s play. Hindi na optional ang protection, mandatory na. (Protection isn’t optional anymore, it’s mandatory)”

  The group goes quiet again, chewing on the logic more than the food.

  Pol watches them, fingers worrying the remaining toothpick between his knuckles. He feels the shape of the choice in his chest, hard, blunt, unavoidable. The table talks around it, each voice a different shade of the same worry: stay free and risk being cut down, or sell a piece of that freedom and ideals for safety.

  Joseph leaned forward. “Guys,” he said, voice calm but clipped. “Hindi pa naman natin talaga nakikilala si Marius mismo, di ba?” (“We still haven’t actually met this Marius in person, yes?”)

  The table went quiet. Only the hum of Banjo’s laptop soft fan filled the pause.

  Joseph continued, “Kung magdedesisyon tayong makipagtrabaho sa kanya, mas okay siguro na makita muna natin sya in person. Pwede kong pakiusapan si Sabina na mag arrange nang meeting. At least doon, makikita natin kung anong klaseng tao talaga itong si Marius.” (“If we decide to work with him, it’s probably better if we see him in person first. I can ask Sabina to arrange a meeting. At least then, we can see what kind of person this Marius truly is.”)

  The others exchanged glances, Ricky scowling, Tonette chewing her lip, Celine tracing circles on her can with a fingertip. Even Banjo, who’d been all facts and figures a few minutes ago, sat back wordlessly.

  One by one, they nodded.

  Reluctant, but resigned.

  Ricky was last. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Sige na nga. Pero pag medyo may mali lang sa kilos nung tao, alis ako agad, ha.” (“Fine. But if that guy so much as breathes funny, I’m out.”)

  Joseph reached into his pocket, pulled out a calling card, sleek, black, embossed letters. He studied it for a beat, thumb brushing over the name.

  Then he took out his phone, dialed, the sound of the keypad soft and deliberate in the silence.

  No one spoke as he raised the phone to his ear.