Luna's cubicle had become a war zone. For three days, she'd waged battle against the impossible task Quino had given her. Printouts of century-old Montemayor Tabako advertisements were taped to the fabric walls, stern-faced gentlemen judging her progress.
Her desk was a landscape of scribbled notes—"heritage not habit," "story before smoke," "lakas ng loob"—buried under empty 3-in-1 coffee sachets.
The problem was a brick wall. Cigars. Gen Z. The two concepts existed in different universes. How do you make a relic from a great-grandfather's era relevant to kids who lived on TikTok and vaping?
Frustrated, she'd given up and scrolled through the "Mga Ka-Sining" fan group. A new post from SagisagNgLahi was at the top, already garnering dozens of hearts.
Why does Lakam hesitate? It's not about the Diwata. It's about him. He was raised to believe his only value is his sword. To want something for himself feels like a betrayal of his entire world. He sees love as a distraction from duty, not a reason for it.
Luna stared at the screen. The words hit home. This stranger, this "Symbol of the People," had looked at her own character and articulated the core conflict she'd been struggling to pin down. He was raised to believe his only value is his sword.
Her eyes drifted from the screen to the imposing, closed door of Joaquin Montemayor's office. A man seemingly carved from the same stone as Lakam. Then her gaze fell on the faded photo on her desk: her Lolo Ben, a public school teacher, holding a cigar at his wooden desk, contemplating deeply as he graded papers.
That was it. The click.
The next thirty-six hours were a blur of cheap coffee and frantic energy. The idea wasn't a marketing campaign; it was a story. She found archival photos, commissioned a digital artist friend to create short animations, and wrote copy that felt less like an ad and more like a historical vignette.
By Friday morning, dark circles under her eyes, she had a full presentation deck and three polished sample videos.
She stood before the sleek conference table, her laptop her only shield. Quino Montemayor sat at the head, flanked by his marketing team. His expression was neutral, but she could feel the skepticism.
"The problem isn't the product," she began, clicking play on the first video. "It's the perception. We're not selling a cigar. We're selling a moment. The same moment a general took before a battle. A writer took before writing a novel. A lolo took while pondering his family's future."
The animation showed a figure in late 19th-century clothing at a narra desk. The tagline appeared: "#LakasNgLahi: Hindi Lang Tabako, Kasaysayan."
Silence. Then Miguel, the junior marketer, whistled. "Boss, this is actually brilliant."
She risked a glance at Quino. He was staring at the screen, his face unreadable. When his eyes finally lifted to hers, she saw something new in them. Not warmth, but reassessment.
"Where did this come from?" he asked.
She shrugged, her cheeks warming. "It just made sense. It's a story about a warrior who doesn't know his own strength is in his history, not just his sword."
The approval was a rush. As the team buzzed around her, she escaped to the pantry, her hands trembling slightly. She pulled out her phone and called Maya.
"Naku, Maya!" she whispered the moment her friend answered. "Grabe, kanina pa ako kinakabahan but I think I might have actually done it."
"Done what? Convinced the iceberg CEO to smile?"
"Better!" Luna leaned against the counter, the adrenaline making her giddy. "He approved my campaign. The impossible one. For the cigars."
Maya whooped so loudly Luna had to pull the phone away from her ear. "I knew it! I knew you could do it! Tell me everything! What did he say? How did he look?"
"He looked confused," Luna admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "Like his computer started speaking in poetry. Ang weird kaya. And then he asked where it came from."
"And...?"
"I panicked!" Luna groaned, running a hand through her already messy hair. "I said it was like a warrior who doesn't know his own strength is in his history. I kumpara ko daw yung pamilya nya kay Lakam."
There was a beat of silence on the other end. "You did not."
"I did! And then it got worse!" Luna lowered her voice even further, even though the pantry was empty. "I started explaining Lakam's whole deal. That he's been trained his whole life and he thinks duty is more important than love. That wanting something for himself feels selfish." She paused, the words sounding familiar even to her own ears. "But it's not selfish. It's just being human."
As the words left her mouth, she froze. That last part—that exact phrasing—wasn't hers. She'd read it somewhere. Recently. Her eyes widened as she remembered SagisagNgLahi's post from last night. She'd just quoted a random internet stranger to describe her CEO.
"Wow," Maya said, pulling her back to the present. "You've really got this guy all figured out, huh? From CEO to fictional character in three days flat."
"I just read that exact phrase somewhere—" Luna began, but before she could finish, the pantry door swooshed open behind her. She turned slowly, her stomach dropping.
Quino stood in the doorway, holding an empty ceramic mug. His eyes locked with hers, and the expression on his face made her blood run cold. It wasn't anger. It was intense. Calculating. As if he'd just heard something that didn't compute, and his mind was working overtime to process it.
The phone felt slippery in her suddenly damp hand. Maya's voice was a tiny, tinny buzz saying "Hello? Luna? Nandyan ka pa ba?"
For a long second, neither of them moved. Luna's mind raced, trying to remember exactly how much he might have overheard. The part about Lakam? The part about duty and love?
Then, without a word, Quino stepped fully into the pantry. He moved past her to the coffee machine, his shoulder brushing hers in the small space. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her.
"Miguel needs the storyboards," he said, his voice low and even as he poured his coffee. "He's at your desk."
It was a dismissal. A clear one. But his eyes, when they flicked to hers again, still held that same intensity.
"Y-yes, sir," she managed to choke out. "Right away."
She practically fled the pantry, Maya's confused voice still chirping from the phone she clutched in her trembling hand. She didn't look back, but she could feel his gaze on her the entire way down the hall.
Luna didn't stop at her cubicle. She beelined for the women's restroom, the click of the lock echoing in the tiled silence. She braced her hands on the cool porcelain sink, staring at her reflection—wide eyes, flushed cheeks. She looked as unraveled as she felt.
Trained his whole life that duty is more important than love.
It's human.
The words echoed in the quiet room. How much had he heard? Just the tail end, or the part where she compared his life's work to a fictional warrior's angst? Her career—her desperately needed paycheck—had it just gone up in smoke because she couldn't stop thinking about her own book?
She splashed cold water on her face, the shock a temporary anchor. He hadn't looked angry, though. That was the strangest part. He'd looked intrigued. Like she was a complex line of code he couldn't quite debug. Somehow, that was worse than if he'd just fired her on the spot.
Pushing the heavy glass door open, she stepped out into the humid Makati afternoon, seeking air. The city's roar was a welcome distraction from the frantic beat of her own heart. She had to get a grip. She was probably overthinking. He was a CEO; he had better things to do than psychoanalyze his temp's phone calls.
A soft ping cut through the noise. She pulled out her phone. The screen glowed with a notification from the "Mga Ka-Sining" group.
SagisagNgLahi replied to your comment.
Her breath caught. She tapped the notification.
One line. Simple, almost casual.
"You see him clearly. Sometimes, I think the author forgets that too."