The streets of Ermita were empty at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of neon signs gasping their last breaths above shuttered bars and brothels.
The air smelled of rain-soaked pavement, urine, and cigarette smoke-a fitting welcome for a dead man walking.
Detective Torres staggered forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood soaked through his worn down suit, sticking the fabric to his skin like a second layer. Each step was a battle against gravity, against the weight of his own body, against the pull of the abyss threatening to swallow him whole.
He barely made it to the alley before his knees gave out. He collapsed against the cold brick wall, head lolling back, vision swimming in and out of darkness. Rojas was dead. Torres had won. But if this was what victory felt like, then maybe there was no such thing.
His fingers twitched toward his pocket, searching for his lighter-an old habit, a dying instinct. But his hands wouldn't cooperate. The world blurred, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the alley. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much.
A scent reached him first-jasmine, cigarette smoke, and something faintly sweet, like whiskey left in a glass overnight.
Then a voice, smooth and detached.
"You look like hell, Detective."
Torres forced his eyes open. She was standing over him, a silhouette against the flickering streetlight.
Ms. Holiday.
Her dark eyes studied him, expression unreadable. A long trench coat draped over her shoulders, her gloves pristine despite the filth around them.
In one hand, she idly flicked open a silver lighter, the flame casting fleeting shadows on her face. Click. Flick. Click. Flick. The sound punctuated the silence like a ticking clock.
"You gonna say something, or are you saving your last words for someone special?"
Torres let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a groan. "Didn't think I'd be dying with an audience."
"Who said anything about dying?"
She crouched beside him, her fingers grazing his pulse. Steady, but weak. Her gaze flickered downward, assessing the damage. Two bullets to the gut. Sloppy work. He should be dead already. But Torres had always been too stubborn for that.
She sighed, standing up. "You're lucky I need you alive."
That caught his attention. "Oh yeah? What for?"
Ms. Holiday didn't answer. Instead, she pulled off her gloves, rolling them into her coat pocket. Then, without warning, she pressed her fingers against his wound. Hard.
Torres choked on a curse, body jerking violently. The pain was electric, sending white-hot agony through every nerve. His vision blurred, his hands clawing at the ground.
"Stay awake, Detective," she murmured.
She dug into her coat, producing a flask. Unscrewing the cap, she tipped it forward, letting a few drops fall onto his wound. The burn was instant, searing. He gasped through clenched teeth.
"What the hell-"
"Whiskey. You'll live."
"You're insane."
"Says the man bleeding out in an alley."
She tore a strip from her own dress, pressing it against his wound with surprising gentleness. The silk was smooth, delicate-a stark contrast to the brutality of the moment.
Torres' breath was coming in sharp, shallow pulls. His body wanted to give out. His mind wanted to fight.
"You ever wonder if the city decides who gets to live or die?"
Torres managed a weak chuckle. "Never took you for the philosophical type."
"I'm not, But I saw what happened tonight."
Torres stiffened.
So she had been watching.
She smirked, tilting her head.
"And now I'm here, helping you. That's gotta count for something."
Torres exhaled slowly. He was too tired to argue, too drained to question.
Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled to life, its old speakers humming with static before settling into the soft, melancholic tune of "You Belong to Me" by The Duprees.
Ms. Holiday didn't look up, but something in her face shifted.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out his lighter-the one he had dropped back at the theater. She flicked it open, letting the flame dance for a moment before snapping it shut and placing it in his palm.
"Come on, Detective," she murmured. "You don't belong to the dead just yet."
And with that, she lifted him to his feet.
Torres wasn't sure if he was walking or if she was dragging him, but the city moved around them in a blur of neon and shadow, the old love song echoing through the empty streets.
See the pyramids along the Nile... Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle...
The last thing Torres remembered before the darkness took him was the faint scent of jasmine, cigarette smoke, and something he couldn't quite name.
The engine hummed low, barely audible over the rain tapping against the windshield. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, the roads slick with midnight's quiet misery.
Ms. Holiday's grip on the steering wheel was firm, her gloved fingers steady, betraying none of the tension that curled in her chest.
In the passenger seat, Detective Torres groaned, his head lolling against the cold glass. His shirt was soaked with blood, the crimson slowly seeping into the worn leather of her seats. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
"Stay with me, detective," she murmured, though she wasn't sure if he even heard her.
His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of her-those sharp, knowing eyes, the deep red lips pressed into something that wasn't quite a frown but wasn't a smirk either. Then darkness pulled at him again.
The next time he woke, the scent of perfume and antiseptic filled his lungs. He was lying on a couch, soft but unfamiliar, wrapped in the weight of an old wool blanket. His shirt was gone, his bandaged torso a stark contrast against the dim amber light that bathed the room.
He turned his head.
Ms. Holiday sat in a chair nearby, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She was watching him.
"You're alive," she said simply, as if she had been taking bets on it.
Torres swallowed, his throat dry. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp pain lanced through his ribs, forcing a hiss from his teeth.
"Don't be stupid," she chided, exhaling smoke through her nose. "You're in no condition to play the tough guy."
Torres let his head fall back. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening-to the faint hum of the ceiling fan, to the soft rain outside, to the crackle of a record spinning on a turntable across the room.
Then, the music began.
"See the pyramids along the Nile..."
Torres' brow furrowed. He knew that song.
"Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle..."
"You like the Duprees?" he rasped.
Ms. Holiday tilted her head slightly, considering the question. "It's fitting for the occasion, don't you think?"
Torres gave a weak chuckle, but it quickly turned into a pained cough. "Didn't think I'd wake up to a love song."
She took another drag from her cigarette, watching him with those unreadable eyes. "Depends on what you think the song means."
Torres sighed, shifting slightly, testing his limits. "Why are you doing this?"
Ms. Holiday flicked the ash off the tip of her cigarette, her gaze never leaving him. "Because I need you alive."
Torres studied her in the dim light. There was something in the way she said it-calm, calculated, like every word had been measured before it left her lips.
A slow, knowing smile curled at the edge of her lips, but she didn't answer. Instead, she stood, stepping toward the record player, her silhouette cutting through the soft glow of the room.
"You belong to me..."
The music lingered between them, and for the first time in a long while, Torres felt something more dangerous than a bullet wound.
Uncertainty.
The flickering glow of the television screen cast sharp shadows across the dimly lit room. On the screen, a suited news anchor read from a script with the cold precision of a machine.
The Kanlaon Broadcasting System, the government's most loyal mouthpiece, had been airing the news all evening.
"Lieutenant Miguel Antonio Rojas, a decorated officer of the state, was found dead at the Gaiety Theater in Ermita. Authorities confirm that he was slain in an act of cowardly violence by an unidentified criminal. His sacrifice serves as a reminder of the dangers faced by those who uphold law and order in these times of unrest..."
A solemn photograph of Rojas appeared-full uniform, medals polished, gaze unshaken.
Below it, the banner read: A HERO TAKEN TOO SOON JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED.
Torres sat motionless in a worn armchair, one hand resting over the bandages around his stomach. He exhaled slowly, his eyes dark and unreadable. He had known this was coming. Rojas wouldn't die quietly. The regime would make him a martyr.
Outside, the chorus of voices confirmed it. A nearby bar erupted with outrage.
"Bastard! They killed a good man!"
"DAMNED COMMUNISTS WILL PAY"
"They better find that putang ina! The bastard won't make it far!"
A radio crackled. "To any citizens with information on the suspect, report immediately..."
Torres leaned back in the chair. The noose was tightening.
A voice cut through the tension-smooth, knowing.
"They don't even know your name."
Ms. Holiday stood by the window, neon light painting her silhouette. "That means you still have time."
Torres turned his head. "Time for what?"
"To do something about it." She stepped closer, adjusting her coat. From her pocket, she drew a worn photograph and tossed it onto the table beside him.
A woman-poised, dignified. Maria Josephina Velasco.
The name echoed like a distant bell. Emilio Velasco's wife. A thread unraveling fast.
Torres picked it up. "Where did you get this?"
She smiled.
"Locker 047. You found it, didn't you?"
He had.
But how the hell did she know?
Holiday picked up a silver lighter, flicking it open and shut.
"You should rest. There's more to uncover."
The city murmured beneath her, restless and hungry. Manila had always been that way-alive, breathing, waiting. Ms. Holiday stood alone now, swirling whiskey in her glass. Torres slept in the next room, stitched up, drugged, but alive. He trusted her. Not fully. Just enough.
Enough for her to move her pieces.
He thought he was chasing ghosts.
But ghosts led men to graves.
She reached into a drawer. An old photograph, edges frayed. She didn't look at it-she didn't have to. Power wasn't about violence.
It was about control. And she had it.
A knock at the door.
She opened it just enough for a hand to pass her a small envelope, then shut the door behind the vanishing silhouette.
Inside, the document confirmed her suspicions: the government had spun a lie. Rojas was no martyr. And Torres? A scapegoat.
She lit a cigarette, fingers tracing the engraved initials on the lighter-initials that didn't belong to her.
Torres was a pawn.
And pawns never see checkmate coming.
Morning.
Slivers of light sliced through the blinds. Torres sat at the table, coffee cooling in his hands, thoughts tangled in the night's fallout.
Locker 047.
Maria Josephina Velasco.
A gun. A pendant. A photograph.
Across the room, Holiday smoked in silence, her gaze unreadable.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"Thinking."
He wasn't in the mood.
"The Velasco family. What do you know?"
She watched him. "I know they disappeared. I know no one asks unless they're looking for trouble."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get for now."
His jaw clenched.
"Locker 047 wasn't empty. The gun. The pendant. Her name scratched into it."
She didn't react-but her silence said enough.
"You've known all along," he said.
She exhaled smoke between them. "I've known a lot of things, Torres. The real question isn't how much you want to know..." Her voice dipped, eyes dark and calculating.
"It's how much you're willing to lose."
Silence again.
Torres stared into his cup. The pendant. The name. The gun. All roads were leading to something bigger than just a murder.
And she knew the way.
But she'd never show her full hand.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice quiet but sharp.
"Where do you really fit into all this?"
She smirked.
"Funny question, coming from a man who still doesn't know what he's looking for."
"I know enough to start asking the right questions."
"Do you?" she countered.
"Because you keep coming back here. Maybe you already know the answer-you just don't want to admit it."
He ignored the bait. "You knew about the locker. What else aren't you telling me?"
She stubbed out her cigarette.
"You want answers? Then stop wasting time."
She crossed the room, pulled a folded sheet of paper from a desk, and slid it onto the table.
One name.
Cruz.
An address
Laguna.
"Who is he?" Torres asked.
"A man who keeps records of things people want erased."
"He just gonna hand that over?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you scare him more than the people he's running from."
He stared at the address. It felt like a setup. But everything did these days.
He folded the paper and slipped it into his coat pocket.
"Let's go."
Holiday grabbed her coat. Her eyes shimmered with something dangerous.
"Just a heads-up, detective," she said as they stepped toward the door.
"Sometimes, when you stare too hard into the darkness, the darkness stares back."
Torres didn't answer.
Because he was about to find out exactly what she meant.
TO BE CONTINUED.