The Narumi penthouse was unusually quiet at 6:00 a.m.—a calm that felt more like the pause before a typhoon than any sense of peace. The only sound was the rhythmic tapping of Bethany's acrylic nails as they clattered over the glass trackpad of her laptop. The lights were dimmed to a dusky amber glow, and the blackout curtains sealed out the awakening city.
The kettle on the marble countertop hissed in protest, its steam curling into the silence, ignored by everyone.
Kako stood barefoot near the study alcove, wrapped in one of Conrad's old university sweatshirts, oversized and worn soft with age. Her arms were folded tightly beneath her chest, her nails digging into her sleeves as if bracing against a storm that had yet to land. On the coffee table lay the USB drive—black, innocuous, damning—and beside it, three grainy screenshots from the leaked surveillance footage, red circles drawn like targets over the faces of Artavera, Rabe, and Melanio.
Across from her sat Paolo Santos, the youngest attorney in the Marino & Fuentes legal team. His shirt was crumpled, his tie loosened, and his eyes carried the red-ringed exhaustion of a man who'd been thrown headfirst into something far above his pay grade.
"I've never seen anything like this," he muttered, sliding his glasses higher up his nose. "Mayor Artavera. Manuel Rabe. Melanio Reyes... This isn't just corruption, Mrs. Narumi. This is conspiracy, racketeering, possible treason if we follow the paper trail far enough."
"Then follow it," Kako said, her voice cool as granite.
"Yes, ma'am," Paolo answered, straightening like he'd just been addressed by the President herself.
Bethany, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her laptop balanced on her thighs, looked up and sucked her teeth. "If we drop this footage now, it's not gonna dent their camp—it'll split the city like a faultline."
"Perfect," Kako said without hesitation.
Footsteps padded in from the hallway. Stephanie emerged in flannel pajamas, hair a chaotic halo of sleep, clutching a coffee mug like it held her sanity.
"Did Dad call yet?" she asked groggily.
Kako didn't look up. "Still underground. Jose's moving him between safehouses."
Stephanie took a sip, sighed. "He's gonna flip when he finds out we're going public."
"He doesn't have the luxury of flipping," Bethany replied, still clicking through folders. "We need everyone steady right now."
The private elevator chimed, its heavy doors sliding open. Out rolled Jose Suansing, Manila's most feared ex-police chief, now retired only in name. His wheelchair rolled silently across the marble as he entered with the presence of a man who hadn't let injury diminish authority.
"I got your message," he said, voice gruff. "What's this I'm hearing about a leak?"
"Sit," Kako said simply, not breaking stride.
Jose settled into one of the armchairs like he owned the building. Bethany spun the laptop toward him and tapped play. The footage started to roll.
The grainy surveillance showed a luxury suite, three men hunched over brandy and cigar smoke. Artavera's voice was clear. "Conrad's a relic. Ray's worse. The moment you control the council, the rest falls like tiles."
Then Rabe, with that serpentine charm: "Narumi's patents, land deals, his leverage on Penthouse. Once he's out of the way, we crack Innovare wide open."
Jose leaned forward, squinting. "There it is."
He looked at Kako. "The motive. Plain as day."
Kako hit pause just as Artavera's smug face filled the screen.
"Can we use this?" she asked.
Jose exhaled through his nose. "Legally? No. Illegally recorded. But if we leak it? If this goes public first?"
He smiled, just faintly. "It'll be chaos."
Bethany looked at Kako. "So... are we going loud?"
Kako didn't even blink. "Find the right channel."
"I know someone," Bethany grinned. "JuanThugLifeTV. Guy's crass but credible. He makes conspiracies go viral for breakfast."
Paolo adjusted his tie nervously. "Just be aware—if this gets out, Rabe won't just retaliate with lawsuits. He'll go scorched-earth. People could get hurt. Physically."
Bethany popped her neck. "I've got pepper spray, a taser, and a boyfriend who's training for an MMA title."
Jose looked at her with grudging respect, then turned back to Kako. "What about Conrad?"
"He's not hiding," Kako said. "He's biding his time."
"I meant when this drops," Jose said. "He's not exactly the stay-in-one-place type."
"He'll resurface when it matters," Kako replied. "But this isn't his battle right now. It's mine."
Jose leaned forward, placing both hands on the wheels of his chair like a general bracing for an assault. "Then let me be blunt: this isn't just damage control anymore."
"No," Kako agreed. "It's a declaration."
Bethany grinned as she began exporting the video. "I'll make sure they hear it loud and clear."
----
The Medrano residence lay in an uneasy hush, broken only by the distant tick of a clock echoing down the marble corridors. The chandeliers overhead cast a soft, golden glow, but their light did little to dispel the tension that soaked into every corner of the house like dampness in the walls.
Bernardine lingered at the top of the grand staircase, clutching a cup of lukewarm green tea. Her silk robe slipped off one shoulder in a slack cascade, and her manicured nails tapped nervously against the porcelain rim. Down below, she heard her mother's sharp footsteps—heels striking the hardwood floor like a judge's gavel.
"Mercy!" Bernadette's voice rang out, brittle and unforgiving. "Where's the press statement I asked for?"
"Printing it, Ma'am!" came the assistant's meek voice from the den.
Bernardine drew in a breath, then descended the stairs.
Inside the living room, Bernadette stood before the TV, a remote in hand, cycling through news channels that all replayed the same footage: Ray Medrano being led, handcuffed and defiant, into a police van.
"You haven't slept," Bernardine observed, voice low.
Bernadette stiffened. "Sleep's for the weak."
"And you haven't eaten either."
"I'll eat when this storm blows over," she snapped.
Bernardine crossed her arms. "Do you believe he's guilty?"
Bernadette whirled on her. "Of course not. Ray was set up."
"Then... who did it?"
A silence deeper than the night filled the room.
Bernardine pressed on: "Mom. You tell me who."
Bernadette swallowed, gaze dropping to the carpet. "There are forces at work bigger than any of us."
"Rabe?" Bernardine's voice was steady but urgent.
Bernadette's head snapped up. "Where did you hear that?"
"I didn't hear it," came Bernardine's measured reply as she paced to the desk. "I found this."
With a steady motion, she retrieved a flash drive from the sleeve of her robe and placed it before her mother.
"I went through your files. I know your passwords. You have emails with Artavera's office—meetings marked 'M.R.' on dates that coincide with Dad's arrest. And zoning maps signed by your firm."
Bernadette's jaw twitched. "You hacked me?"
"I found the truth," Bernardine said softly. "Because you weren't telling anyone."
Bernadette's expression rippled with conflict. "I'm protecting all of us."
Bernardine's eyes burned. "Then tell me you didn't know what Rabe planned. That you didn't keep your eyes closed."
Bernadette advanced on her. "I forged alliances, not handcuffs."
Bernardine's voice broke as she met her mother's gaze. "You made deals with people who destroy others. You let this city collapse—as long as it didn't affect you."
Bernadette shook her head, voice ragged. "I was preserving our legacy."
Bernardine straightened. "No—you were preserving your image."
The house sank into an unforgiving stillness.
Bernardine turned her back. "I'm not living in your shadow anymore."
She left the room, her footsteps soft but final.
Alone, Bernadette sank into the armchair, gaze locked on the now-blank TV screen. Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with the stark realization that the foundations she'd built were cracking beneath her.
----
Bernadette sat wrapped in a cashmere throw when the TV flashed a breaking news banner:
"Ray Medrano Escapes Custody!"
Her eyes widened. She reached for the remote and froze.
"What...?" she whispered.
Bernardine appeared in the doorway, face pale. "Mom... is that true?"
Her youngest brother Brendan tumbled downstairs, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Dad... escaped?"
Bernadette leaned forward, voice a whisper of disbelief. "I... I didn't think he... had it in him."
Her gaze crackled with something fierce and new. "This... changes everything."
---
At precisely 3:04 p.m., the storm began with the tap of a "Publish" button.
On YouTube, a channel notorious for exposing political drama with meme-style editing—JuanThugLifeTV—uploaded a video titled:
"SHOCKING! RABE, ARTAVERA, & MELANIO CAUGHT IN PLOT AGAINST NARUMI & MEDRANO?"
The thumbnail was instantly meme-worthy: a freeze-frame of Manuel Rabe mid-sentence, his mouth open in a smug half-smirk, flanked by Mayor Artavera holding a fork mid-bite and Melanio blinking awkwardly. The text overlaid in loud yellow Comic Sans read:
"THEY THOUGHT THEY WERE SAFE. LOL."
In under five minutes, it surpassed 80,000 views. By the tenth minute, it was trending in Metro Manila.
At the Narumi penthouse, the kitchen was in chaos—but the good kind.
Bethany sat at the marble island, barefoot, wearing a red robe and eating from a pint of pistachio ice cream with a soup spoon. Her laptop glowed in front of her. She had one AirPod in, the other hanging loose. Her phone vibrated across the counter every few seconds—text notifications lighting it up like a Christmas tree.
"ABS-CBN just emailed me," she muttered between spoonfuls. "ANC wants an exclusive. Also... VICE Asia followed me?"
Stephanie was sprawled on the couch, head propped on a pillow, legs dangling over the side. Her fingers flew across her phone screen. "Oh my God, it's happening," she said. "We're trending. Number two in the country. #RabeScandal is literally blowing up."
"What's number one?" Bethany asked.
"Still the K-pop idol who fainted mid-performance," Stephanie replied. "But we're gaining. This is our moment."
Kako stood at the window, arms crossed, her tablet clutched tight in one hand as she scrolled through headlines. Her mouth was a grim line. The sunlight outside turned the curtains gold, but her thoughts were darker.
"Dark Money Web: Footage Links Rabe to Artavera."
"Medrano-Narumi Scandal Flips—City Hall on Defensive."
"'We Have the Patents': Rabe's Fatal Slip in Secret Video."
A low hum came from the elevator. The doors slid open with a soft ding.
Jose Suansing rolled into the living room in his custom wheelchair, one hand on the rim, the other holding a steaming mug of black coffee. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week, but his eyes were sharp.
"They're panicking," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Rabe's people already called GMA, ABS, and Rappler—demanding takedowns."
"And?" Bethany asked.
"Two of them laughed. One forwarded the footage directly to the NBI."
Kako finally turned. "Artavera?"
"His office released a statement claiming the footage was fake," Jose said. "Problem is—he wore the same tie during an ANC interview last week. Same mustard paisley. Same tacky watch."
Bethany grinned. "Classic idiot. Can't even change his accessories before laundering democracy."
Stephanie laughed. "Someone already made a remix. It's Rabe saying 'Narumi's patents' over Careless Whisper. I just retweeted it."
Kako exhaled and sat at the edge of the armchair, posture tense but composed. "So what now?"
Bethany closed her laptop with a snap. "Now we let the city burn."
----
The top floor of the Rabe Tower was an icon of opacity: chrome fixtures, automated blinds rising and falling in silent synchronicity, walls of ceiling-to-floor glass that framed the glittering skyline like a cold cathedral. A faint hum of air-conditioning filled the space, punctuated only by the faint hiss of the OLED warming up.
Today, though, the usual calm was shattered.
Rabe stood motionless in front of the massive screen, the video replaying for the seventh time. He watched himself mid-sentence—those damn words still echoing in his head:
"Narumi's patents are the key."
Every time he heard that line, his jaw clenched like barbed wire. His white-knuckled fists rested on the sleek metal console beneath the screen.
Melanio wandered nearby, a tumbler of expensive whiskey in one trembling hand. Sweat beaded at his temples and dripped down his collar. He looked at the screen, then back at Rabe, uncertainty flickering on his face.
"What if we claim it's AI-manipulated?" Melanio asked, as though the idea could rewrite the past. "A deep fake."
Rabe turned on him slowly, eyes dark. "They caught my watch," he said, voice low and controlled. "They caught my watch. It's the same one from the gala. And the timeline—every word matches the public documents tied to the zoning vote."
Melanio swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Artavera's office—any word?"
Rabe's eyes narrowed. "Radio silence. They're hiding."
Melanio took another sip—this time spilling droplets onto the console. "Bernadette?"
Rabe's lip curled. "She's gone radio-silent too. Petty lawyers freeze when the heat gets real."
Melanio shifted, leaning closer, voice dropping. "Perhaps we leak our own scandal. Twist the narrative. Pin it on the Narumis. Or... the kids. Social media's fracture point."
Rabe's reflection shimmered in the glass behind him. He straightened his back, one hand brushing his tie—taut, immovable, like a noose.
He spoke with deliberate calm, each syllable measured. "If you leak one more thing without my express approval," he stepped toward Melanio, each word an underground quake, "I will personally shove you into the koi pond with bricks in your Versace—"
He paused, voice savagely cold. "—in your Versace pockets."
The room stilled. The echoes of his calm fury hung in the air like perfume.
Melanio's lips quivered; his whiskey sat forgotten. "Understood," he whispered.
Rabe turned his back to the screen, the video continuing to repeat. He stood there motionless—an island of resolve in a sea of scandal—while the city far below began to tremble.
----
The bar was the kind of place that didn't advertise itself. Tucked behind a Korean grill and a money exchange kiosk, it was narrow, dim, and heavy with the scent of stale beer and soy-glazed wings. Jazz played faintly from the corner speakers—unintentionally haunting.
Bernard sat alone in the farthest booth, hoodie pulled low, his chin resting on one hand. A half-empty glass of soda sat in front of him, the ice melting into watery stillness. Behind the bar, the television glowed.
Muted. But damning.
On screen: footage of Ray Medrano in handcuffs, his father's jaw clenched in shame and defiance.
Footage of Manuel Rabe, giving a laughably off-the-cuff denial at a press conference. Artavera ducking into a black SUV.
And then—
Jamie.
A replay from her student-led forum earlier that day. Standing in front of a sea of college students, gripping the mic with practiced calm. Her expression was composed, almost serene, but her voice carried steel beneath every syllable.
"This isn't just a family matter," Jamie said, eyes flicking to the crowd. "This is about truth versus power. And what kind of future we want to inherit."
Bernard couldn't stop watching. He didn't blink. The glass shook slightly in his hand.
"She's good," the bartender said, nodding at the screen. She was a sturdy woman in her 40s with a single gold hoop and a bleached ponytail. She slid another soda across the bar. "Is she your girlfriend?"
Bernard didn't answer.
But the look in his eyes—wet, unreadable—spoke volumes.
A vibration buzzed at his hip. His burner phone. He checked the screen. A message:
From: Jamie
Basement. 20 mins. Need to see you.
---
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The echo of distant traffic seeped through the concrete. Bernard's black Land Cruiser was parked in the far corner, mostly hidden from the security cams.
The door opened. Jamie stepped in. She wore a dark jacket over a simple skirt, her hair tied back, her steps hesitant but purposeful.
Bernard opened the passenger door, and she slid in wordlessly.
He turned toward her. "Jamie—"
She fell into his arms.
"I just don't know what to do," she murmured, her voice breaking. "I feel like I'm holding my family together with tape and prayers."
Bernard held her close. "You're doing more than anyone could ask."
Jamie pulled back, eyes glassy. "I'm afraid, Bernard. If Mom finds out we're still seeing each other—if Dad gets arrested again—if my siblings start to fall apart..." She paused, choking slightly. "I'm scared my older siblings will come back and fix everything like they always do. And I'll be left with nothing."
"You have me," Bernard said gently. "No matter what."
Jamie's hands trembled. "But how much longer can we keep doing this? Meeting in secret? Whispering through locked doors like we're in a period drama?"
Bernard smiled weakly. "You'd be great in a period drama."
Jamie exhaled a laugh. It faded into silence.
She rested her forehead against his chest. "We can't keep doing this."
"I know."
"But I also know," she whispered, "I love you."
Bernard tilted her chin up, slowly. "For one last time, then?"
She nodded.
Their lips met in a slow, desperate kiss. It deepened with everything they couldn't say aloud—weeks of tension and longing and frustration poured into that moment. Bernard's hand slipped behind her neck. Jamie pressed closer. The windows fogged.
Then she pulled away.
"We cool this off," she said softly. "Not end it. Just pause it. So I can figure out who I am when I'm not half of us."
Bernard nodded, though it visibly hurt. "I'll wait. I always will."
Jamie kissed him one last time—quick, clean, final.
Then she slipped out of the car and disappeared into the elevator.
Bernard sat in silence, his fingers curled around the steering wheel.
Alone again, but not broken. Not yet.