The jeepney screeched to a halt near Cubao. Inside, Rafael "Cipher" Cruz sat hunched, laptop glowing faint blue against his face. Lines of code raced down the screen—he was inside Delgado Holdings servers, extracting files that could topple a dynasty of corrupt politicians.
But then—
TRACE DETECTED.
COUNTER-ATTACK IN PROGRESS.
His stomach tightened. That wasn't corporate security—that was government tech.
The man across from him shifted. Too broad-shouldered, too calm for a regular commuter. Cipher's instincts screamed. He snapped his laptop shut.
"Evening, Ghost," the man muttered in English, reaching inside his jacket.
Cipher moved first. The jeepney lurched forward, and in the chaos he swung his backpack hard into the man's face. Blood sprayed. The pistol never cleared the holster.
Another figure at the back lunged. Cipher grabbed a metal handrail, pivoted, and slammed his boot into the attacker's knee with a crack. A scream filled the jeepney, drowning out the blaring Tagalog pop song from the driver's radio.
Passengers panicked, scrambling out the side. Cipher snatched a discarded umbrella, twirled it like an eskrima stick, and jammed it into the gunman's throat. One hit. Done.
The first man tried to rise, coughing blood. Cipher leaned close, cold eyes burning.
"Tell your boss—Manila isn't theirs to own."
He smashed the man's head into the steel jeepney post, then slipped out the back while the city roared on, unaware.
Above the skyline, a giant LED billboard lit up with a smiling senator's face. Cipher pulled his hood tighter.
Two truths were clear:
Someone powerful knew his name.
They had underestimated him—both on the net, and in the streets.
And that was their first mistake.