The safehouse wasn't marked on any map. It was a decaying warehouse on the edge of Pasig River, its windows blacked out, its interior stripped bare except for a shooting range, a makeshift gym, and a single steel table bolted to the floor. Around that table sat six men and women, each one silent, each one watching the others like predators sizing up prey.
They were The Shadows—the kind of operatives the government swore didn't exist.
General Villareal entered the warehouse flanked by the woman in gray, who everyone knew only as Director Morales. The Shadows rose as one, though none saluted. Respect here wasn't given with gestures—it was earned with fear.
Villareal's voice carried like steel scraping concrete. "You've all been activated because someone dared to breach Project Haraya. He stole data from our Makati node. He's skilled. Dangerous. And he must be eliminated before he spreads what he has."
Morales placed a folder on the steel table and opened it. Inside was a single blurred image: Cipher, half-hidden in smoke, leaping through the stairwell.
"This is your target," she said. "Alias unknown. No confirmed identity. But he's young, agile, and trained in close combat. This is not just a hacker. He fought his way past armed guards."
The Shadows leaned closer.
The first was Ramos, a hulking man with a shaved head and the eyes of someone who'd broken bones for sport. He was ex-military, dishonorably discharged after an "incident" in Basilan. The second, Salonga, was thin, wiry, with the twitchy hands of a knife-fighter. He had once been a hitman for a syndicate before Morales recruited him out of prison.
Then there was Estrella, the lone woman among them, calm and deliberate, a sniper with a reputation for making impossible shots. Beside her sat Torres, a tech specialist who could track anyone through digital trails—an anti-hacker, the government's leash against people like Cipher.
Two more filled the circle: Delgado, no relation to the corporation, but a demolitions expert with scars running up his arms, and Santos, the quietest of them all, a professional "cleaner" who left no bodies to be found.
Together, they were the hand that struck in silence when politics demanded blood but law could not provide it.
Villareal studied them, his gaze sharp. "This ghost thinks he can hide in Manila's chaos. He's wrong. You will find him. You will end him. And you will recover what he stole."
Ramos grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Permission to make it messy, sir?"
"No," Morales said flatly. "This is not a public execution. We cannot afford leaks. Discretion first, efficiency second. If you must kill, leave nothing that connects back to us."
Estrella leaned forward, her voice smooth as ice. "What do we know about his methods?"
"Encryption expert," Torres answered, already scrolling through intercepted data on a tablet. "Works through dark-net relays. Covered his tracks well. But everyone slips. If he connects online again, I'll find him."
"And when you do," Villareal said, his voice cutting like a blade, "the rest of you will finish the job."
Silence fell again, heavy and cold. The Shadows understood. This wasn't a mission—it was a hunt.
Morales closed the folder and looked each of them in the eye. "Do not underestimate him. He is not a journalist or an activist. He is a wolf. Treat him like prey, and you'll be the ones in the ground."
Ramos chuckled, low and eager. "Then we hunt him like wolves, too."
The meeting ended. One by one, The Shadows slipped out of the warehouse into the night.
Manila was still alive outside—cars honking, vendors shouting, neon lights flickering across the river. But in its underbelly, the most dangerous predators had been unleashed.
And somewhere, completely unaware, Cipher prepared his next move—while death was already closing in.