The rain fell hard over Manila, hammering jeepneys and neon billboards, washing the city in a shimmer of chaos. Cipher sat in a cramped room above a pawnshop in Quiapo, the kind of place where neighbors never asked questions as long as you paid cash. His laptop hummed, surrounded by a mess of wires, routers, and empty instant noodle cups.
On the screen, the stolen Haraya files glowed like radioactive light. For days he had studied them, but now it was time to strike. Not all at once—no, that would get him killed before morning. He needed precision. He needed to expose a piece of Haraya in a way that couldn't be ignored, but without revealing how much he truly knew.
His target: Senator Rodrigo Delgado.
The same Delgado who smiled from every billboard promising progress. The same Delgado whose company, Delgado Holdings, had hosted the very servers he'd infiltrated. And the same Delgado whose signature appeared on Haraya funding contracts buried in encrypted directories.
Cipher crafted a packet of data—financial ledgers, memos, doctored election results—just enough to tie Delgado to Haraya without burning the whole project. He routed it through multiple dark-net layers before uploading it to an anonymous whistleblower forum frequented by journalists.
He hit send.
"Let's see you smile now, Senator," he muttered.
But he didn't notice the faint trace he left behind. A fraction of a second too slow when scrubbing one relay. A ghost of his signal—imperceptible to most. But not to his hunters.
In a van parked three blocks away, Torres leaned over a laptop, his eyes sharp behind round glasses. Streams of data ran across the screen. He paused, then smiled faintly.
"Got him," he said. "Packet transmission. Whistleblower forum. Location trace leads here—Quiapo district."
Ramos cracked his knuckles in the back seat. "Finally. Let's pay him a visit."
Estrella checked her rifle, sliding the bolt with mechanical precision. "Crowded area. Too many civilians."
"Then we adapt," Morales' voice said through the comms, cold and even. "Do not spook him. Box him in. I want him alive if possible. If not—burn everything."
The van rolled into motion, blending into the chaos of Manila traffic. The Shadows didn't rush. Predators never did. They spread quietly, slipping into alleyways, merging with crowds, moving like whispers in the rain.
Back in the pawnshop room, Cipher leaned back, exhaling. He felt the smallest thrill—the same electric pulse he always felt when a hack went through. But it was short-lived. A strange heaviness crawled over him. The hairs on his neck stood up.
Years of fighting, years of surviving taught him one truth: when the air grew still, danger was near.
He closed his laptop, shoved it into his bag, and stood. Through the rain-streaked window, he caught sight of a van idling too long by the curb. Too clean for Quiapo. Too patient.
Cipher's pulse spiked.
He grabbed his jacket, slipped down the back stairwell, and vanished into the labyrinth of alleyways.
But in the darkness, unseen figures were already moving with him, step for step.
The hunt had truly begun.