The alleys of Quiapo were a labyrinth—narrow, wet, alive with vendors packing up under the rain. Tarpaulin stalls flapped like torn sails. Neon lights reflected off puddles, blurring into reds and blues. Cipher moved quickly, slipping past a row of DVD bootleggers and into the maze of side streets.
He didn't run blindly. He scanned everything: the way a tricycle idled too long, the man in a raincoat standing too still under a sari-sari store awning, the van that had parked a block away. His instincts screamed: he wasn't escaping. He was being herded.
A shadow detached from the crowd. Ramos. Built like a wall of muscle, rain streaming down his shaved head. He moved forward with a grin, blocking the alley's exit.
"Evening, Ghost," Ramos growled. "Boss wants a word."
Cipher said nothing. His hand tightened around a folded umbrella tucked in his jacket. To most, it was shelter. To him, it was a weapon.
Behind him, footsteps splashed in the puddles. Salonga emerged, knife glinting in the dim light, his wiry frame twitching with anticipation.
Cipher was boxed in.
He breathed slow. Calculate. Predict. Finish.
Ramos lunged first, a freight train in human form. Cipher sidestepped, striking the umbrella shaft hard into Ramos' knee. The big man roared, but Cipher didn't give him time—he pivoted, jammed the tip into Ramos' throat, and shoved him back into the wall.
Salonga darted in with his knife, slicing through the rain. Cipher barely blocked, steel flashing inches from his face. He twisted, using the umbrella to trap Salonga's wrist before slamming his forehead into the man's nose. Blood sprayed.
For a moment, both Shadows staggered. Cipher sprinted, shoving through hanging laundry and crates of vegetables, rain soaking his hood.
But Quiapo wasn't letting him go so easily.
Estrella was waiting at the far end of the alley, perched on a rooftop with a rifle. Through her scope, she tracked the ghost in motion. She exhaled, finger tightening on the trigger.
The shot cracked.
Cipher dropped behind a metal cart just as the bullet punched through it, sparks flying. The vendors screamed, scattering like birds.
Cipher's mind raced. Sniper above. Brutes behind. He needed chaos.
He grabbed a glass bottle from a crate, smashed it, and hurled it at a tangle of electrical wires sagging over the alley. The impact snapped the wires loose. Sparks rained down in a violent shower, sizzling against puddles. A burst of smoke filled the street.
The Shadows froze, vision obscured. Cipher bolted into the smog, weaving through panicked civilians.
But Ramos recovered quickly, barreling after him despite the limp. Salonga followed, blood streaking his face, knife raised high. Above, Estrella repositioned, eyes scanning for an opening.
Cipher cut left into a tighter alley, only to skid to a halt. Two more Shadows—Delgado with a satchel of explosives slung across his chest, and Santos, calm and cold, pistol raised.
They had him surrounded.
Cipher's chest heaved. He wasn't afraid—he was calculating. His eyes darted to the satchel. Delgado's carelessness. A weak point.
He forced a grin. "You brought toys. Thanks."
Before they could react, Cipher hurled his umbrella like a spear, striking the satchel. Sparks from the damaged wiring nearby found their mark. The small charge inside ignited—not a full explosion, but enough to erupt in flame and smoke, sending Delgado sprawling and Santos ducking for cover.
Cipher dove through the chaos, crashing into Santos, wrenching the pistol free, and firing two quick shots into the ground—not to kill, but to scatter the remaining civilians and cover his escape.
By the time the Shadows regrouped, coughing through the smoke, Cipher was gone—another ghost swallowed by Quiapo's endless alleys.
Ramos cursed, slamming a fist into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. Estrella scanned the rooftops, frustrated. Salonga wiped blood from his broken nose, eyes burning with hate.
In the van, Torres' voice hissed over the comms. "He's smart. He's learning your patterns already."
General Villareal's cold tone cut in next: "Then adapt. The next time you corner him, finish it."
High above, the rain kept falling, erasing blood trails, washing away footprints. But the city itself seemed to whisper: The war had only just begun.