Cipher sat in the back of a dimly lit karinderya on the edge of Sampaloc, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. His hoodie was damp from the rain, his ribs bound tighter than before, and the faint tremor in his hands betrayed just how close the fight had been.
Salonga had underestimated him. That had been the mistake. But Cipher knew one truth: the Shadows would not repeat it.
He stared at the cracked screen of Salonga's stolen SIM card, now connected to a burner phone. Notifications flickered—messages, missed calls, encrypted group chats. The Shadows were already looking for their twitchy blade-man, and Cipher now had a window into their world.
A bitter smile touched his lips. First blood was mine.
But he couldn't get drunk on it. Every strike came with risk. The gambling den had been chaos, and chaos left witnesses. Witnesses meant stories. Stories meant patterns the Shadows could trace. Cipher had survived tonight by turning Salonga's vice into a weapon. Next time, they would be ready.
He opened his laptop, screen glowing against the karinderya's greasy walls. Lines of code scrolled as he analyzed Salonga's contacts.
Ramos had messaged only once: "Report."
Delgado had sent a string of angry voice notes, but their encryption was primitive—Cipher cracked them in minutes. "You better not be playing around, Salonga. General wants results."
Estrella said nothing. Her silence was louder than words.
Santos… no trace. The phone carried no record of him. Not a single contact, not a single mention. Cipher frowned. It confirmed his fear—Santos was a ghost even within his own circle.
Cipher leaned back, thoughts racing. Each Shadow was different, each requiring a tailored approach. Ramos could be baited with pride. Delgado with greed. Estrella with her buried past. But Santos? He was the black hole in Cipher's calculations. A void. And voids were dangerous.
He rubbed his temples, fatigue clawing at him. The temptation to disappear entirely—to leave Manila, to vanish into another city under another name—pressed heavily on his chest. But Project Haraya still burned in his pocket. Those stolen files weren't just data. They were proof of the state's hunger for control, their attempt to weaponize AI against their own people. He couldn't walk away.
If the Shadows represented the state's fangs, Haraya was its brain. And brains were vulnerable.
Cipher began sketching on a notepad, his handwriting sharp, deliberate:
1.Salonga neutralized (compromised, not eliminated).
2.Monitor fallout—how Shadows react.
3.Use access to trace command structure. Villareal? Torres? Higher?
4.Next target: Delgado. Follow the money
The plan crystallized as he wrote. Delgado's greed made him sloppy, tied him to contracts and shell companies Cipher had already identified. If he could expose Delgado's double-dealings—or better, feed them to rivals—the Shadow squad would fracture from within. Divide and weaken.
He sipped his coffee, wincing at its bitterness. Every move would make him more visible. Every strike would provoke retaliation. But what choice did he have? Being prey had almost gotten him killed. Being predator, however, gave him momentum.
Cipher shut the laptop and pulled his hood tighter, the noise of the karinderya fading into background static. Manila was still awake outside—the cries of balut vendors, the rumble of tricycles, the laughter of drunk students. Life went on, blind to the silent war in its veins.
He checked the pistol at his side. One magazine. No spare. No guarantee it would be enough next time.
His reflection in the karinderya's grimy window stared back: tired eyes, sharper than before, carrying both the weight of the hunted and the resolve of the hunter.
"Round one," he muttered. "Now let's see how they bleed when it's Delgado's turn."
He slipped into the Manila night once more, moving like smoke through the city that had become both his battleground and his camouflage.