The flight south was unremarkable, the kind of budget run packed with students, traders, and families lugging boxes of pasalubong. Cipher sat near the back, hood pulled low, eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses. He blended in perfectly, just another weary traveler.
But his mind was elsewhere—on the faint thread he had tugged from Santos' silence. A whisper in the data, a trace toward Davao. It was fragile, and it could vanish at any moment. If he hesitated, he'd lose it. That's why he couldn't wait.
The danger was obvious. The Shadows knew Davao well—half their black channels moved through its ports, its underground markets, its abandoned military bases. If Santos had truly been there, Cipher was walking into the lion's den.
Good. He wanted that.
Davao hit him with humid air and the smell of durian mixed with sea breeze. The city was alive, restless, but it wore its scars quietly—bullet-pocked walls from old conflicts, uniformed patrols on motorcycles. Cipher kept his head down as he left the airport, but his eyes scanned constantly. Too much discipline in the shadows, too many eyes not looking directly at him but watching all the same.
He moved quickly, boarding a jeepney, weaving through the streets until he reached an old internet café near Bankerohan Market. The neon sign was half-dead, but inside was a fortress of patched hardware, humming servers, and a man Cipher hadn't seen in years.
"Anino," Cipher said quietly.
The man looked up from his rig. Thin, wiry, with hair tied back in a loose bun, Anino lived up to his alias—sharp-eyed, almost translucent in presence, like he could slip through walls if he wanted.
"Well, if it isn't the ghost of Manila," Anino smirked. "You only call me when it's either payday or suicide. This one smells like suicide."
Cipher chuckled and clasped his friend's hand. "You're not wrong. I need your eyes. Got a trail. Subtle. Military grade."
Anino's grin faded. He leaned in, voice dropping. "You're hunting one of them, aren't you?"
Cipher nodded once.
Anino whistled low. "You're crazier than I thought. Fine. Let's see this phantom."
They set up in the back room, surrounded by humming fans and towers of mismatched CPUs. Cipher shared the faint digital dust he'd traced—barely a ripple in the dark net sea. Anino's fingers flew across the keyboard, building maps, layering code on top of code.
"Whoever this is," Anino muttered, "he's not just good—he's patient. Look at this. No flashy reroutes, no heavy encryption spikes. He lets the noise carry him. He could walk past NSA, NICA, even Beijing's wall, and no one would notice."
"Except us," Cipher said.
Anino smirked. "Except us."
Hours passed. They traced Santos' faint line through abandoned ports, old telecom backdoors, private satellite channels. Every hop whispered discipline. Cipher could almost see the man behind it calm, steady, methodical.
Finally, Anino froze. "Here. He touched something. Not directly, but close. An abandoned relay station outside the city. Military-grade, but unused for years. He piggybacked through it."
Cipher's chest tightened. It wasn't much, but it was real.
Anino leaned back, eyes wary. "You know this could be bait, right? He could be waiting for you there."
Cipher's eyes hardened. "Then let him wait."
That night, as Cipher loaded a backpack with tools, field gear, and a compact pistol, Anino stood by the doorway.
"You're walking into his home ground. Santos isn't Delgado or Ramos. You won't rattle him. If anything, he'll be the one waiting to rattle you."
Cipher zipped the bag shut, gaze steady. "That's why I'm not walking in alone."
Anino raised an eyebrow.
"You've got a bike, right?" Cipher asked with a half-smile.
Anino sighed, then grinned. "Damn it, Cipher. You always did drag me into the worst storms."
The two friends slipped into the night, heading toward the relay station hidden in the hills outside Davao.
And somewhere, unseen, a man named Santos already knew they were coming.