The Grab stopped in front of their narrow alley, and Timothy carefully gathered the bags in his arms. The driver gave him a curious glance—it wasn't every day someone from Tondo hopped off with boutique bags and Jollibee takeout—but Timothy just forced a smile, tipped him, and stepped out.
The neighbors were out as usual—kids playing tumbang preso, old ladies gossiping on plastic chairs, men smoking while watching a basketball game on a busted TV. Timothy could feel their eyes trailing after him as he tried to balance the shopping bags, the Jollibee box on top like a crown.
"Wow bigtime!" one of the neighbors joked, laughter rippling.
"Payday?" another teased.
Timothy just gave a tight smile and hurried down the alley.
When he reached their door, Angela was already peeking from inside. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the bags in his arms.
"Brother…" she whispered, stepping aside to let him in.
The moment he entered he saw his mother was sitting on the sofa, her faded blouse wrinkled, her tired face sharp with suspicion. Her gaze flicked from the shopping bags, to the Jollibee box, to Timothy himself.
She rose to his feet with an alarmed look on her face.
"Timothy…" she repeated, her voice rising just slightly. "Where did you get that?"
Timothy's throat tightened. He gently set the bags down on the small wooden table, the glossy shopping logos looking completely out of place in their cramped sala. The smell of fried chicken and spaghetti filled the room, almost mocking the tension.
Angela glanced from their mother to her brother, clutching the pastel backpack he had bought her.
"Brother… did you win something?" she asked softly.
Timothy forced a smile, though his palms were damp. "Something like that."
His mother crossed her arms, her brows furrowing deeper. "Don't play with me, son. Did someone give you this? Did you borrow money from someone dangerous?"
"It's a lotto, Ma," Timothy blurted out, forcing the words out quickly before his throat could lock up.
Both his mother and Angela froze.
Angela's eyes widened, her grip on the pastel backpack tightening. "Lotto? Kuya… you mean you won?"
His mother, however, wasn't smiling. She narrowed her eyes, her arms still crossed.
"Lotto?" she repeated with a tone of disbelief. "You think I'll believe that so easily?"
Timothy swallowed hard, trying not to look away. "It wasn't a jackpot or anything crazy… just a small win. Enough to buy some things for us, Ma. Enough so we don't have to worry for a while."
His mother stared at him for a long, tense moment. The silence made Timothy's palms sweat even more. He tried to keep his breathing calm, but inside his head he was already panicking. Does she believe me? Should I have said something else?
Finally, she sighed and sat back down on the sofa, the suspicion in her eyes softening into weariness.
"A lotto win, huh…?" she muttered, rubbing her temple. "I don't know what's going on with you, Timothy. But if you're lying to me, if this is something dangerous… you'll ruin yourself. And you'll drag us down too."
Timothy quickly shook his head. "No, Ma. I swear. It's safe. It's nothing illegal. Please… just trust me on this."
Angela, still clutching the backpack, smiled shyly. "Ma… maybe brother's telling the truth. Look, it doesn't matter where it came from right now. For the first time, we can actually eat Jollibee together."
Her words made his mother glance at the box of chicken and spaghetti. The smell filled the small sala, cutting through the heavy mood. Slowly, she exhaled and gave a small nod.
"Fine," she said, her voice still cautious. "I hope where you get the money from is legal."
Angela's grin widened, and she quickly pulled plates from the cabinet. Timothy released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He sat down at the table, helping unpack the food.
As Angela placed fried chicken on each plate and Ma quietly ladled out spaghetti, Timothy forced a smile. The tension had eased for now, but he knew it was temporary. His "lotto" excuse bought him some time—nothing more.
I need to be more careful, he thought as he bit into a piece of crispy chicken. If I keep coming home with things like this, Ma won't let it slide again.
But when Angela giggled over her new sneakers and his mother, despite herself, smiled faintly at the taste of spaghetti, Timothy felt a warmth in his chest.
At last, he had bought something big for his family, and that in itself, was so fulfilling and self-rewarding.
He went to his bedroom and locked the door. Inside, he finally grabbed the new Iphone 16 from the paper bag and well, he doesn't want to open it yet. The fact that he had brought his little sister new shoes and bag, and his mother a cloth was too much for them, what more if they saw him using the latest Iphone?
Well, he'll keep his current cellphone for now and use the new one when he is not at home.
And he has to study the system.
So the restrictions, one use per day, is it indefinite? Will he be able to reconstruct anything per day? In that case, he'd get 365 reconstruction per year, which is overpowered.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "That's three hundred sixty-five reconstructions in a year. Three hundred sixty-five diamonds? Or Rolex watches? Or cars? That's… billions."
The thought made him shiver. He glanced around his room. The cracked electric fan, the rickety study table, the pile of old, broken junk in the corner—all worthless before. But now, they weren't trash anymore. They were raw material. Potential gold mines.
He picked up his old busted watch from the table. Its glass was scratched, the leather strap peeling. Normally, it would've been worth nothing. But with the system? He could turn it into a Rolex, complete with papers. A single one could sell for millions.
His throat tightened. So this is what it means to have power…
The problem was money flow. He couldn't just keep buying luxury items and saying "lotto" forever. His mother would catch on. Neighbors would gossip. People in Tondo didn't walk around with Rolexes and shopping bags from Greenbelt every week without raising suspicion.
He rubbed his temples, thinking. "No… I can't just keep spending like crazy. If I'm smart, I can make this look like a business. Buy cheap stuff, 'resell' it, make it look like I'm hustling."
His eyes narrowed. That was it. Flipping. People did it all the time. Buy and sell phones, secondhand cars, watches, sneakers. Nobody questioned it. If he slowly built himself up as a small-time reseller, he could mask the insane profit margins the system was giving him.
"Buy and sell," Timothy muttered under his breath.
It's going to be the recipe for his success.
With this system he had been given a glimpse of what he could be in the future, a rich person, and he will claim it!