The hall was packed. Reporters filled the front rows, cameras flashing as if hungry for blood.
Attorney John Smith stood on stage in Quezon City, the weight of the nation pressing against his shoulders. His barong was crisp, but his eyes carried years of exhaustion years of watching his fellow countrymen suffer under the hands of corrupt leaders.
In his hands were documents, thick with evidence. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Billions stolen while ordinary Filipinos lined up for rice and scraped coins for jeepney fare.
He cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the tension.
"Mga kababayan," he said firmly, "for too long corruption has been treated as culture, not crime. For too long, justice has been sold to the highest bidder. Tonight, I reveal the names of those who have bled this nation dry."
The audience stirred half admiration, half fear. Everyone knew the danger of naming names in a country where power silenced truth.
John lifted the folder high. "Here is the proof"
Bang!
A single gunshot echoed through the hall. His chest exploded with pain, blood soaking into his white barong. Gasps, screams, chaos yet the cameras did not stop recording.
John Smith collapsed to the ground, vision blurring. His final thought was not of himself, but of his people:
"Even justice has no place in this country."
Darkness consumed him.
But fate was not yet finished.
When John opened his eyes again, the chaos was gone. Instead, he heard the metallic rattle of a jeepney outside, smelled the faint exhaust of Manila streets, and felt the humid air of a past long gone.
It was the year 1995.
He had returned
to a time when the corruption was only beginning to spread,
to a time when he still had a chance to change everything.