Berna leaned in close, peering over my shoulder with undisguised curiosity. She was dying to know why her idol had suddenly sent me a message. I was just as bewildered; our first and last encounter had been a heated exchange that nearly got me lynched by his fans. I was only lucky that my name hadn't gone viral back then—only my schoolmates knew the truth of that friction.
From: HonxBee
Oh, hey! Yeah, I remember you. What's up?
I typed a reply instantly, terrified the opportunity would vanish if I hesitated. While my fingers flew across the screen, I asked Berna if she could take the wheel for the drive home. She didn't complain; she understood the gravity of the moment, likely thrilled just to know I was speaking to her hero.
To: HonxBee
I have something to ask. Can we meet in person?
It wasn't long before she agreed. I had a mountain of questions that needed answers, and I knew a digital screen wouldn't suffice for the weight of this conversation. I kept our destination a secret from Berna after our driving lesson; I didn't want to be buried under a landslide of her questions, and I suspected a famous writer would prefer their meetings to remain private.
I hopped off the jeepney as I reached the coffee shop. A prickle of anxiety climbed my spine—this place was dangerously close to Sage's residence. If someone I knew caught me here, I wouldn't know how to explain myself. What excuse could I possibly give for meeting a famous author, especially when my name was already whispered in connection to her latest story?
Inside, my eyes immediately found a woman tucked away in the farthest corner. She wore a black hoodie, a matching cap, and oversized sunglasses that shielded her gaze. The lighting was dim; the glasses seemed like overkill, but they made her easy to spot. I approached her silently, and when she didn't notice me, I gave the table a soft, rhythmic knock. She jumped slightly, then turned toward me, extending a hand.
"You're Ensley, right?"
I took her hand, feeling a wave of discomfort. Looking back, our last encounter felt embarrassing, though I didn't regret the principles I'd fought for.
"Yes. I'm sorry for the sudden request," I apologized, sliding into the chair opposite her.
"It's no issue. Besides, I live nearby," she said, offering a small smile as she removed her glasses. There she was: the woman from the mall, with piercing hazel eyes and short, sleek hair. I nodded, wanting to move past the small talk.
"We can order first," she suggested, signaling for a waiter.
"Oh, no need. I'm full. Please, go ahead," I insisted with a tight smile. The truth was, I couldn't afford a luxury. The meal I'd bought earlier had already cannibalized my budget for household essentials.
"Oh, come on. My treat," she countered. "Iced or hot?"
Before I could protest, she made the choice for me. "Iced? Iced it is." I watched her order, my unease growing as she added several items to the list. Once the waiter left, she settled into her seat and pulled back her hood.
"So, what should we talk about?"
"You see, Honibee..." I started, my eyes fixed on my fidgeting cuticles. I was terrified she wouldn't believe me—or worse, that she was just as clueless as I was.
"Call me Hannah," she interrupted gently. Her tone was an invitation to trust her. "I won't judge you."
"Okay, Hannah. You might think I'm losing my mind, but I have questions about your story... The Under Associates."
The arrival of our food cut through the silence. Hannah stirred her coffee, her expression unreadable behind a calm smile. "Okay. What do you want to know?" she asked, tilting her head. "Like... how you managed to get inside?"
The air left my lungs. My mouth hung open, searching for words. I searched her face for a hint of a joke, but found only sincerity.
"How—"
"I've known from the start," she said with a casual shrug. "Since the first night you met Perseus."
"You knew? Then why didn't you reach out?" My shock was curdling into resentment. "I thought I was going through this alone."
"Believe me, I tried. But I couldn't find a trace of you."
It hit me then. Without social media, I was a ghost. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my heart. "But do you know howit happens? How I get sucked in?"
"Nope." She shook her head, focusing on her cheesecake. She gestured for me to eat, and I complied, overwhelmed. "The story chose you, Ensley. You're the one writing it now."
"What does that mean?"
"The story itself has the power to choose its lead. It chose you," she added, leaving my mind in a state of total chaos.
"Stop here!" I shouted as the jeepney pulled up to my house.
My conversation with Hannah had ended quickly; she had other commitments. She confirmed she was just a writer who had accidentally bought a haunted or magical book at a garage sale. She didn't have all the answers, and that terrified me.
As I walked toward the front door, the sound of glass shattering echoed from inside. My heart hammered against my ribs as I ran into the house. The living room was a battlefield—shards of plates and glasses littered the floor, and chairs had been tossed aside. My mother sat on the floor, sobbing into her palms.
"Goddammit, go ahead! Cry all you want!" my father roared, pacing back and forth, his hand pressed to his forehead. "You're the one at fault, yet you have the nerve to play the victim!"
I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to intervene. They were too loud to notice me, and I was too afraid of becoming the new target of their rage.
"Why are you so angry?!" my mother cried out, looking up at him.
"How can I not be, Ofelia?! The money I saved for our daughter—the money I hid from you—you gambled it all away again!" My father's hand sliced through the air in a gesture of pure frustration.
My heart sank. Money. It was always about money.
"It was just a little—"
"A little?! Fifty thousand pesos! For her education, for our future! You squandered it!"
"Dad," I whispered, finally stepping into the room.
They both turned. My father's face softened instantly, the fire in his eyes dying down. My mother, however, looked ready to explode. Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged.
"Why are you like this, Fernan?!" she spat, scrambling to her feet. "Do you love your daughter more than me?!"
The question felt like a physical blow. Why did she have to make it a competition?
"Yes, Ofelia! From the moment she entered my life, she became my priority!" my father shouted back. "I love my daughter more than anything in this world. Between her and you, I will always choose her."
He turned away from her and walked toward me with a weary smile. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Don't mind her. Go eat, I cooked some pineapple chicken for you." He kissed my forehead and led me toward the kitchen. I looked back and saw the sheer hatred in my mother's eyes. It felt like walking on broken glass. It hurts when your own mother despises you—when she sees you only as a burden or a source of income.
My father sat me down and served me a plate. Despite having no appetite, I forced myself to eat. "Eat up, 'nak. Dad made this just for you," he whispered, stroking my hair before turning back to the living room to pick up the shards of glass.
"Remember, even when she's like this, your mother still loves you," he called out from the floor. "Don't hold onto anger."
"I'm not angry, Dad," I replied, my voice thick.
"Even if she's difficult, I'm here to show you that you matter. You're precious to me," he said, looking back with a smile. He stood up and pulled me into a hug. His embrace felt like magic—as if all the exhaustion was being drained from my soul.
But then, the world collapsed.
My father's grip loosened. He began to sink to his knees, clutching his chest. His face contorted in a mask of agony.
"Dad? Dad! What's happening?!" I scrambled to catch him as he slumped to the floor, unconscious. "Mom, help! It's Dad!"
I shook his shoulders, terrified that he would never open his eyes again. You're the only one on my side, Dad! Don't leave me!
My mother rushed in, her face pale with terror. She dropped to her knees beside us. "What happened, Ensley?! What did you do to your father?!" she screamed, her hands trembling as she touched his face.
"I don't know! He just hugged me and then his chest started hurting!" I sobbed, my vision blurring.
"We have to get him to the hospital!" she yelled, standing up to point a finger at me. "If anything happens to him, Ensley, it's on your head! I will never forgive you!"
She ran outside to scream for help from the neighbors. I stayed on the floor, cradling my father's head in my lap, begging him to wake up. He remained still, his eyes shut tight against the world.
We sat outside the Emergency Room, the fluorescent lights humming above us. The neighbors had helped get him here quickly, but the weight in my chest wouldn't lift. My mother was shaking, her face a mess of tears as she whispered his name over and over.
I felt the same desperation. If my father—the only person who believed in me—was gone, I didn't know how I'd find the strength to keep living.
"It's all your father's fault!" my mother suddenly hissed, sitting on the hallway bench. "Where are we going to find the money for this?! You haven't even paid off my debts yet! Why haven't you found a second job?!"
I shook my head, my eyes glued to the floor. I wiped my face with trembling hands.
"What?! You're just going to stand there and cry? Your pittance isn't enough for my debts, and now look at your father!" Her face was purple with rage.
"Mom, please. I'm looking for work—" I reached out for her arm, trying to comfort her.
She flinched away, slapping my hand hard. "Save your excuses! You're just trying to shift the blame!"
"It's not like that, Mom." I looked at my hand; she had scratched me. "I just haven't found a lead yet," I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Goddammit, Fernan," she muttered, pulling at her messy hair. "Why did we even raise this child? Maybe you wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for her!"
The words felt like daggers. I moved away, giving her space. I knew she was hurting, but her words left scars that wouldn't heal. I didn't speak to her for the rest of the night.
Eventually, the doctor told us he was stable. It was a mild stroke—the physical manifestation of a body that couldn't handle any more stress. When the doctor asked what happened, my mother told him it was my fault.
I went home briefly to gather our things. Sage came to pick me up, even though it was the middle of the night.
"I'm so sorry, Sage. I didn't mean to bother you," I said, wiping my eyes as she handed me a coffee and a bag of food from a drive-thru.
"It's fine, Ensley. It's an emergency," she said gently, keeping her eyes on the road. "How is he?"
"Stable, but I can't settle. He won't wake up." I took a sip of the coffee, hoping it would melt the coldness in my chest.
"And your mother?"
"She blames me. She thinks I'm the reason he's suffering."
"You'll get through this. You're strong, Ensley. But you need to rest," she said, her hand briefly resting on my back. I felt my body begin to tremble again.
"I don't know, Sage. My body wants to break, but I can't let it. My mother is depending on me, even if she hates me."
I didn't tell Xael or the others. I didn't want to involve more people in my mess. This is my own problem so I should face it alone. I only told those I absolutely needed, just like Sage. I only asked for a hand because I am financially incapable of doing this alone.
A helping hand.
Thinking of a helping hand made me think of him.
Did I make things difficult right now?
I let out a heavy sigh as I trudged back toward the elevators in the hospital's basement parking lot. I had asked Sage for a few minutes to rest in her car, and she had graciously agreed, promising to look after my mother in the meantime. I wasn't entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but I was powerless to argue; my eyelids were finally surrendering to the weight of exhaustion.
My pace faltered when I spotted Penelope.
I am back, aren't I?
She wasn't alone. She was with a man whose back was hauntingly familiar—the broad set of his shoulders, the very silhouette of his frame. Without thinking, I ducked behind one of the massive concrete pillars, my heart beginning to race.
Why am I even doing this?
Penelope and Perseus were deep in conversation, their voices low as they stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors hissed shut, a strange impulse took hold of me. I bolted toward the adjacent elevator, my fingers hovering over the call button.
I couldn't explain why I was following them. Perhaps it was because I had never seen the two of them alone before. What was the nature of their bond? They seemed so close, yet there was a chilling formality to the way they moved together.
The elevator doors opened on their floor, and my heart felt like a frantic drum against my ribs. My breath hitched as I stepped out, the silence of the hallway amplifying my internal chaos. The deep-seated sadness I had been carrying all night was suddenly overtaken by a sharp, biting streak of nerves.
I caught sight of them further down the hall, walking toward Perseus's unit. We're in the basement of our condo, huh? I thought. Every step I took felt like a hammer blow to my chest. I quickly ducked into a recessed corner as Perseus suddenly paused and glanced back toward the hallway.
Did he sense me? I hadn't made a sound. Why was he looking in my direction?
I nearly choked on my own breath when I dared to peek out again. My eyes locked directly onto his. He was staring straight at me, his gaze unyielding as he stepped into his unit behind Penelope.
What were they planning? Was this merely a matter of business?
I desperately hoped so.