Professor Kim Cruz had spent fifteen years studying Philippine folklore, twelve years suspecting some of it was real, and approximately thirty seconds having her entire worldview validated.
She sat on Glad's sofa, trying not to stare at the way Glad's wings occasionally twitched when she talked.
"So," Kim said carefully, "you're a Manananggal. A real one. From—"
"Bohol, originally. 1851." Glad handed her a cup of tea, then sat across from her, leche flan already half-devoured. "Born human. Turned on my wedding night by a jealous suitor who knew a witch in Siquijor. Very dramatic. Very painful. The suitor died of dysentery three years later, which I found deeply unsatisfying."
Kim scribbled notes furiously. "Fascinating. And you've been hiding ever since?"
"Obviously. It's not like there's a support group. 'Hi, I'm Gladys, and I have to separate at night to eat unborn babies.' Can you imagine the meeting snacks?"
"I... hadn't considered that aspect."
"Neither did I, for the first hundred years. Then I discovered online shopping and realized I could order blood from medical supply companies. No more hunting. No more ethical dilemmas. Just refrigerated delivery and a straw."
Kim blinked. "You drink... medical blood?"
"Type O negative. It's the universal donor. Also goes great with calamansi." Glad gestured to her fridge. "I have a subscription. Auto-delivery every two weeks. Very convenient."
The professor processed this information, her academic mind racing. A supernatural creature adapting to modern convenience. Using technology to replace traditional hunting. It was—dare she say it—beautiful.
"Ms. Samotiloy—"
"Glad."
"Glad. I need to ask you something important. The video. The one that went viral. Is that why you're hiding now?"
Glad's wings drooped. "Yes. That idiot girl with her phone caught me mid-flight, and now everyone thinks I'm either a hoax or a Halloween costume. Except the ones who believe, and THEY'RE the problem. There's an old man with a bolo looking for me. A BARANGAY OFFICIAL with a BOLO, Professor. In this economy."
Kim nodded sympathetically. "Mang Berting. I know him. He's been posting about aswangs on Facebook since 2009."
"He has a Facebook?"
"He has seventeen. He keeps getting banned for misinformation, so he makes new ones."
Glad buried her face in her hands. "I'm doomed. I'll have to move again. Find a new city. New identity. New blood supplier. Do you know how hard it is to find a good blood supplier who delivers?"
"Have you tried GrabExpress?"
They sat in silence for a moment, two women from completely different worlds united by the practicalities of modern life.
Then Kim leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "What if you didn't have to move?"
Glad looked up. "What?"
"What if you could stay here, in Dumaguete, and the video actually helped you?"
"Helped me HOW? It ruined my life!"
"Think about it. Everyone thinks it's fake. A costume. Special effects. So why not lean into that?" Kim's voice grew animated, her professor mode fully engaged. "Become a content creator yourself. Lean into the Manananggal persona. Make it a character. Then nobody will suspect you're real because why would a REAL Manananggal post about being a Manananggal?"
Glad stared at her.
"That's... the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Is it? Or is it genius?"
"It's definitely dumb."
"Consider: Mang Berting can't accuse you of being a real creature if you're publicly playing one online. He'll look like a crazy old man attacking a harmless influencer."
Glad considered this. And considered it again. And then, reluctantly, considered it a third time.
"That's... actually not completely terrible."
"Thank you."
"It's still mostly terrible, but not completely."
Kim smiled, reaching into her bag. "I brought something else. A proposal. I want to study you—academically, respectfully—and in exchange, I'll help you navigate the modern world. Social media. Public perception. How to be a supernatural creature in the age of the internet."
She pulled out a contract.
Glad read it carefully, her centuries of experience scanning for traps and loopholes. It seemed legitimate. Academic language. Respectful terminology. A section about "subject's dignity and privacy shall be maintained at all times."
"You'd do this?" Glad asked. "Help me?"
Kim nodded. "I've waited my whole career for proof that the old stories are real. You're not just proof—you're a living library. A primary source. I'd be an idiot to expose you or let anyone else hurt you."
Glad extended her hand.
They shook.
And in that moment, neither of them noticed the small, shadowy figure on Glad's balcony.
The cat—black, sleek, with eyes that seemed too intelligent—watched them through the glass.
Anino had been with Glad for fifty years, ever since she'd rescued him from a burning building in Manila. He knew her secret. He kept it.
But he also knew when trouble was coming.
And trouble, in the form of Mang Berting's seventeen Facebook accounts and a drone operator named Nico Santos, was definitely coming.
Anino yawned.
Let them come. He had claws.