Torres and Monzon stood across from each other, the echoes of their fight reverberating through the ruined landscape. The once serene outskirt of Laguna was now a battlefield.
Gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the scent of disturbed earth and blood. Smoke curled from the wreckage of the shootout, the bodies littering the ground.
Ms. Holiday was down, unconscious but alive. Cruz, battered and struggling to stay upright, clutched his wound, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
And in the center of it all, Monzon grinned.
His lip bled from where Torres had clocked him, and his left eye was already swelling shut.
But the bastard was still smiling, still standing tall, rolling his shoulders as if warming up for another round.
"Not bad, detective," Monzon said, spitting blood onto the dirt.
Torres wiped the blood from his chin, ignoring the burning in his ribs. He could barely keep his hands steady, exhaustion clawing at him but the adrenaline was still there, still pushing him forward.
He wasn't done. Not yet.
Monzon cracked his knuckles. "You've given me a good time, I'll admit. But playtime's over."
Then, he moved.
Faster than Torres expected. Faster than a man that is wounded should have.
Monzon lunged, his fist cutting through the air like a bullet. Torres barely dodged, rolling his shoulder back to avoid a direct hit. But Monzon adjusted mid-swing, driving his knee into Torres' gut.
Hard.
Torres gasped as the impact drove the air from his lungs. He staggered back, but Monzon was relentless. Another punch, this time to the jaw, sent the detective spinning.
The world tilted.
Torres hit the ground hard, vision blurring. He tried to push himself up, but Monzon was already on him, grabbing his collar and hauling him up like a ragdoll.
"Come on, Detective," Monzon sneered. "You were enjoying this a second ago. Don't quit on me now."
Torres' lips curled into a bloody grin.
Then, he swung.
A brutal left hook smashed into Monzon's cheek.
The cocky bastard stumbled, but he caught himself before Torres could follow up. He let out a breathless chuckle, wiping his mouth.
"That's all you got?"
Torres spat blood. "I've got plenty more, you smug son of a bitch."
The fight continued, fists flying, neither man backing down.
They were equals—Monzon, all calculated brutality and arrogance; Torres, sheer stubbornness and survival instinct.
A collision of two forces that refused to yield.
Monzon drove a punch into Torres' ribs. Torres countered with a brutal uppercut. Monzon reeled, but then came back with a savage elbow to Torres' temple.
Both men were slowing. Both were breaking.
But neither would stop.
And then
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
The moment froze.
Both men turned their heads, still breathing hard.
At the edge of the clearing, standing with the weight of authority, was General Manuel Ramos.
Torres' heart stopped.
He hadn't seen that face in three years.
Older now, hardened even more by time, but unmistakable—the same piercing gaze, the same rigid posture, the same air of absolute control. The years had sharpened him, turned him into something even more dangerous.
And in his hand, a service pistol rested with casual ease.
For the first time, Monzon's grin faltered.
"General!?," he greeted, his usual bravado slightly dampened.
"Standby," Ramos ordered. His tone was cool, detached.
Measured.
Torres clenched his fists, his breath still ragged.
Ramos exhaled, looking over the battlefield like a disappointed father. His eyes settled on Monzon. "You were given orders."
Monzon's expression twisted. "I was cleaning up a mess."
Ramos shook his head. "And in doing so, you've made another."
For the first time, Monzon was silent.
The tension thickened.
Ramos took a slow step forward, then another. His gaze flickered to Torres, impassive. "You were warned, old friend."
Torres' jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Then—Ramos turned back to Monzon.
"You've done enough," he said.
"Walk away."
Monzon bristled. His pride wouldn't allow it.
"Are you serious right now General? I'm here to do orders as given, and if I don't?"
Ramos met his gaze. "Then you will join with your soldiers and die."
The silence was suffocating.
Torres watched, heart pounding. Monzon was stubborn—but was he suicidal?
A long beat passed.
Then
Monzon scoffed.
He wiped his mouth, let out a dry chuckle, and adjusted his sleeves once more. That same damn smirk returning.
"...Tch. Well, shit."
He glanced at Torres, at Holiday's unconscious form, then at Cruz who still clutched at his wound, barely standing.
Finally, he sighed. "Guess I'll live to fight another day."
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Torres stood frozen, watching the man who had nearly killed them simply leave.
But his blood ran colder when his eyes shifted back to Ramos.
Because Ramos was still watching him.
Still studying.
Still deciding.
And then, in the calmest tone possible—
"Go."
Torres didn't hesitate.
He moved to Cruz, hauled him up, then grabbed Holiday, slinging her arm over his shoulder.
They left, dragging themselves toward whatever escape awaited them.
But as they disappeared into the distance, Torres knew one thing.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The past didn't stay buried.
It waited.
NAGA CITY, June 15 1977
The rain came early that morning. Not a heavy storm, just a quiet drizzle that clung to the rooftops and trickled down the eaves. It left the air thick, damp, and heavy with the scent of earth and old wood. Inside their small home, Cecelia Torres sat on the edge of their bed, her dark eyes following every deliberate movement of her husband.
Captain. Elpidio "Epy" Torres stood by the wooden dresser, buttoning up his shirt with slow, careful hands. He moved like a man carrying a weight he didn't want to acknowledge. The packed duffle bag on the floor between them made it impossible to ignore.
"You don't have to go," Cecelia finally said. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
Epy's hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he resumed buttoning his sleeve.
"I do," he murmured.
Cecelia exhaled softly, shaking her head. "I figured you'd say that."
Epy turned to face her, but she wasn't looking at him anymore. Her fingers toyed with the hem of the blanket, twisting the fabric between her hands. She wasn't crying. Cecelia wasn't the kind of woman to cry.
"Come with me," he said suddenly. He hadn't planned on saying it, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Cecelia let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "And do what? Follow you while you try to outrun your ghosts?"
Epy clenched his jaw. He had no answer for that.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again softly, like the words hurt to say.
"But, Epy... you're going to die doing this."
Her voice trembled, just enough for him to hear the fear she tried to hide.
"This thing you're chasing redemption, justice, whatever it is... it's going to eat you alive. And I know I can't stop you. I know you've already made up your mind. But someone out there..."
She looked up at him now, and her voice broke, just a little.
"Someone is going to kill you. And I'll be the one left behind, trying to live in the silence you leave."
She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. Her grip was warm, trembling now. He squeezed back, memorizing the feeling, the callouses on her palm, the way her thumb instinctively brushed against his knuckle like it always did.
"Then promise me something, Epy," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to burn the image of her into his mind.
She cupped his face with both hands, her thumbs tracing the faint lines near his eyes.
"When you find what you're looking for- when you get that peace of mind—please come back to me."
His throat tightened.
Epy pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, breathing her in.
"I promise."
The rain outside softened to a mist, wrapping the city in a quiet haze.
When Epy finally left that morning, Cecelia watched him from the doorway. She didn't call out to him. She didn't try to stop him.
She just stood there, watching, until he disappeared down the road.
And only then did she allow herself to sit down, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling the weight of an absence that had just begun.
MANILA, MONTHS LATER
The neon signs of Ermita flickered against the wet pavement, their glow casting restless shadows across the streets. Torres Detective Agency was nothing more than a cramped office above a tailor shop, the faint hum of a ceiling fan barely masking the distant noise of the city below.
Epy sat at his desk, a cigarette burning between his fingers, a bottle of whiskey sitting half-empty beside him. The office smelled of stale smoke and paper. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes heavy with something deeper than exhaustion.
The knock came late.
Firm. Measured.
Epy didn't reach for his gun. He already knew who it was.
He took one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out and exhaling through his nose. Then, he stood and walked to the door.
Col. Manuel Ramos stepped inside.
The last time Epy had seen him, Ramos had been a Lieutenant. Now, the rank on his uniform was different, but the man inside it was not. His posture was just as rigid, his presence just as heavy. His hair was shorter now, streaked with silver at the temples, but the sharp, calculating eyes remained the same.
"You look like shit," Ramos said, stepping further inside without waiting for an invitation.
Epy smirked, leaning against his desk. "You came all this way just to insult me?"
Ramos didn't answer immediately. He took his time, scanning the office—one desk, a chair, a single filing cabinet, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
Finally, he let out a low chuckle.
"So this is what you left it all for?" Ramos murmured, brushing a hand over the desk. "Playing detective?"
Epy didn't rise to the bait. "Better than playing executioner."
Ramos exhaled, shaking his head. "You always did have a flair for dramatics."
"You didn't come here just to reminisce," Epy said.
"Say what you came to say."
Ramos studied him for a moment before speaking.
"You could've had everything. A rank. A future. Respect."
He took a step closer, his voice quieter now. "And you threw it away."
Epy met his gaze, unwavering. "Maybe I did."
Ramos inhaled deeply, shaking his head like a disappointed father. "You were the best, Epy. You had a mind for this job that most men don't. But now? Now you're just another stray dog sniffing around where you shouldn't be."
Epy smirked. "Better a stray than a rabid one."
A flicker of something—amusement, irritation—passed through Ramos' eyes before vanishing.
Silence.
Heavy.
Then Ramos reached into his coat.
Epy tensed.
But Ramos only pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag before speaking again.
"This is the last time, Epy." His voice was calm, even, but heavy with finality. "You go your way. I go mine. But if you keep digging, if you keep stepping into places you shouldn't..."
He exhaled smoke, his gaze locking onto Epy's.
"Next time we meet, I won't hesitate."
Epy didn't look away. "Neither will I."
A smirk played on Ramos' lips. "That's what I liked about you."
With that, Ramos turned and walked toward the door.
He paused, just for a second, as if giving Epy one last chance to call him back, to change his mind.
Epy said nothing.
Ramos stepped out into the night, disappearing into the city.
Epy stood there for a long moment, the weight of the encounter pressing down on his chest like an old scar aching before a storm.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured himself another drink.
The rain had started again.
And for the first time in a long while, Epy wondered if he'd ever make it back to Naga.
TO BE CONTINUED.