Where business cards turn into whispers, and whispers turn into dread.

  November 10, 2035

  The SUV’s interior hummed softly with the steady purr of the engine, its leather seats perfumed faintly with cedar and something metallic, gun oil maybe, clinging to Julius like a second skin. The tinted windows turned the Manila night into a blurred aquarium of neon and LED light, fractured in streaks against the glass.

  Jiro sat close, his manicured fingers entwined with Julius’s scarred ones. He studied the man beside him, eyes closed, jaw slack, features momentarily released from their usual discipline. Even in repose, Julius carried the heaviness of a blade sheathed, ready to cut.

  Jiro leaned in, nudged him with the back of his hand. 「你到啊，咱差不多到啊。」 (We’re almost there.)

  Julius jolted awake, his body taut as if surfacing from some hidden battlefield. His gaze darted toward the windows, scanning the passing streets, Pasay’s casinos and sterile towers flashing by like cruel reminders of how the city kept swallowing its old bones.

  「你昨暝真正無睏？」 (How much sleep did you get last night?) Jiro asked, tilting his head, a softness masking the faint irritation in his voice.

  「夯夯啊。我會好啦。」 (Enough. I’ll be functional tonight.) Julius said, rubbing a hand over his face. His voice was gravel at dawn.

  The SUV curved onto a boulevard, and there it was, the Grand Honor Seafood Restaurant, its facade drenched in gold light, ostentatious among Pasay’s sleek high-rises. Glass and marble gleamed under chandeliers, the entrance already clogged with luxury cars lined up in ritual procession.

  Jiro’s lips tightened, and his reflection in the dark window looked like someone trapped behind glass. 「真無通來，按呢的辦桌？」 (Is there really no getting out of this banquet?)

  「無法度啦。」 Julius replied evenly, his eyes forward. 「你接着小頭Calvin的位，你就免煞免接伊的責任。」 (I’m afraid not. Inheriting your Uncle Calvin’s seat at the table also means inheriting his duties to maintain face.)

  Jiro groaned, letting his head fall back against the seat, eyes rolling. Banquets, soaked in lies, laughter, and the constant theater of power. He hated them. The smell of shark fin soup and false camaraderie was already in his throat.

  Julius’s grip on his hand tightened. Not possessive, but grounding. He turned to Jiro, his voice lower now, almost tender. 「莫驚。我在這。」 (Don’t worry. I’m here.) He leaned in and pressed his lips against Jiro’s cheek, firm, deliberate, a gesture both intimate and protective.

  The SUV glided up the restaurant’s grand driveway, its polished hood catching the cascade of chandelier light spilling out the doors. Outside, a small crowd of well-dressed men and women clustered, their laughter brittle, their movements sharp with calculation. Some stepped from black cars with choreographed elegance, others lingered in the driveway, trading embraces that were handshakes in disguise. Already, the night smelled of tobacco, perfume, and politics.

  An attendant in a crisp black suit bent forward, pulling the chrome handle with a practiced elegance. The SUV’s door eased open, and the humid Manila night spilled in, carrying with it the perfume of cigar smoke and overwatered orchids. Jiro stepped out first, Julius right behind him, flanked discreetly by two bodyguards.

  The noise was immediate, chatter, laughter, the orchestral chaos of engines purring and heels clacking against marble. For Jiro, it was nauseating, each sound a pinprick against the fragile composure he had stitched together for the evening.

  A hand seized his. Firm, too firm. The grip was calloused, like sandpaper grinding against his soft, perfumed skin. Jiro flinched inwardly even as his lips curled into something charming.

  “哎呀！Jiro，你終於來啊！宴席就欲開始矣！” the man boomed. (Ah! Jiro, you’ve finally arrived! The banquet’s about to start!)

  Jiro lifted his gaze and recognized him, Danny Chua, the small-time retail mogul from Las Pi?as, always overdressed and overeager. Jiro painted on his game face, that lazy, languid smile he used to keep sharks at bay.

  「你女兒的結婚宴啥時？阮猶未收到帖子咧。」 (When’s your daughter’s wedding? I still haven’t gotten an invitation.)

  Danny erupted into laughter, a little too loud for the setting, clapping Jiro’s shoulder with his free hand. “哈哈哈！免驚免驚，我會馬上寄給你，帖子一印好就送到你手上！” (Hahaha! Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to send you the invitations the moment they’re printed!)

  Jiro slipped free from the man’s grip with the grace of a dancer breaking pose. 「好啊，我等你喔。」 (Good, I’ll be waiting.) His tone was airy, but the moment Danny turned his attention elsewhere, Jiro’s jaw slackened, his smile vanishing like a candle snuffed.

  With Julius at his side, the two bodyguards trailing at measured distance, Jiro cut his way toward the grand entrance. The restaurant’s glass doors swallowed them into a gilded world.

  The lobby rose before them like an opera set, grand marble underfoot, a massive centerpiece sculpture anchoring the hall, flanked by sweeping twin staircases lined with brass banisters. Crystal light cascaded from chandeliers above, washing everyone in the same golden sheen, equal parts holy and grotesque.

  Jiro didn’t pause to admire. He had been here too many times, banquets, weddings, debuts, anniversaries. The pattern was etched into his body memory: past the lobby, elevators on the left, straight to the floors where face and appetite collided.

  Two immaculately dressed men stood sentinel by the elevators, white gloves folded in front of them. They straightened, then stepped aside without a word as Jiro and Julius approached. Jiro couldn’t tell if the gesture was for him, or for Julius. It didn’t matter.

  The elevator chimed. Its doors parted to reveal a cabin already stuffed with laughter, with men in silk ties and women shimmering with diamonds. The sound struck Jiro like static.

  One of the older women inside stepped out just as Jiro was about to enter. She caught sight of him, her face splitting into recognition.

  “哎喲！Jiro 啊！” Pamela Tan, all pearls and powder, glided toward him, her hand already extended. Jiro took it politely, lips parting in another smile he didn’t mean.

  「Pamela，為啥你落去啊？啥代誌？」 (Pamela, why are you going down? What’s going on?)

  Pamela chuckled softly, brushing at her hair. “我要去大廳招呼一个人，生意上的。” (I’m going to greet someone in the lobby, business matter.) She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “咱閒聊，待會兒再講啦。” (We’ll talk more later.)

  Jiro nodded, the handshake already dissolving from his hand as he stepped into the cabin. He pressed the floor number with a casual flick, watching the doors slide closed, sealing the noise of the lobby outside.

  The cabin lurched upward, its polished mirrors reflecting faces that were half-mask, half-flesh. Jiro leaned back against the brass rail, his voice low, almost swallowed by the elevator’s laughter.

  「阿母無是予人查賄選市長咧？」 (Wasn’t she under investigation for bribing a mayor this year?) he muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing floor indicator.

  Julius’s mouth curved faintly, the sort of smile that never reached his eyes. 「是啊，後來閣賄賂一擺，就擺平矣。代價是幾百萬啦。」 (Yes. She got rid of the case through even more bribing. Cost her a few millions though.)

  They both laughed, not from amusement but from the absurd inevitability of it, money always paved the cracks.

  The elevator bell chimed, doors sliding open to a corridor glowing with chandeliers and lacquered walls. Together, they walked the broad hallway, the sound of their footsteps syncing with muffled drums and chatter that grew louder with every step.

  Then the banquet hall unfurled before them. A roaring sight, easily a thousand guests crowded into the cavernous space. Round tables clothed in red linen formed an intricate constellation beneath the glow of crystal lights. Laughter and voices swirled, waiters gliding like shadows between tables already set with gleaming cold dishes: jellyfish salad, roast suckling pig slices, century egg. The smell was rich, oily, and ceremonial.

  Jiro leaned toward Julius. 「阮咧哪桌？」 (What table are we at?)

  「第九桌，就佇舞台邊。」 (Table number 9, just next to the stage.) Julius answered. Their bodyguards peeled away at the entrance, joining the wall of other sentinels posted outside like statues.

  Jiro followed Julius’s lead, their measured stride through the crowd discouraging anyone from attempting idle greetings. Faces turned, eyes whispered recognition, but no one dared to interrupt.

  At table 9, his mother was already seated, her posture immaculate, one hand resting against a crystal glass as she laughed lightly at something. Aurelia, his mother, the eternal hostess of appearances. Across from her sat Jeremy Co, an older man with a soft belly and sharper eyes, draped in a fine suit that smelled faintly of mothballs and silk.

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  Aurelia spotted her son and lifted her manicured hand in a wave that was both command and welcome. “Jiro，來，來見Jeremy。” (Jiro, come, meet Jeremy.)

  They shook hands, Jeremy’s grip warmer than Danny Chua’s earlier, but no less performative. His smile stretched, revealing tea-stained teeth.

  “Your mother was just telling me,” Jeremy said, his tone buoyant, “that you’re planning to expand to Malaysia. Very ambitious.”

  Jiro’s smile froze for half a breath. “哦？我嘛才知影咧。” (Oh? This is news to me.) He let out a light laugh, masking the jab as a joke, and Jeremy chuckled with him, the tension dissolving under the patter of practiced charm.

  Jeremy rose from his chair, patting Jiro’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later, yes? There’s potential.”

  “好啊，改天講。” (Sure, we’ll talk another time.) Jiro replied smoothly.

  Jeremy excused himself, disappearing into the crowd.

  Jiro slipped into the seat beside Julius, next to from his mother. His smile thinned. 「阿母，馬來西亞是按怎一回事？」(Mother, what is this Malaysia nonsense?)

  Aurelia tilted her chin, unbothered, her tone airy as if brushing lint off silk. 「市場正好。我已經替你安排好矣，Jeremy彼边有聯絡人。」 (The market is ripe. I already set up connections with Jeremy to use his contacts there.)

  Jiro’s jaw tightened, his voice barely restrained. 「咱家己的生意攏閣欲崩去矣，哪有閒來開馬來西亞？」 (We’re barely containing our local operations as it is. How could we possibly expand to Malaysia?)

  She waved a dismissive hand, her bracelets clinking like small cymbals. 「馬來西亞是好市場所，莫錯失。阮已經共你秘書的電話予Jeremy矣。」 (Malaysia is a good market to expand to, don’t miss it. I already gave Jeremy your secretary’s number.)

  Jiro sat back, lips pressed thin, silence draping over him like a funeral veil. He knew better than to argue further. Against Aurelia, resistance was always a losing battle.

  A middle-aged woman drifted toward table 9, her hand resting gently on the shoulder of a lanky teenager who followed half a step behind. Jiro recognized her instantly, Kimberly Lim, owner of a modest but well-known grocery chain scattered across the North. Her son must be the boy: Cedric, taller than Jiro remembered, with a nervous posture that folded him into himself.

  “Jiro！” Kimberly greeted warmly, her smile quick and practiced.

  Jiro rose slightly, offering her his hand. 「Kimberly，好久無看着你矣。」 (Kimberly, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.)

  His eyes flicked to the boy beside her, and Jiro let a cheerful smile bloom. 「啊這个就是Cedric無？真大矣喔！我上擺看你的時陣，你猶只到遮懸啊。」 (And this must be Cedric? You’ve gotten so tall! Last time I saw you, you were only this high.) He gestured with his hand, holding it at chest level.

  Cedric flushed, lowering his gaze. His voice was almost a whisper. “Hello… good evening.” A smile appeared, brief and awkward.

  Kimberly smoothed over her son’s shyness with a light laugh. “Jiro啊，你有無認識St. Francis High School的人？阮想送伊去彼个學校讀書。” (Jiro, do you know anyone at St. Francis High School? I’m trying to get him enrolled there.)

  Jiro leaned back with a playful grin. 「啊以後咧，伊這麼聰明，考試就會進去啊，免驚免驚。」 (With how smart Cedric must be, he’ll get in easily just by passing the tests, don’t worry.)

  Kimberly laughed, relieved by the joke, and Jiro joined her. In truth, he had no idea about Cedric’s grades, but humor was his shield.

  「我來查查看，阮以前佇彼个學校的關係猶在無。」 (I’ll check if my contacts still work in the school.) Jiro added smoothly.

  Kimberly touched his arm in gratitude before excusing herself. 「多謝你啊，Jiro。」 (Thank you, Jiro.) She and Cedric slipped back into the flow of the banquet, disappearing into the tide of guests.

  Jiro sat again, smoothing his jacket, reaching for his glass of water. Julius, who had watched the entire exchange with quiet amusement, clipped a piece of century egg with his chopsticks.

  「校長猶是Jericho先生喔。」 (The principal is still Mr. Jericho.)

  Jiro blinked. 「啥？伊今嘛幾歲矣？一百無？」 (What? He must be a hundred by now!)

  Julius chewed leisurely, unbothered. 「八十九而已。」 (Eighty-nine, actually.)

  Jiro let out a quiet laugh of disbelief. 「驚死人啊！阮讀的時陣，伊就已經真老矣。」 (My God. He was already ancient when we attended.)

  Julius only shrugged, calm as ever, and popped another slice of century egg into his mouth, as if age itself were nothing more than a trivial note in the evening’s menu.

  No other people sat at their table. The setting was for twelve, but only the three of them had been assigned here. Jiro didn’t mind, in fact, he preferred it this way. Less chatter, fewer ears.

  The servers arrived, gliding in with the first course for the night. Plates set, wine poured, and then they slipped away, silent as shadows.

  A figure broke the stillness. A man walked over and eased himself onto the chair beside Jiro.

  Jiro recognized him instantly, the unmistakable face of Rodrigo Ong. His head of hair was completely white now, a shock against his skin, but his face carried the deceptive ease of youth. Not young, but well-maintained, a middle age burnished by wealth and careful living.

  Rodrigo leaned in, lowering his voice.

  「你昨天有看新闻吗?」 (Did you see the news yesterday?)

  Jiro tilted his head. “Tatiana Tiamzon?”

  Rodrigo gave a slow nod. 「对。我的消息讲，这是一个连环杀手，专门找有钱有权的人。」(Yes. My sources say it’s a serial killer, targeting the rich and powerful.)

  Jiro widened his eyes just enough, feigning surprise. He lied smoothly: “That part never reached my ears.”

  He leaned closer. 「Where’d you get this info from?」

  Rodrigo’s gaze flicked across the hall, then back to Jiro. His voice stayed soft, conspiratorial.

  「我认识NBI的人。」 (I know people in the NBI.)

  He went on, threading the words carefully. 「Tatiana曾经跟我们组织有来往。听说另外一个受害者是De Vega家族, 我们在维萨亚斯的主要联络人。所以，不只是我，几个理事都怕了。下礼拜我们打算开个紧急会议，讨论怎么应对。」 (Tatiana had dealings with our organization. And rumor is, another victim was the De Vega family, our main contact in the Visayas. So not just me, a few of the council members are spooked. We’re planning to host an emergency session next week to discuss how to respond.)

  Jiro studied him, then asked evenly:

  「你的NBI消息可靠吗?」(How trustworthy is your source in the NBI?)

  Rodrigo didn’t hesitate. His tone carried the confidence of someone who had never been fed falsehood by his connections.

  「是上面的人。他们不会给我坏情报。」 (It’s someone high up. They’d never give me bad intel.)

  Jiro gave a small nod. 「我會去。這件代誌看起來真嚴重。」

  (I’ll be there. This matter seems too serious to ignore.)

  Rodrigo’s lips curved into something between a smile and a warning. He tapped Jiro’s shoulder once, firmly, then rose and slipped back into the stream of guests.

  When Jiro turned, Julius was already watching him.

  「你有聽著無？」Jiro asked.

  (Did you hear any of that?)

  「聽有。」 Julius replied evenly.

  (I heard enough.)

  Jiro leaned closer, lowering his voice. 「你感覺按怎？」

  (What do you think?)

  Julius’s face remained steady, his words sharp.

  「威脅是真个。毋過議會講啥物攏無代誌用。西維里諾這種人，無法度用講話解決。你去參加，做个樣就好。真正重要的是整理阿加文留下的勢力，袂使分心，因為咱今仔日真脆弱。」

  (The threat is real. But the council will be useless. A man like Severino can’t be dealt with by the the organization. Go to their session, keep appearances, but the real work is consolidating Calvin’s broken empire. We can’t afford distractions, not when we’re this exposed.)

  Jiro’s fingers pressed tight against the table’s edge. 「假若Severino對我出手呢？我是一个好目標。」

  (And if Severino comes after me? I’d make a tempting target.)

  For a while Julius stayed silent. Then he reached across and set his hand on Jiro’s shoulder, firm and unyielding.

  「免驚。我會保護你, 一直到今。」

  (Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you, like always.)

  The grip of his hand, the weight in his voice, reassured Jiro more than the promise itself. He exhaled, tension loosening from his body, and finally picked up his utensils, beginning to eat.

  * * * * *

  The banquet eventually wound down. Waiters were already sweeping through the carpet with quiet efficiency, collecting half-empty bottles of Maotai and pushing stray chairs back into place. The air still smelled faintly of roast duck and expensive perfume, mingled with the burnt sweetness of melted candle wax from the table centerpieces.

  Most of the guests had already trickled out, some with the loud boisterous laughter of men already full-drunk, others in measured silence, checking their phones as if the evening had merely been a pause in their real business.

  At their table, Jiro’s mother remained behind, orchestrating the leftovers with the same authority she usually wielded. She had waitstaff scurrying back and forth, packing the untouched platters of fish and noodles into foil boxes, stacking unopened bottles of wine in neat pairs, and sorting gift bags like an accountant tallying ledgers. She wasn’t about to let good food or good liquor go to waste, and Jiro knew better than to get in her way.

  The banquet itself had been uneventful. Too many speeches by association officials praising themselves, too many polite toasts from men who pretended to like one another. Fireworks of words, but no substance, nothing Jiro could sink his teeth into. It had been spectacle, not business. He found himself almost relieved that it was over.

  Next to him, Julius leaned back with an easy satisfaction. His hand lingered on his stomach as though patting down a job well done. He gave Jiro a small, boyish grin, the kind that said: well, at least the food wasn’t a waste. Jiro couldn’t help but smirk back, the faintest crack in his otherwise solemn face.

  They stood to leave, chairs scraping gently against the floor, when a figure approached. A woman, tall, long dark hair spilling down her back, her presence carrying an effortless confidence. She was roughly their age, maybe a year or two younger, her sharpness cloaked in polite restraint. Victoria Liu.

  The moment Jiro saw her, he understood. This wasn’t to be his conversation. She hadn’t come for him. Without hesitation, he stepped aside, retreating into the familiar orbit of his mother’s fussing. He began stacking the unopened wine boxes, lifting one carefully into his arms as though he belonged more to the logistics of the evening than to the intrigue unfolding two paces away.

  Still, his ears strained. He wanted to catch threads of the exchange between Julius and Victoria. But his mother’s voice, sharp, commanding, endlessly practical, kept cutting across the sound.

  「Jiro，先拿这个。莫予伊咧摔破瓶仔。塑胶袋小心，礼物杯仔若摇会碎。」(Take this one first, Jiro. Don’t let them break the bottles. Careful with the plastic bags, those gift mugs will shatter if you swing them.)

  “Yes, Ma,” he answered absently, eyes darting back toward Julius and Victoria.

  He couldn’t make out much. Just fragments, muffled under his mother’s steady instructions. Yet one name surfaced more than once, undeniable. Severino.

  The mention of it was enough to snag Jiro’s thoughts like barbed wire. His chest tightened. Whatever Victoria and Julius were discussing, it was about him.

  It set his nerves alight.

  By the time his mother bustled out, trailed by waiters weighed down with plastic bags and boxes of take-home food, Victoria had already taken her leave. She exited with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much presence to leave behind. Jiro found himself alone with Julius, the banquet now an empty cavern echoing with only the sound of their footsteps.

  He cleared his throat. “What was that about?”

  Julius looked down at him, expression unreadable at first, then softening with something close to reassurance.

  “伊有讲啦，伊也是对Severino有顾虑。」 (She said, she’s worried about Severino too.)

  “我们咧想办法，真正有计划。免烦恼啦。」(We’re making moves, real plans. Don’t worry.)

  Jiro frowned, doubtful. 「Victoria……伊应付得伊咩？」(Victoria… she can handle him?)

  Julius’s mouth curved into a small, steady smile, the kind he used to put allies at ease.

  “伊有伊的方法，阮毋免插手。伊做得好。” (She has her way. We don’t need to meddle. She can handle it well.)

  That should have closed the matter. Yet Jiro lingered on the thought, on the name, on the shadow of Severino hanging in every pause of their speech. Julius’s confidence carried weight, just as it had earlier, when he promised protection with a hand firm on his shoulder. But now, hearing Victoria was also in the fight, that reassurance doubled, layered itself like armor around his chest.

  They left the banquet hall together, their footsteps echoing down marble floors. Outside, the night air smelled faintly of rain and smoke, Manila always on the verge of choking or cleansing itself. The city loomed, restless, dangerous. Somewhere in its folds, Severino stalked unseen.

  Jiro glanced once more at Julius, steady as stone beside him. Whatever storm was coming, he thought, he wouldn’t face it alone.