"If you want to understand Manila… you must survive its darkness."
Binondo – Midnight
The rain hadn't stopped in hours. The cobblestone streets of Escolta glistened under flickering neon signs. Red. Blue. Green. A color palette of a city pretending to smile.
Juan adjusted the collar of his guayabera and tucked the bolo deeper into his coat. Don Eduardo stood beside him, calm as always, holding a cane that hid a blade. Beside them, a black car idled quietly, engine purring like a predator.
Inside the nightclub El Dragón Rojo, Señor Lim's men celebrated. From outside, you could hear the faint music of a bandurria, paired with American jazz horns. A blend of cultures. A mask over a crime.
"Third floor," Don Eduardo whispered. "That's where the ledger is. Proof of payments. Cargo shipments. Even names of corrupted officials."
Juan clenched his jaw. "And what about the man who killed my brother?"
Eduardo looked away.
"We find the files first."
Inside the Club
Velvet curtains. Gambling tables. Chino mestizos in crisp suits laughed as dancers in traje de mestiza spun onstage, their heels clicking like gun triggers. Juan moved silently through the smoke and perfume, passing waiters, glancing at the old portraits of Sangley patriarcas that adorned the walls.
He spotted one. A portrait of a certain Padre Go Chua, holding a rosary in one hand and a gold revolver in the other.
"Tell me this city isn't cursed," Juan muttered.
Suddenly—gunfire.
The first explosion ripped through the hallway. A guard flew into a wall, his body soaked in blood. The music stopped. Screams.
Don Eduardo had struck first. He slashed down a man with one sweep of his hidden blade. Juan followed, pistol drawn. Two shots—clean—straight into the chest of a thug blocking the stairwell.
They reached the third floor.
Smoke. Papers flying. Alarms ringing.
Juan kicked the door open.
Inside, a giant map of Manila sprawled across the table. Dots marked the ports, schools, even churches—every place touched by the Sangley Syndicate.
Don Eduardo quickly snapped photos with an old Leica camera.
Suddenly—
"You're too late," a voice said.
From behind the curtains, a man stepped out. Tattooed neck. Red armband.
"El Carnicero," Eduardo hissed. "Lim's personal butcher."
"El español," the man growled. "You should've stayed in Madrid."
Gun drawn. Juan didn't wait.
The duel was fast. Dirty. Tables flipped. Blades clashed. Juan took a slice to the arm—but planted a bullet in El Carnicero's knee, then another in the chest.
The man collapsed, cursing in Mandarin.
"I hope your ancestors spit on you," Juan whispered.
Escape Through the Alleys
As they ran through the back alley, chased by the distant echo of sirens and syndicate men, Juan looked back one last time at the club. It was in flames. A symbol. A message.
"The war has started," Eduardo said between breaths.
Juan didn't reply. He looked at the blood on his sleeve and whispered:
"One step closer, Gabriel… I'm coming for them all."