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The next morning started like any other in San Roque—dogs barking, tricycle horns blaring, and the scent of dried pusit mixing with freshly baked pandesal.
Café Ligaya was already buzzing by 7:00 AM. Inside, Asha Rivera stood behind the counter, hair in a messy ponytail, wearing her “Kape lang, ‘wag landi” shirt. She looked calm.
She was not.
“Bes,” said Mira, her barista-slash-best friend, “guess who’s back again? Mr. Homeless Hot.”
Asha didn’t look up. “He’s not hot.”
“Then why do you always prepare extra cheese rolls when he shows up?”
“It’s called community service.”
Mira grinned. “It’s called may kilig ka.”
Asha rolled her eyes, but her heart betrayed her. Of course she noticed. That weird tambay guy — Ravi, he said his name was — hadn’t missed a single day. Always sitting outside, never ordering anything, but never really doing anything shady either. Just… watching.
It should’ve creeped her out. But something about him made her pause.
Maybe it was the way he looked at people. Like he was always searching for something — or someone.
---
Outside, Ravi watched the café like clockwork, earbuds in, pretending to nod along to a song that didn’t exist.
He was focused. Alert. Calm.
Until a man he didn’t recognize stepped into the café.
Tall. Tan. Wearing dark glasses and an expensive wristwatch that didn’t belong in a small-town coffee shop. Too polished. Too careful.
Red flag.
> “Agent 7R, possible visual. Male, 30s, dressed too clean. Entering Café Ligaya. I’m going in.”
> *“Negative,” Uncle Pido snapped. “No engagement. Just observe.”
But Ravi was already up, brushing crumbs from his shirt and slipping inside the café with practiced ease.
---
Asha looked up the moment Ravi entered, raising a brow. “You again?”
“Today I’m pretending to afford coffee,” he replied smoothly.
“Wow. Big day.”
They shared a short smile — quick, almost nervous — before Ravi turned his attention to the suspicious man by the window.
He wasn’t drinking. Just tapping his fingers on the table. Waiting.
Then, without a word, the man reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sealed brown envelope, and slid it beneath the napkin holder.
Ravi’s pulse spiked.
A drop.
The man stood, exited calmly, and disappeared down the alley without even glancing back.
Ravi turned to Asha. “Who was that guy?”
Asha blinked. “No idea. First time I’ve seen him. Why?”
Ravi’s voice softened, casual but probing. “He left something.”
Asha glanced at the napkin holder, her fingers already reaching—
“Don’t touch it,” Ravi said, sharper than he meant to.
She froze. “Excuse me?”
He quickly recovered. “I mean—it could be for someone else.”
Asha squinted. “You’re weird again.”
“I’m consistent,” Ravi said, forcing a grin.
---
The envelope sat like a silent bomb between them.
Ravi knew protocol: wait, observe, report. But his instincts screamed louder.
Because if that envelope was tied to Kalbo,
And if Asha got caught in the middle…
She might not walk away clean.
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> Outside the café, someone else was watching.
A man in a motorcycle helmet, visor down, engine idling.
His finger hovered near a phone… waiting for a signal.
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Next: Asha opens the envelope — and everything changes.
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