San Roque, Batangas – Same Day, 8:47 PM
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The coastline of San Roque was quiet at night — too quiet.
No karaoke. No drunks. No jeepneys.
Just the sound of water slapping against the dock and the occasional cry of a distant dog that probably saw something it wasn’t supposed to.
Ravi delos Reyes crouched behind a stack of plastic fish crates, his hoodie up, eyes fixed on the entrance to the small, unofficial cargo port near the edge of town. This wasn’t where tourists docked. This was where things were moved quietly, away from curious eyes — and tonight, something was definitely moving.
He checked his watch.
8:47 PM.
Twelve minutes to the scheduled drop.
No backup. No comms. No one to trust.
Except maybe her.
And that scared him more than being alone.
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Just hours earlier, Asha had stormed into his fake little corner outside the café with the envelope clutched in her hand.
“You’re not just some tambay, are you?” she had said.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she continued, “but if you think I’m going to just ignore this—”
“I don’t want you involved,” Ravi said, voice low. “This isn’t your fight.”
She stared at him hard. “Someone left that in my café.”
“And now they might be watching you,” he warned. “You need to stay out of sight.”
She left without another word, but her silence echoed louder than her sass ever could.
Now, crouched behind crates, Ravi was hoping she’d listened.
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Two men approached the dock, pushing a trolley cart. Ravi lifted his phone and snapped a few silent shots. One man was young, tall, wearing a cap low over his eyes. The other older, limping slightly.
They stopped at the edge of the dock beside a rusted boat and lit a cigarette like they weren’t about to commit a felony.
Then came the van.
Its headlights flicked once, then dimmed. The engine died. Ravi shifted positions, heart steady, eyes sharp.
The side door opened.
Someone stepped out — short, female, covered with a hoodie. Guided, almost forced.
The girl in the photo.
Ravi’s jaw tightened. This is it. This is real.
He reached for his phone again. Snap. Snap.
Evidence. Faces. Vehicle. Timeline.
But just as he angled for one more photo — he heard it.
Footsteps. Behind him.
He turned fast, body low, already reaching for the knife hidden in his waistband.
But it wasn’t a threat.
It was Asha.
Wearing black, face tense, eyes wide.
“I told you to stay home,” Ravi hissed.
“I couldn’t. She’s just a kid,” she whispered back. “What are they doing to her?”
“Something we’re stopping. Quietly.”
“You’re insane if you think I’m leaving now.”
“You’re insane for being here in the first place!”
They glared at each other, breathing hard — not from fear, but from knowing they were in way too deep.
Then a loud clank echoed from the boat.
One of the men yelled, “Uy, may tao ba dun?!”
Flashlight beams cut through the dark — sweeping toward Ravi’s hiding spot.
Too late. They were seen.
“Run,” Ravi said.
“Like hell I’m—”
BANG!
A warning shot ripped through the air.
They ran.
Through crates, through wet sand, into the shadows of San Roque.
---
And just like that, Ravi was no longer undercover.
And Asha? No longer innocent.
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