Morning never truly arrived in that alley. The cold lingered, biting through Sean's skin as he sat up slowly, holding the lone peso coin the thug had tossed at him the night before.
He stared at it, his fingers curling around its edge.
"Pasaylo-a ko," the thug had mouthed. Forgive me.
Sean's bruises ached, but his mind stayed sharp. He had already memorized every detail—their faces, voices, their limp, their scent.
He would never forget them.
But now, he had nothing again. No money, no jacket, no phone. Just the peso coin.
And yet… something else gnawed at his thoughts.
The man in the black cloak.
Sean wasn't foolish. He had already sensed that presence several times in the past week. The city was crowded, but the eyes that followed him weren't ordinary.
He stood up, wincing at the pain on his side.
His stomach growled loudly, but he ignored it. Hunger was nothing new.
As the city began to stir again—lights flickering on, vendors pushing carts onto the streets—Sean wandered deeper into the maze of alleys, eyes scanning everything around him.
He wasn't looking for food.
He was searching for him.
And then, near the market's edge, between rows of vendors selling cheap chargers, fake headphones, and cracked phone cases, he saw something unusual.
A table.
But no one seemed to notice it.
No buyers glanced at it. No vendors called out about it.
Behind the table stood the man in the black cloak, his face hidden under a deep hood. On the table sat a single phone.
Old, but oddly well-kept. Its design wasn't like the shiny new models, but it had a strange glow beneath its cracked screen.
Sean's steps slowed.
He realized it again—no one else seemed to see the man or the table.
Only him.
His heartbeat quickened, but not in fear.
Curiosity.
Without thinking, his legs moved on their own, weaving through the crowd until he stood before the cloaked man.
The phone gleamed faintly, as if calling to him.
Sean's voice was quiet, but steady.
"Tagpila ni?"
(How much is this?)
The man raised one gloved finger.
"One," he said in a voice that seemed too calm for the noise around them.
Sean blinked, confused.
"One?" he repeated.
The man's finger didn't waver.
Sean's hand tightened around the peso coin in his pocket—the same coin given by the thug who had robbed him.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Slowly, he placed the coin on the table.
The man's gloved hand slid it toward himself without a word. Then, he pushed the phone toward Sean.
Sean hesitated.
Everything in him screamed that this wasn't normal—but at the same time, it felt inevitable.
His fingers brushed the phone.
Cold.
Too cold.
But as he lifted it, the cold vanished, replaced by a strange warmth in his palm.
He glanced up to ask something—but the man was gone.
Vanished.
The table, the chair, everything—gone as if they had never existed.
Sean's breath caught in his throat.
He turned in circles, searching the streets—but no one seemed to notice anything strange. The crowd moved as usual, as if nothing had happened.
Sean looked down at the phone.
He gripped the phone tighter, slipping it into his pocket as he quickly left the area.
---
Another Morning come in the city and it wasn't as bright as Sean imagined.
The streets looked cleaner under the sun, but the cold still stuck to his skin. He sat at the corner of an alley, holding the phone he had gotten from the man in the black cloak—still unsure if the whole thing was real or just a trick.
It looked like an ordinary phone.
Old, but not too strange. A bit of a mix between old models and newer designs, with a slight scratch on the screen but working fine.
He turned it over in his hands. No logos, no fancy brands.
Curious, he pressed the power button.
The phone booted up normally—just a plain black screen with a small white logo that said Survive.
Once it loaded, Sean found only one thing on it: a browser named "Survive."
No games. No social apps. No camera. Nothing else.
"Survive?" he muttered, frowning.
Sean wasn't familiar with browsers. He had heard kids before mention things like Brave or Chrome, but he had never owned a phone that could use them. His old phone was too weak—it could barely call or text.
But something about the name caught his eye.
He tapped the browser.
To his surprise, it opened instantly—without Wi-Fi, no mobile data, nothing.
"Wa man ni'y signal, pero niandar man," he muttered to himself.
("There's no signal, but it still works.")
Still, he didn't think much of it.
Curiosity took over.
Inside the browser, there was an option to download apps. He found something familiar—YouTube, or rather, an older-looking version called Utube inside the browser's downloads.
Sean downloaded it, watching the progress bar crawl across the screen.
Minutes later, the app launched smoothly, even without internet.
His eyes widened a little, but he didn't question it. All he thought was—maybe it was some offline mode or something fancy he didn't understand.
And honestly, he didn't care.
All he wanted was a distraction.
That night, Sean sat quietly in a narrow alley—a spot far from where thugs usually passed by. He had already memorized the safest paths, the places where people rarely walked.
His stomach grumbled painfully, but he focused on the phone instead.
The glow from the screen lit up his bruised face as he scrolled through Utube.
He searched for martial arts at first, curious about how people fought. The videos fascinated him—people breaking wooden boards, throwing punches, flipping opponents.
But soon, his focus shifted.
"How to make money fast."
That was what he typed next.
Video after video appeared—vloggers flexing wads of cash, fancy cars, gold chains, luxury watches.
Sean's eyes narrowed.
"Mga hambugero," he scoffed softly.
("Show-offs.")
Still, he couldn't stop watching.
Even with his hunger gnawing at him, the sight of money kept him hooked.
"Kung pwede lang unta makuha ni, sulbad na akong problema," he muttered with a bitter laugh.
("If only I could grab this, all my problems would be solved.")
He stared at the screen, watching a man wave stacks of bills in front of the camera.
Almost absentmindedly, Sean reached out and touched the screen, dragging his finger over the image of the money.
But then… something felt strange.
The screen wasn't solid.
His finger sank through it.
Sean froze.
Slowly, his hand went deeper—right through the glowing light, as if dipping into cold water.
His breath caught.
He yanked his hand back immediately, heart thudding in his chest.
"Unsa man ni? Damgo ra ni?" he whispered, stunned.
("What is this? Am I dreaming?")
He stared at his hand—empty—but the sensation still lingered, cold and tingling.
Without thinking, he reached again.
This time, his hand went through fully, and he could feel something inside.
Soft. Paper-like.
Money.
His eyes widened, body frozen with shock.
Slowly, carefully, he grabbed hold of it—and pulled back.
Stacks of cash followed his hand, slipping out of the glowing screen and landing in his lap.
Sean's body shook.
He held the bills, flipping through them with trembling fingers.
They were real.
The smell, the texture—everything.
A soft chime echoed from the phone.
"3 Heists Remaining Today."
Sean couldn't breathe.
His mind spun, trying to process what just happened.
No signal. No Wi-Fi. No nothing.
But now—he was sitting in a dark alley with more money than he had ever seen, pulled from the very screen of his phone.
And just like that, everything around him felt different.
The hunger in his stomach faded behind the pounding in his chest.
Somewhere deep inside him, something clicked.
This phone wasn't just strange.
It was dangerous.
And it was his now.