10:43 PM, Narumi Residence, Living Room
The TV was on, but nobody was watching. A weather report rolled across the screen, warning of light showers in the north—but in the Narumi household, the real storm was already brewing indoors.
Conrad, Johnny, Glenn, and Jose Suansing were planted around the glass coffee table like it was a poker match. Bottles of Tanduay, a bucket of half-melted ice, and a bowl of peanuts sat between them. Cigarette smoke curled in the air like lazy ghosts.
Bethany stood off to the side in a sequined apron, arms crossed, looking more nightclub hostess than security guard. Her lips were pursed in eternal disapproval.
"Did you hear?" Conrad slurred slightly, raising his glass like it was a toast.
"I couldn't believe it!" Johnny replied, voice too loud, already three drinks past coherence.
"It can't be true," Glenn added, shirtless and wearing aviator sunglasses indoors.
"Oh, stop singing that commercial!" Bethany snapped, snatching the remote and turning off the TV. "As if any of you use that shampoo."
Conrad hiccuped. "I do. Sometimes. When I want to feel moisturized."
Bethany rolled her eyes. "You wash your hair with dish soap, Cons. I live here. I see things."
"I can feel it!" Bethany announced dramatically, hands over her chest. "Something bad is coming. I feel it in my glutes."
Everyone paused to blink at her.
"You're not a prophet," Glenn muttered. "You're just bloated."
"Silence!" Bethany barked, flipping her ponytail. "I am your Mama-Sang tonight. I serve drinks, I provide wisdom, I reject your stupidity."
"Long live Mama-Sang," Conrad said solemnly, raising his glass. The others followed.
Just upstairs, life was more normal—or as normal as it got in a house like this.
Jamie sat at her desk, laptop open, typing a blistering takedown of a fellow student council member's zoning proposal. Her Spotify playlist, titled "Kill Them Politely", played lo-fi beats in the background.
Across the hall, Anthony was mid-TikTok, shirtless and posing in front of his ring light, muttering choreography counts under his breath.
Stephanie, in the smallest room of the house, lay on her stomach, hoodie hood up, scribbling formulas onto a notebook while watching a livestream of a celebrity breakup on mute.
Then—
CRACK.
A single, sharp pop echoed from outside.
Jamie froze. Anthony's ring light flickered. Stephanie looked up.
Downstairs, Conrad paused mid-toast.
"...Firecracker?" Johnny asked.
"Too late in the year," Jose grunted. "And too clean."
Another pop. Then two more.
Then came the rattle. Gunfire. Sustained. Clattering.
DADADADADADADADADADAK!
The gate screamed under the impact, metal ricocheting off the driveway tiles.
The living room erupted in chaos.
"GET DOWN!" Bethany shouted, already flipping the coffee table for cover.
Glenn dived behind the piano.
Conrad rolled off the couch and landed face-first on a box of outdated campaign flyers.
Johnny yelled, "Is this a prank?! WHOEVER IS SHOOTING, I HAVE ASTHMA!"
Jose spun his wheelchair toward the front door, pulling a pistol from under his poncho like a cowboy on wheels. "Secure the kids!"
Upstairs, Jamie was already crouched behind her door, calling out, "Anthony? Stephanie?!"
"I'm okay!" Anthony shouted, crawling toward his closet, still holding his ring light like a weapon. "They're shooting! THEY'RE ACTUALLY SHOOTING!"
Stephanie opened her door a crack. "I knew I should've joined the chess club instead of this family."
Downstairs, bullets pinged off the garage door. The gate was now dented in three places. Car alarms in the neighborhood wailed in protest.
Bethany pulled out a steel baseball bat and kicked off her heels. "I swear on my glutes, they picked the wrong house!"
Conrad stood, rubbing his elbow. "Everyone—battle formation Narumi Uno! Johnny, smoke protocol! Glenn, weapons rack!"
Johnny scrambled to the bar cabinet and pulled out a dusty box marked "EMERGENCY, BUT FUNNY." Inside: Roman candles, expired tear gas, a bottle of baby oil, and an antique shotgun.
He cocked the shotgun. "Locked and loaded, baby."
Bethany pushed a sofa into position like it was made of cardboard. "Steph, go to the panic room!"
"We don't have a panic room!" Stephanie shouted.
"Well, then make one!" Conrad bellowed, grabbing a frying pan.
Jamie ran down the stairs barefoot, ducking as another shot pinged off the iron gate.
She looked at her father, jaw clenched. "Who the hell did you piss off this week?!"
"Could be anyone," Conrad said. "I cut in line at Mercury Drug, rejected a shady alliance, told a priest to go to hell—"
"Okay, I regret asking."
The lights flickered. A bullet punched through the veranda post, spraying splinters. Mama Tipay, on the second-floor balcony in a silk robe, sipped her red wine and squinted at the shooters.
"What kind of idiots fire an Uzi at a gate from that angle?" she muttered. "Children these days—no aim, no finesse."
Conrad peeked around the corner. "It's a drive-by—pickup truck, three goons, two automatic rifles, one guy with a selfie stick—what the hell?!"
Johnny popped a smoke bomb into the yard. "Showtime, baby!"
Jose rolled out onto the porch, pistol in hand, aiming low. "Fire only when you see teeth."
Bethany kicked open the side door, screaming, "MAMA-SANG COMING THROUGH!"
Glenn emerged from the back room, shirtless, covered in baby powder and holding a wok.
They were ready.
Bullets still flew.
But so did frying pans, Roman candles, and at least one basketball Anthony had thrown from upstairs.
As chaos roared outside, Jamie crouched beside Conrad, who held a half-burnt campaign poster as a shield.
She whispered, "Are we gonna die?"
Conrad looked around at the living room, now covered in flour, smoke, shell casings, and glitter from Glenn's emergency stash.
He grinned.
"Not tonight."
---
Outside the Narumi house, the air was a choking mixture of gunpowder, burning rubber, and half-lit fireworks from Johnny's "smoke protocol" box.
The gate, once proudly painted with Conrad's grinning campaign photo, was now dented, perforated, and barely standing. The attackers—three armed men in a black pickup truck—continued to fire short bursts at the house, thinking they were facing a confused, defenseless political family.
They were wrong.
Inside, the Narumis were locked, loaded, and unhinged.
Conrad ducked behind a knocked-over bookshelf, pistol in one hand, flashlight duct-taped to it.
He peeked out from behind the curtain. "They're still at the gate. Two with rifles, one with... wait—is that a GoPro?"
"It's livestreaming!" Johnny shouted. "We're trending on GUNtok!"
Bethany rolled across the floor, pistol gripped in one hand and a metal wok in the other. "Let them trend in hell! We go on offense."
Jose Suansing wheeled up beside her, calm as a monk at a bar fight. He adjusted his glasses, then cocked his sidearm. "I'll take left side. Bethany, center. Conrad, Johnny, you flank."
"What about Glenn?" Johnny asked, ducking as a bullet cracked a window.
Glenn burst through the hallway covered in baby oil, pantsless, dual-wielding a pistol and a hairdryer. "I'M YOUR DISTRACTION!"
"Perfect," Conrad muttered.
Bethany kicked open the main door, pistol raised. "LET'S GET THESE RASCALS!"
The front yard exploded into chaos.
Johnny slid out behind her, crouched low, firing warning shots at the pickup's tires. Conrad sprinted behind the hibiscus bushes, shouting orders.
Jose wheeled along the driveway's side ramp, firing low, precise shots that chipped the pavement inches from the attackers' feet.
One gunman ducked behind the hood. Another scrambled to reload. The third—the one with the GoPro—started filming in selfie mode and yelling, "We're under attack! They're supposed to surrender!"
"Wrong house, baby!" Glenn screamed, running past him covered in kitchen flour, yelling, "You want a scandal?! I'LL GIVE YOU SCANDAL!"
From above, on the second-floor balcony, a new projectile entered the battlefield.
Mama Tipay emerged like a wrathful deity in a nightgown, clutching an old white arinola—a traditional chamber pot used for very non-combat purposes.
"YOU WANNA START A WAR?!" she bellowed.
The gunmen looked up.
Mama Tipay hurled the arinola with the strength of a barangay legend.
It spun midair like a discus—and shattered on the hood of the pickup with a grotesque SPLASH.
The liquid explosion hit one of the gunmen directly in the face.
He screamed like a child at a haunted house.
"MY EYES! IT'S PISS! OLD WOMAN PISS!"
Mama Tipay, arms crossed, nodded in satisfaction. "That'll teach you to shoot at my house. The rest of my organs don't work—but that one does!"
Conrad, halfway to the gate, dropped into cover behind a garbage bin. "MAMA TIPAY, YOU'RE A LEGEND!"
Johnny shouted, "I love her more than I love my own lungs!"
Bethany, now crouched under a broken garden trellis, took aim at the truck's tires and fired.
BANG.
HISSSSSSSSSSS.
"Left front tire down!" she shouted.
Jose fired one more shot—cleanly hitting the wing mirror. "Psychological warfare. Take away their visibility."
Meanwhile, Glenn tackled the GoPro gunman with a scream of, "HASHTAG VIOLENCE!"
They crashed into a flower bed.
Upstairs, Jamie yelled from a second-floor window, "I CALLED THE POLICE!"
Stephanie popped her head out beside her. "Also I'm filming this for the vlog!"
Anthony shouted, "Add a TikTok sound! Make it cinematic!"
Another round of gunfire. One assailant tried to reload behind the vehicle. Conrad leapt out of the bushes, fired a warning shot at his feet, and yelled:
"YOU WANT A FIGHT? COME MEET THE NARUMIS, YOU SONS OF—"
BOOM!
Bethany hurled her wok like a discus. It clanged off the truck's windshield and ricocheted back onto the lawn.
The attackers, now thoroughly disoriented, covered in piss, smoke, and embarrassment, scrambled into their vehicle. One of them screamed, "ABORT! ABORT! I DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS!"
The engine sputtered.
Then roared.
Then died.
"HA!" Johnny laughed. "It's a diesel with a cracked radiator!"
"I slashed the tires with a nail cutter," Jose added calmly.
The attackers, now panicked, leapt from the vehicle and scattered into the night on foot.
Bethany stood at the gate, pistol still smoking.
Conrad limped up beside her, panting.
Mama Tipay appeared at the balcony again, lighting a cigarette with calm satisfaction.
"I told you I felt it," she said smugly.
"You felt it in your glutes," Johnny said, dragging a garden chair to the center of the yard.
"I was right, wasn't I?"
Glenn, still slick with baby oil and wearing only a sock and a necktie, saluted dramatically. "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!"
Jose rolled into the center of the lawn. "Not bad for a bunch of has-beens and a chamber pot."
The front yard was a mess of smoke, cracked tiles, bullet holes, a destroyed pickup truck, and a ruined hibiscus hedge.
Conrad lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
He took one long drag.
Then exhaled.
"...Now it's war."
----
11:02 PM, second floor, Jamie's bedroom.
The Narumi residence was now a warzone.
Gunfire echoed through the walls. The front gate had long been breached. Shouts, grunts, and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering bounced off the tile floors like a twisted concert.
In the corner of Jamie's bedroom, huddled beneath the desk, were the Narumi siblings.
Jamie sat with her knees pressed to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs. Her phone, slick with sweat, lay on the floor nearby. Stephanie, pale and visibly shaking, leaned against the base of the desk, her lips muttering something quietly, again and again. Anthony had jammed himself behind Jamie's beanbag chair, clutching a basketball like it was a stuffed toy.
"Is it still going?" Anthony whispered.
Jamie tilted her head toward the hallway. A sudden burst of yelling answered him—Conrad's voice, unmistakable even through layers of concrete.
"YOU SONS OF—COME HERE AND LICK THE BULLET, YOU CHEAP-LOOKING COWARDS!"
Followed by a shotgun blast.
Then a scream. Johnny, probably.
Jamie winced. "Still going."
Stephanie finally spoke aloud, her voice hoarse. "This is how we die, isn't it?"
"No," Jamie snapped. "No one's dying."
Stephanie stared at the ceiling. "They shot the gate. What kind of people shoot at a gate?"
"The same kind Dad pisses off every other week," Jamie muttered, trying to slow her breathing. Her heart was thudding in her ears, louder than the yelling downstairs.
Anthony coughed. "I threw my ring light at the window. That was dumb, right?"
"Extremely," Jamie said, unable to stop herself. "But... thanks."
Stephanie clutched Jamie's forearm suddenly. "What do we do?"
Jamie looked down at her phone. "We call Mom."
Anthony blinked. "Mom?! She's in Tokyo."
"She'll know what to do," Jamie said, grabbing the phone.
She didn't wait for either of them to argue.
The screen glowed against her face as she scrolled to MOM: KAKO JAPAN 🇯🇵📞
She hit the call button.
It rang.
And rang.
And—
"Jamie?" Kako's voice, warm but sharp, came through the speaker. She sounded distracted, probably mid-meeting or sipping tea with some hotelier.
"Mom," Jamie said quickly, "we're under attack."
The line went silent.
"What?"
"They're shooting at the house," Jamie said. "Armed men. At least three. Maybe more. Dad, Johnny, Jose, Bethany—everyone's downstairs returning fire."
Stephanie's eyes widened at the word returning fire.
Anthony murmured, "Should I go downstairs and help—?"
"No," Jamie and Stephanie said in unison.
"Are you okay?" Kako asked. Her voice now carried that terrifying calm that meant something inside her had just snapped into control mode.
"We're upstairs. I locked the doors. We're safe. But—it's bad, Mom. Really bad."
There was another explosion below. The walls shook.
Through the phone, Kako heard it clearly.
Then came Conrad's voice, screaming from the veranda like an ancient war god possessed by alcohol and rage:
"I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU AND TURN YOUR BULLETS INTO KEYCHAINS! YOUR MOTHERS OWE ME RENT!"
Kako was silent for a second.
Then softly: "That idiot."
Jamie nearly laughed—half from tension, half from relief.
"Tell me everything," Kako said. "Now."
Jamie quickly summarized what she could—how the attackers came suddenly, how the family turned the house into a battlefield, how even Mama Tipay hurled an arinola earlier.
"You're with Stephanie and Anthony?"
"Yes."
"Stay in that room. Do not come out. I'm calling someone."
"Who?"
"A friend. In the embassy. Possibly a war criminal. You don't need to know the details."
A round of automatic fire sounded closer now—almost beneath the window.
Stephanie grabbed Jamie's arm. "Jamie. Basement window. I think one of them just climbed in."
Jamie's grip tightened on the phone. "Mom. Someone might be in the house."
Kako didn't respond for a beat.
Then she said quietly, with steel in her tone: "Is Conrad still alive?"
Jamie blinked. "I... think so?"
Through the wall, they heard Conrad shout again:
"I'M OUT OF BULLETS, BUT I HAVE A LADLE! COME ON!"
"Then good," Kako said. "Because if he lets any of you get hurt, I will fly back and kill him myself."
"Please hurry," Jamie whispered.
"I'm calling in favors now," Kako said. "Stay where you are."
The line clicked off.
Jamie dropped the phone, breath shaking. She didn't cry. Not yet.
Anthony broke the silence. "Did she say... war criminal?"
"Probably," Jamie replied.
Stephanie reached for Jamie's hand and clutched it hard. "I want to go back to just being grounded for sneaking wine."
"I want to go back to watching anime in peace," Anthony added.
Jamie let her head rest back against the desk. The room still trembled with each gunshot, each thud of chaos below. But inside their little triangle, the siblings pressed together, holding tight.
And waiting.
----
11:19 PM.
The front yard of the Narumi residence looked like the aftermath of a revolution fought by drunk uncles and gym instructors.
Smoke still curled in the air. The pickup truck—bullet-ridden and leaking fluid—was parked sideways on the sidewalk, half-mounted on the neighbor's lawn. Conrad stood atop the Narumi garden gnome, brandishing a broken broom like a victory banner. Bethany leaned against the veranda post, knuckles bruised and triumphant. Glenn—now wearing shorts and still glistening with baby oil—stood barefoot in a crater of smashed succulents, holding a frying pan like a shield. Johnny sat cross-legged on the grass, sipping water like he'd just run a marathon in flip-flops.
Jose rolled down the driveway, gun still resting across his lap, eyes scanning.
Then, finally—sirens.
The distinct, disorganized whine of Nueva Citta's finest.
Red and blue lights splashed across the street as a convoy of police vehicles pulled up in a screech of overkill—three cars, one van, and one officer on a scooter who clearly wasn't invited but came anyway.
Out stepped Chief Inspector Paquito Sta. Ana, a weary, sarcastic man in his late fifties with a permanent sunburn and a clipboard he hadn't used since 2019. He took one look at the chaos, then rubbed his temples as if trying to massage the stupidity away.
"Oh, hell," he muttered.
A junior officer—baby-faced and holding a riot shield upside down—jogged up beside him. "Sir! Reports said active gunfire, possible political assassination attempt—"
"Son," Sta. Ana interrupted, "this is the Narumi house. Adjust your expectations."
He waved a hand, signaling the team forward.
From behind the gate, Conrad turned and saw the flashing lights. He immediately raised both arms and shouted, "WE SURRENDER! TAKE BETHANY, SHE STARTED IT!"
"I WILL FOLD YOU LIKE A TABLE, SIR," Bethany said without turning.
Johnny raised his hands half-heartedly. "If they ask, we're the victims, right?"
"Yes," Glenn replied, brushing gravel off his chest. "Victims of unresolved generational trauma."
Sta. Ana stepped through the wrecked gate, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Well, look at you," he said flatly, eyeing the ragtag crew. "Nueva Citta's Avengers."
"Inspector Sta. Ana!" Conrad greeted, limping forward with the broken broom slung across his shoulder. "Good to see you. Ignore the bullet holes. And the blood. That's mostly ketchup."
Sta. Ana stopped just short of him. "I got fifteen emergency calls about this block. Including one from a man yelling, 'They've got an arinola!'"
"Accurate," Johnny said, waving.
Sta. Ana turned to Jose. "What the hell happened?"
Jose, calm as always, responded, "Assassination attempt. Three attackers, semi-automatic weapons, likely hired muscle. We neutralized them using old police tactics, kitchenware, and rage."
Sta. Ana sighed. "You people attract gunmen like lechon attracts ants."
A few officers began cordoning off the property. One started collecting bullet casings. Another asked if the parked scooter belonged to anyone. It did not.
Bethany handed over her pistol to a female officer. "Registered. Safety on. I only fired three rounds. The frying pan did the rest."
"Why is your body covered in glitter?" the officer asked.
"Don't ask."
Sta. Ana pulled out his phone. "I need statements. And possibly psychiatric evaluations. Are the kids okay?"
"Upstairs," Conrad said. "They locked themselves in Jamie's room. Called their mom."
"Ah. Kako. That'll be fun."
As if summoned by the name, Jamie burst out the front door, followed by Stephanie and Anthony. All three looked shaken, but whole.
"Are they gone?" Jamie asked, looking around.
"Gone and limping," Sta. Ana answered. "And your dad is still somehow standing."
Conrad pointed at the gate. "They shot at my house, Paco!"
"I can see that."
"They tried to kill my dog!"
"Your dog was hiding in the washing machine."
"I TAUGHT HIM THAT."
Sta. Ana exhaled. "You want protection detail?"
"I want revenge," Conrad said.
Bethany added, "He means he wants to sue someone, yell at strangers, and cry in the shower."
Jamie stepped forward. "Chief Sta. Ana, my mom is calling embassy contacts. She wants full police reports and names."
Sta. Ana raised a brow. "Of course she does."
Conrad grabbed Sta. Ana by the shoulders. "I need names, Paco. Give me just one. I'll find the rest."
"I'm not giving you anything until we have proper paperwork, surveillance reviews, and someone mops up that mystery liquid on the lawn."
Anthony looked around. "Wait... where's Mama Tipay?"
Johnny pointed up. "She passed out on the balcony. We'll let her wake up when the paramedics arrive."
"Good," Sta. Ana muttered. "I don't have the energy to arrest your grandmother tonight."
He clapped his hands once.
"Alright, boys. Get statements. Bag the casings. Someone arrest that unattended pickup. And someone else find out if the one in baby oil is a suspect or a victim."
"That's Glenn," Conrad said. "He's just... like that."
One of the junior officers walked past, glancing at the wreckage. "Sir, this looks like a war zone."
"It was," Stephanie said dryly. "But with worse fashion."
Jamie turned to her dad. "They'll come back."
"I know," Conrad replied, staring at the bullet holes in the veranda pillar.
"So what now?"
Conrad lit a cigarette, exhaled hard.
"We clean up," he said. "We patch the holes. And we prepare."
Sta. Ana looked at him sideways. "You thinking of retaliating?"
"I'm thinking of living," Conrad said. "And not quietly."
The sirens faded. The street settled into uneasy silence. The neighbors peeked from behind curtains. The news vans would be arriving any minute.
Inside, the Narumis regrouped.
Bruised. Exhausted.
And angrier than ever.