Rabe Industries towered above downtown Manila like a monument to ambition and moral ambiguity. The building was all glass and steel, reflecting the pollution-smudged sky with unsettling precision. Inside, it was colder than necessary—air-conditioned to the point of hostility.
On the top floor, behind tinted black windows, was the office of Manuel Rabe.
The space was aggressively minimalist. No family photos. No framed degrees. Just long, quiet expanses of black stone, brushed metal, and a floor-to-ceiling tank that made the entire floor feel like it sat above an aquarium. Schools of koi and blue parrotfish drifted below the glass floor, too serene for the mood in the room.
Manuel Rabe sat behind his obsidian desk like a general in the eye of a storm.
He was a large man in his mid-fifties—obese but imposing, with a shaved head, deep lines around his mouth, and a gaze like a cleaver: heavy, cold, and precise. He wore a perfectly tailored three-piece suit in matte charcoal and held a single white bishop in one hand. A glass chessboard sat on the desk, mid-match—with both sides clearly played by the same mind.
Across from him, Oral and Anal Roberts stood side by side like deranged action figures. Oral wore a fire-engine red blazer and twirled a butterfly knife between his fingers. Anal, in a black leather trench coat, tapped his fingers rhythmically on his thigh, bored but alert.
"You failed to implicate Conrad Narumi?" Manuel asked, not looking up from the chessboard.
"Yes," Oral answered first. "His powers are... too powerful."
Manuel's eyes lifted, slowly.
"His powers?"
Oral cleared his throat. "By powers, I mean... media goodwill. His name still carries weight in Nueva Citta. The Pangitarium incident made him look like a fool, not a criminal."
"And the attempt to pin the gas line on him?"
Anal shrugged. "Divers inspected the wreckage. Turns out the building was so illegal, the explosion practically cleared the permit backlog. He came out looking heroic."
Manuel let out a long breath through his nose.
He placed the bishop down gently and nudged a black pawn forward with his index finger. The sound of glass on glass echoed like a whisper.
"He never changes," he murmured.
The aquarium lights shifted beneath them—casting eerie blue ripples on the ceiling.
Just then, the elevator at the far end of the room dinged. A man in a tan linen suit stepped in, carrying no briefcase, no phone, just the easy stride of someone with insider access.
Melanio Aquino, a political fixer turned real estate consultant. Also in his fifties, leaner than Rabe but equally weathered. His face wore the jaded calm of a man who'd seen entire barangays erased for road expansions.
"Melanio," Manuel said, not standing.
"Manuel," Melanio returned, slipping into a leather chair across the desk. "Chess again? You never did know how to play with others."
"I've learned," Rabe said, "to win alone."
Oral leaned over to Anal. "Oooh, brooding line."
Anal nodded. "He's rehearsed that one."
Rabe ignored them.
"I assume you didn't come for the fish?" he asked Melanio.
"I came because I heard you're trying to pull Conrad Narumi into your web again."
Rabe raised an eyebrow. "You disapprove?"
"I think," Melanio said, unbuttoning his jacket, "Conrad is a cockroach with bad hair. But you? You're a python that thinks he's an eagle. You slither in close, then act shocked when no one wants to fly with you."
"That was poetic," Anal muttered.
"But inaccurate," Rabe said calmly. "I have other options."
He turned to the giant touchscreen embedded into his desk, flicked it once, and pulled up a zoning map of Nueva Citta. Hundreds of parcels were marked in red, yellow, and blue—each tagged with legal codes, campaign affiliations, and estimated bribe thresholds.
Rabe zoomed in on a section near the bay.
"If Conrad won't agree," he said, "I make an alliance with Ray Medrano. I fund his congressional ambitions. He gets what he wants. I get what I need."
Melanio chuckled softly. "Ray Medrano thinks of you the same way he thinks of fast food: cheap, bad for the blood pressure, and useful only when drunk."
"He's still pragmatic."
"He's still greedy," Melanio corrected. "But Conrad? Conrad won't take your offer. You remind him too much of Ray. He thinks of you as oil. And he—"
"—thinks of himself as water," Rabe finished, smiling faintly. "Yes. He said that to me once. After the old airport bidding war. But that was years ago."
"People like him," Melanio said, "don't forget who poisoned their well."
Manuel stood now, slowly. He walked toward the aquarium wall—hands behind his back, watching the fish glide beneath his feet.
"I don't need Conrad's loyalty," he said. "I need his isolation. Once I cut off his political oxygen, even his enemies will forget he existed."
He turned back, sharp and slow.
"I'm not building alliances, Melanio. I'm erasing obstacles."
Melanio raised an eyebrow. "And what happens when both the Medranos and the Narumis resist?"
"They won't," Rabe said. "Not for long."
He tapped his desk once. A new screen appeared: security footage from outside Jamie's university. Another screen: traffic cam of Bernard entering a café. A third: Sophia speaking to a journalist.
Oral and Anal leaned in.
"Phase two?" Oral asked, eyes glinting.
"Not yet," Rabe said. "First, we let the family tension boil over. Let them ruin each other in the public eye. Then, when they're too busy bleeding—"
"—we sell them the bandages," Melanio finished.
Rabe returned to his chessboard.
He moved the white queen forward and tilted his head thoughtfully.
Then whispered, almost to himself:
"Check."
----
The elevator opened with a quiet chime, and Ray Medrano stepped into the cavernous upper floor of Rabe Industries.
The hallway was a whisper of polished marble, empty of assistants or guards. The silence was intentional—meant to rattle the egos of politicians used to being flattered. But Ray was used to this game. He adjusted his cufflinks, slid a hand through his silver-streaked hair, and walked as if he owned the entire floor.
He did not knock.
"Come in," Manuel Rabe called, already seated behind his obsidian desk.
Ray entered and paused to absorb the space. He made a slow show of surveying the aquarium floor, where the blue parrotfish floated by like they were eavesdropping.
"Well," Ray said, stepping forward with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "You always had a flair for drama."
Manuel gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Flair gets you noticed. Substance keeps you remembered."
Ray sat, legs crossed, a subtle power play. "I didn't realize we were playing to be remembered."
Manuel poured two glasses of water from a carafe that looked like it had been crafted by Scandinavian monks. He slid one toward Ray but didn't touch his own.
"I'll get to the point," Rabe said. "You have enemies. Conrad. The mayor's office. Even your own party, fractured by internal ambition."
Ray didn't flinch. "That's what makes it a party."
"I can offer you unity. Stability. Funding. Guaranteed victory in your congressional run—and, after that, options."
"Options?"
Rabe tapped the screen embedded in his desk. A zoning map appeared again, but this time it focused on districts 4 through 7—precisely where Ray's influence was weakening.
"Fast-track infrastructure projects. Revised barangay jurisdiction lines. Discretionary funds for education reforms—"
Ray raised a hand. "Let me guess. All contingent on... cooperation?"
Manuel gave a small, polite smile. "A partnership."
Ray picked up the glass but didn't drink. He turned it slowly in his hand, watching the condensation run down his manicured fingers.
"And in this partnership," he said softly, "what do I provide? Aside from my soul, obviously."
"Access," Rabe said. "You approve key resolutions. You block Conrad's pet projects. You let me shape the city's southern spine."
Ray chuckled. "So you want a puppet."
"No," Rabe said. "I want a partner who doesn't choke when it's time to cut."
Ray leaned back, glass still in hand, eyes narrowing. "And what happens when the strings get tangled?"
"Then I untangle them," Rabe said calmly. "Or I burn the puppet and build another."
The silence between them now was thick. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional bubble rising in the aquarium floor.
Ray finally spoke. "You know, my wife always says I should do less negotiating and more winning. She'd be thrilled to hear this offer."
"But?"
"But," Ray said, placing the glass on the desk with surgical precision, "I don't take threats dressed as business proposals."
Manuel tilted his head, his smile never fading. "That wasn't a threat."
"It never is with you," Ray said. "That's your trick. You just imply you'll ruin someone's bloodline and let the silence do the rest."
"Efficiency," Manuel said.
Ray stood, brushing invisible lint from his suit. "I'll consider your... offer. For now, let's call this a social call."
Rabe also stood. He was taller, broader, heavier—but Ray carried himself like a blade in a leather sheath: calm, elegant, but lethal when drawn.
As Ray turned to leave, Manuel added, "Conrad will never work with me. You know that."
"I know," Ray said over his shoulder.
"And yet, you still hesitate."
Ray paused at the elevator. "Because unlike you, I don't need to burn down the city to build a palace."
The doors slid open. He stepped in, not looking back.
"Tell Bernadette I send my regards," Manuel said, right before the doors closed.
Ray didn't reply. The elevator hummed downward, and the silence inside seemed somehow louder.
As the elevator descended, Ray's expression shifted. Gone was the cool amusement—replaced with quiet calculation.
He pulled out his phone and opened his messages. No new updates from his team. But one unread text stood out:
BERNADETTE:
That Rabe meeting—don't agree to anything until we discuss. I have an idea.
Ray smirked faintly.
"Of course you do," he muttered.
Back upstairs, Manuel returned to his seat, gazing at the blank screen of the chessboard. He picked up the black queen, spun it between his fingers, then placed it down with a gentle clink.
Oral and Anal Roberts re-entered from the side door, both holding iced coffee and watching the aquarium floor like it was a sports broadcast.
"Medrano buy it?" Oral asked.
"He declined," Rabe said.
"For now," Anal added, slurping loudly.
Rabe didn't respond.
Instead, he tapped the desk and pulled up footage of the Narumi residence—specifically the gate, which was now monitored by an unmarked drone.
"If the Medranos won't partner," he said, "they'll still benefit from what comes next."
Oral raised an eyebrow. "And the Narumis?"
Manuel stared at the footage. Conrad stepping out in his ridiculous pineapple shirt. Jamie and Bernard talking outside the gate.
"We don't need to break them," Rabe said softly.
"We just need them... scattered."
----
Later that afternoon, the Narumi Corporation office was its usual charming disaster. Somewhere between a government agency and a pawnshop, the space carried the scent of dust, overbrewed coffee, and a misplaced karaoke mic from the New Year's party three years ago.
Conrad Narumi sat at his desk in a faded golf polo, spinning a pen in one hand and staring at a spreadsheet he didn't understand. Opposite him, Johnny Dono lounged in a plastic monobloc chair, leisurely filing his nails and humming "To Love You More" off-key.
Bethany, the tower of muscle and soft pink lipstick that managed Conrad's daily existence, walked in with her usual dramatic stride.
"Cons," she said, snapping her gum. "Someone's here for you."
"Who, Britney?" Conrad asked without looking up.
Bethany blinked. "No. Some obese man in a suit, two weird-looking bodyguards with matching cheekbones, and a guy in eyeglasses who looks like he sells fake life insurance."
Conrad and Johnny looked at each other.
"Do we have the same thought?" Conrad asked, lowering his pen.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Johnny replied, still staring at Bethany. Then added, "Britney from M2M, let them in."
Bethany raised an eyebrow but turned and marched out with the confidence of a Victoria's Secret model working security.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and the guests entered.
And there he was.
Manuel Rabe, waddling into the office like he owned the building—though he clearly despised its furniture. He wore a dark suit that strained slightly at the seams, and a smug grin that tried too hard. Behind him, Oral and Anal Roberts flanked the doorway in matching blazers, sunglasses indoors, and general menace. Melanio Aquino, thin and greased like a lawyer from a 90s crime movie, trailed behind, smiling with no teeth.
"Ah," Conrad and Johnny said at the same time. "We had the same thought."
"Conrad!" Rabe bellowed, arms wide, as if they were old friends meeting at a class reunion. "It's been far too long!"
Conrad stood up slowly, eyebrow raised. "It's been long for a reason."
Still, Rabe stepped forward and offered his hand.
Conrad accepted it, lightly, as if checking if the palm had a trapdoor.
"What are you doing here?" Conrad asked, voice already dry.
"I came to see an old friend," Rabe said, glancing around the cluttered office. "How's Kako?"
Johnny interjected before Conrad could reply, voice sweet but loaded: "Don't go looking for someone who's not here."
Rabe smiled like he hadn't heard it. "Still the same fire in this place. I admire that."
Conrad's eyes shifted. "Why is the city's number one swindler standing behind you?" he asked, nodding toward Melanio.
Melanio adjusted his tie. "Adviser," he said smoothly.
"Of course he is," Conrad said flatly. "And what is it you want, Mister Rabe?"
"I have business interests here in the city," Rabe began, his tone almost paternal. "The south end is ripe for redevelopment—residential, commercial, coastal reclamation. I want you to be my partner, Conrad. With your reach and my resources, we could transform Nueva Citta."
Silence.
Then Conrad snorted.
And started laughing.
Johnny joined in, followed by Bethany, who had returned just in time to hear the offer and was now holding a clipboard against her mouth to muffle her cackling.
"You think I'm stupid?" Conrad managed between breaths. "You walk into my office with the con artist Avengers, and expect me to say yes?"
Rabe's smile tightened. "You have a cut in this, Conrad. A generous one."
"If your last name was Marino," Conrad said, wiping a tear, "I'd consider it. At least the Marinos cheat you with class. But you and that conman behind you? No thanks."
Melanio stiffened. Oral cracked his knuckles. Anal adjusted his cuffs with quiet menace.
Rabe, insult bleeding through his grin, stood up.
"I hope you'll reconsider," he said, voice heavy with meaning. "Offers like this don't stay on the table forever."
Conrad leaned forward, hands on his desk.
"I regret this meeting more than your offer," he said with a grin. "I've had root canals I enjoyed more than this conversation."
Rabe took a deep breath. "You may regret saying no."
Conrad pointed at the door. "Not as much as I'll regret letting your shoes touch my linoleum. Please—scrape your conscience off the floor on your way out."
Rabe turned on his heel, coat flaring dramatically—but not quite enough to hide the sweat patch down his back.
Melanio gave a polite nod before following.
The twins paused at the door.
"Cute office," Oral said, scanning the chipped walls.
Anal gave a finger-gun salute. "We'll be seeing you."
"On CCTV?" Johnny asked cheerfully. "We already are."
And just like that, they were gone.
The door closed.
And Conrad collapsed into his chair, bursting into wheezy, uncontrolled laughter.
"This," he gasped, "is the happiest day of my life! Ha-ha-ha! If I accepted that offer—oh my god—we'd all be conmen! I'd have to buy a mustache and start practicing scams in front of the mirror!"
Bethany leaned against the wall, chuckling. "You already look like a corrupt mayor."
"I was born with this face!" Conrad shouted.
Johnny filed his nails again, grinning. "Honestly, this felt like a sitcom episode."
"I should've charged him for air," Conrad said, still catching his breath. "Bethany, remind me to disinfect the seat he sat on."
"Noted," she said. "And also the door handle."
Conrad looked out the window, where the view of the harbor sparkled dimly in the distance.
"Let the city burn if it has to," he said, more to himself than anyone. "I'd rather drown in debt than owe that snake a cup of coffee."
And for once, everyone in the office nodded in perfect agreement.
----
The fish in the floor tank swam in lazy, hypnotic circles beneath Manuel Rabe's polished shoes.
He stood at the edge of the glass, hands clasped behind his back, the Manila skyline a blazing smear of orange and gray through the window. The sun was setting, and it did so with a kind of spite—like even the sky wanted him to make his move.
Behind him, Oral and Anal Roberts waited silently. Their mirrored sunglasses reflected the hollow white light of the ceiling fixtures. They stood perfectly still, except for the occasional synchronized gum chew.
The mood in the room was colder than usual.
Rabe had said nothing since returning from the Narumi meeting. His suit jacket lay across a chair. He had removed his tie. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, but he didn't flinch. He was deep in the cold, calculating anger of a man who hadn't been refused in years—and had just been refused twice.
"Two doors," he said at last, voice flat. "Two families. I offered them both the future."
He turned to face the room. "And they both slammed it in my face."
Oral cracked his knuckles. "Say the word."
Anal leaned in, voice velvety: "Shall we crack the other doors open?"
Manuel walked back to his desk, touched the glass surface, and summoned a series of live feeds and documents onto the embedded screen. It was a warboard—dossiers, digital maps, schedules, photographs, contracts. In the center: Narumi and Medrano, bold red circles around each name.
Under each, photos of their respective families appeared—Jamie, Bernard, Stephanie, Anthony, Bernadette, Kako, even the dog, Droopy, caught mid-yawn on a CCTV feed.
"Conrad plays the fool, but he's dangerous," Rabe said. "He wins people with humor. He makes them forget their caution. He's the kind of idiot who stumbles into survival."
"And Ray?" Anal asked.
Rabe's eyes narrowed. "Ray is worse. He hides behind law degrees and his wife's ambition. But under that façade is the kind of man who'll watch you burn just to feel warm."
Oral nodded. "Both need to go."
"No," Rabe said slowly. "They need to crack."
He tapped on Jamie's face. The image expanded.
"The daughter. The favorite. Pristine. Overachiever. Already the face of the Narumi name at the university."
He tapped Bernard's face next. It enlarged alongside Jamie's.
"And the Medrano boy. Ray's heir, Bernadette's darling. Emotional. Media-ready. Desperate to not be like his parents."
He leaned closer to the screen. "If we shatter the children, we expose the rot in their foundations."
Oral grinned. "So we start with the university?"
Rabe nodded. "Leaked footage. Fake scandals. Edited recordings. Let the school turn on them."
He flicked his fingers, bringing up university security cam footage. One showed Jamie and Bernard entering Grillita. Another showed them laughing outside. A third—grainy but usable—caught Bernard holding Jamie's hand near the school parking lot days later.
"Circulate these selectively. Let the tabloids speculate. Let the student council implode."
Anal raised an eyebrow. "What about Sophia?"
"She'll implode on her own," Rabe said. "We just need to give her the microphone."
"And Kael?" Oral asked.
Rabe smirked. "He's a performance monkey. Feed him a song, and he'll dance."
He brought up a message thread on the screen—one marked with a special encryption tag.
"Operation: Circulo starts tonight. We hit them where they live."
He brought up three maps—Conrad's neighborhood, Ray's private clinic, and the old Medrano compound now occupied by Bernardine.
"All three locations get probed. Not hit—probed. I want rumors of surveillance. I want neighborhood watch threads. I want paranoia."
"And Mama Tipay?" Oral asked, as her face popped up next to a list of known Narumi household staff.
"She's a liability," Rabe said. "A sharp tongue and a longer memory. But she's old-school. She talks too much. We let her. Sometimes, chaos needs its jesters."
He sat back down, face relaxing slightly as he watched the city light up below.
"Make it look like a feud," he said quietly. "Make them think they're attacking each other."
Anal smiled. "Gaslight the families into a war."
Oral leaned forward. "Divide and destabilize. Classic regime strategy."
"Classic business," Rabe corrected. "When water and oil can't mix, you don't force them together."
He stared at the screen again, at the two faces—Jamie and Bernard—frozen in a still frame where they almost looked like a couple.
"You heat them up. Until they boil."
He waved a hand. The screen shut off.
"Send the files," he said. "Start the leaks. And tell our friends in the press—tonight, we change the city."
Oral saluted, mockingly. "With pleasure."
Anal snapped his fingers once. "Phase Two is live."
As the twins left the room, Manuel remained seated in the glow of the empty screen, his hands folded, his face calm.
Outside, the city continued to move, oblivious.
But soon, very soon—it would begin to crack.