By nine the next morning, the sky hung heavy with clouds, draping Manila in a gray, suffocating light.
In Binondo, Ongpin Street pulsed with unease. Two bodies lay beneath white sheets, their skin blistered and scorched as if seared by fire. The faint odor of burnt flesh clung to the damp air. People pressed against the barricades, murmuring in tight clusters, their voices buzzing like trapped bees, their breath mingling with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt.
Nearby, at the creek canal, another scene deepened the dread. Three more victims—a young woman and two police officers—lay lifeless. Yellow tape flapped in the wet wind, stretched across both ends of the narrow street. Its bold warning—POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS—seemed almost swallowed by the crowd pressing near. From the canal rose the stench of stagnant water and rotting garbage, sour and heavy, wrapping itself around the living as tightly as fear.
The city's rhythm faltered. Footsteps scraped against slick pavement. Conversations shrank to whispers. Even traffic seemed muted, until a lone car horn echoed and died away. The flutter of yellow tape, the distant clatter of shutters slamming shut, and the hiss of police radios became the only sounds.
At the center of Ongpin Street, a news reporter stood stiffly, microphone trembling in her grip. The harsh camera light bleached her face pale, throwing stark shadows beneath her eyes. Sweat gathered at her temple despite the morning chill. Her voice fought for calm, but unease bled into every word.
"A grim morning here in Manila," she began, her words cutting through the static of the live feed. "We are live on Ongpin Street in Binondo, where two bodies were discovered just hours ago. Behind me, you can see the growing crowd. Authorities have yet to confirm—are these victims… human, or something else entirely?"
Fear flickered across her eyes before she turned toward the barricades. Spotting a young woman in the front row, she leaned closer.
"Miss, can you tell us—what do you think happened here?"
The girl twisted the hem of her blouse, voice brittle.
"I… I don't know. But people say it was a monster. That monsters are already here in the city."
She swallowed hard, lowering her voice to a near whisper, as if speaking louder might invite danger.
"I didn't hear anything last night. The rain and thunder drowned it all out."
Meanwhile, officers moved with rigid precision. The metallic clicks of camera shutters and the scratch of pens against paper punctuated the heavy quiet.
Two policemen in navy stood watch at the barricades, eyes darting nervously toward the crowd, while investigators crouched low, gloved hands snapping photos and gathering samples.
The murmurs thickened, curling through the humid air like smoke.
"Aswang… it must be the aswang…"
The reporter stepped back into frame, gripping her microphone tighter as the whispers pressed closer.
"Fear and speculation continue to grow here. Authorities remain tight-lipped, but rumors of aswang spread quickly among the people.
For now, we turn to another disturbing site nearby—where three more victims have been found under strange circumstances."
Her voice faltered against the rising hum of rumor and disbelief. The camera crew followed her toward the creek canal, trailed by curious onlookers.
Even in daylight, the place reeked of decay. Blood streaked the pavement, thinned by rainwater, its metallic tang clinging to the air. Along the gutter, carcasses of cats and rats lay torn open, entrails spilling into the runoff. Reporters gagged, unable to mask their disgust.
Two policemen stood stiff near the bodies, their damp uniforms clinging to their skin. Their hands twitched near their holsters though no threat presented itself. Investigators in black jackets worked silently, pens scratching with mechanical precision.
At their center loomed Lieutenant Ramon Ibarra, fifty-one. His weathered face, graying temples, and heavy stomach spoke of decades in the force. Yet his frame radiated authority. He stared down at the corpses, jaw locked, eyes hardened with a veteran's resolve that betrayed neither fear nor disgust.
Not far away crouched Officer Adrian Velasco, thirty-seven. His sharp features were drawn taut, his gaze fixed on the blistered skin. Almost without realizing, his fingertips brushed the scorched flesh. Dry. Brittle. Like charred wood.
"Hey… let the investigators handle that. Stand up, Adrian."
Ibarra's voice cut sharp through the air. Adrian froze, then slowly pulled his hand back, jaw tight, fist curling at his side. His frame trembled, a storm barely contained.
The lieutenant stepped forward, his hand heavy on Adrian's shoulder. His voice dropped low, commanding.
"Now is not the time. Control yourself."
Adrian rose, stiff, reluctant—bound more by Ibarra's words than by his own will. Around them, whispers stirred sharper.
"They say an aswang did this…"
The words curled under Adrian's skin like hooks. His jaw ground forward, his shoulders taut with restraint.
A voice broke through behind them—the reporter again, notebook in hand.
"Sir, may I ask… do you believe the rumors are true?"
Ibarra turned, his gaze shifting from the sprawled victims to the reporter. His face betrayed no surprise, only weariness, as though he had heard the question long before it was spoken.
Adrian did not turn. His eyes stayed locked on the bodies, his frame trembling with something caged and dangerous.
Then the ground itself began to growl.
A low rumble deepened into a violent roar. The street bucked, windows rattled, dust shivered loose from eaves.
Puddles splintered into rippling rings; iron shutters clanged like distant drums.
Screams split the air like glass shattering. Panic tore through the crowd.
Men and women shoved blindly, trampling those who stumbled.
Barricades toppled, yellow tape whipping free and tangling around ankles.
A child's cry cracked through the chaos, swallowed by the crush of bodies.
The reporter lurched sideways, microphone jolting in her grip as the camera swung wildly. Breathless, she fought to steady herself—then her eyes caught on Adrian.
He alone stood unshaken, rigid in the frenzy. His red gaze burned sharp, cutting through the stampede like a blade. A shiver rippled through her. The quake ended, but what she saw in his eyes lingered colder still.
All around, officers and investigators held their ground. Boots braced against trembling earth, postures controlled, expressions unreadable. They neither stumbled nor broke form, their calm presence almost unnatural against the chaos. It wasn't courage—they simply refused to reveal fear or confidence.
At the barricades on Ongpin Street, one officer raised his radio, voice steady but clipped.
"Control, this is Ongpin team. Civilians injured, possible casualties from the quake. Requesting immediate backup and medical. Over."
Static hissed before the reply:
"Copy, Ongpin. Rescue team is on the way. Hold your position."
Near the creek canal, another officer keyed his mic, tone equally measured.
"Control, this is the Creek Canal team. Structural damage here. Civilians in panic, casualties possible. Requesting reinforcements and medics. Over."
The response crackled through.
"Acknowledged, Creek Canal. Backup dispatched. Maintain perimeter until relief arrives."
The radios' clipped voices cut through the chaos like steel wires—calm, efficient, unbending.