[LIVE BREAKING NEWS – SAN AGERO CITY]
Anchor: "We interrupt your regular programming with breaking news. This is Ana Dela Cruz reporting live from downtown San Agero. Tragedy has struck the capital as congressman and reelection candidate Julian Landez was killed earlier this evening in what authorities are calling a 'targeted vehicular explosion.'"
"The incident occurred at approximately 6:47 p.m., shortly after Congressman Landez concluded a public campaign event in Barangay Silay. According to eyewitness reports, the congressman had just entered his vehicle when the explosion tore through the convoy, engulfing the lead car in flames. No survivors have been confirmed from inside the vehicle."
"Emergency response teams arrived within minutes, but the fire had already consumed the entire cabin. Authorities have cordoned off the area and are conducting an ongoing investigation. Forensic units are currently combing through debris to determine the origin and trigger of the device. Initial assessments suggest the use of a high-grade remote-detonated explosive."
"Known for his strong stance on anti-drug policies and his recent alliance with several corporate lobbyists, Congressman Landez was seeking a second term under the Partido Nacionalista Front. His critics often described him as 'controversial,' citing alleged misuse of power and suspected links to internal bribery, though no formal charges were ever filed."
"The President of the Republic has issued a brief statement calling the incident a 'cowardly attack against democracy' and has ordered an immediate formation of a Special Investigations Task Force."
"As of this broadcast, no group has claimed responsibility."
"We will continue to follow this story as it develops. For now, this is Ana Dela Cruz, reporting for NBN News, San Agero."
[The screen fades to black.]
The words rolled across the screen like ice water down my spine.
I sat frozen at the dinner table, spoon half-raised, broth rippling inside it. On screen, emergency crews rushed through a smoke-clouded rural plaza. Police lights painted the camera lens in dizzying red and blue.
"Another one," my mother muttered, cradling her rosary in one hand, spoon in the other. "First Marquez, now Landez. You can't even campaign anymore without risking your life."
Dad didn't look up from his plate. "He was corrupt. I won't shed tears for someone who bled his district dry."
I placed my spoon down gently, letting the clink echo. "Was he corrupt… or just inconvenient?"
That made them pause.
My brother — always the quickest to judge — scoffed and leaned forward. "Come on, Thea. Two pending cases. Shelved audit reports. Backdoor deals with rural councils. You've read the files too. Don't act new."
"I'm not acting," I said, watching the screen carefully. "But no group claimed it. No message left. It wasn't a warning… it was precision."
Mom crossed herself, reaching for the remote. "That's enough crime talk for dinner. We're not at work, Thea. Let's not spoil the night."
The television blinked off. The room dimmed.
But something lingered. Not the image of the blast — that part was sadly familiar — but the silence that followed it. Too clean. Too quiet.
I tried to eat. I couldn't.
That explosion wasn't just some rogue act of terror. No casualties. No bystanders harmed. No damage beyond what was necessary.
Whoever did it… they didn't want chaos.
They wanted control.
And control requires knowledge. Timing. Restraint.
It was almost legal in how surgical it was.
I pushed my bowl away and excused myself from the table. Upstairs, in the quiet of my room, I sat on my bed, replaying the last frame of the broadcast in my mind.
No footprints. No smoke trails.
Just a man erased — like a line of text redacted with permanent ink.
Somewhere out there… someone is playing judge and executioner.
And if I don't find them first — I fear the law never will.
I woke up that morning with the news still fresh in my mind — the screen burning through my thoughts even after the electricity was long shut off.
The death of Congressman Landez wasn't just another crime. It felt… designed. Like someone had planned it to be neat. Quiet. Almost legal.
I brushed off the thought as I got dressed, fixing my collar with one hand while reviewing today's schedule with the other. Court hearing at ten. Two consults in the afternoon. One online lecture in the evening.
My name is Althea Rivas. Twenty-five. Junior associate at Bright Espiritu & Co., one of the few law firms left in this city that still fights for the people who can't afford to lose.
Twelve consecutive wins. Most of them pro bono. Some of them messy. None of them easy.
As I stepped into the jeepney service our firm arranged for early shuttles, I took the far-left corner seat, the kind near the open window. The air was thick, but it still beat the smell of stress and exhaust fumes crowding inside.
We hadn't even passed three blocks and traffic was already crawling.
Was it this dense before?
I checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes before court. If it doesn't move in ten, I'll have to sprint from the underpass again.
Outside, campaign posters plastered every pole and wall like a fever. Faces grinning. Promises screaming in bold red text. None of them seemed genuine. Just distractions in high resolution.
The vendors had multiplied too. More children on the sidewalks selling garlands, snacks, knockoff chargers. Their eyes empty, moving on instinct.
It was only the first week of the official campaign season… and everything already felt heavier.
My phone buzzed.
Atty. Mina Bright:
"Morning, Althea. Can you pass by my office after your hearing? We'll be assigning you a new case. It's… delicate. I'd like you to lead."
I blinked. A new case? Mina Bright wasn't the type to sugarcoat things, and "delicate" from her often meant high stakes. High scrutiny.
Me:
"Yes, ma'am. I'll drop by right after. Thank you for the trust."
I locked my phone and looked outside again.
Another billboard flashed across the overpass — Landez's face still plastered beside a quote he clearly didn't write.
Gone in an instant.
And I was about to be dragged into whatever storm was left behind.
The courtroom smelled like dust and disappointment — like every broken promise that had ever been made under oath decided to hang in the air.
I walked in just as the bailiff announced the presiding judge. No time for coffee. Barely time to breathe.
Opposing counsel was already seated. Attorney Ramon Velasco. Mid-40s. Silk tie. Leather briefcase. The kind of man who let interns prepare his arguments but loved the sound of his own voice when delivering them.
I gave him a slight nod. He barely returned it. Typical.
My client, Mrs. Fe Alvarado, was seated at the back, nervously clutching a worn-out canvas bag that looked older than me. Her eyes met mine — searching, hopeful. I nodded, reassuring her.
This wasn't just a trespassing charge. This was survival.
"Bright Espiritu & Co. for the defense, Your Honor," I said as I stepped forward.
Velasco stood. "Prosecution is ready, Your Honor."
The judge — a no-nonsense woman named Hon. Sylvia Braganza — adjusted her glasses and skimmed through the folder. "Let's make this swift. I've read the briefs. A property dispute turned criminal?"
I cleared my throat. "Yes, Your Honor. The complainant claims Mrs. Alvarado unlawfully occupied his inherited land. However, we intend to prove that her residency on that property predates any legal claim made by the complainant — and that her displacement would not only be unethical, but unlawful."
Velasco smirked. "Your Honor, the law is very clear. Regardless of emotional context, land ownership is about legal documentation, not who planted the first banana tree."
He got a few chuckles from the gallery. I didn't flinch.
"I agree," I said calmly. "And my client has documentation too — barangay certifications, tax declarations from the 1990s, community testimonies. She may not speak the language of contracts, but she has lived the law's consequences long before this courtroom."
The judge glanced at both of us. "Proceed with witness presentation."
The hearing unfolded quickly after that. I kept my focus sharp, but I could feel it — a dull buzzing at the back of my mind. Like something was off. Not with the case… but with everything else. The city. The tension.
As Velasco cross-examined our witness, I received a message on my smartwatch — a silent tap on my wrist.
Mina Bright:
"The case I mentioned — you'll want to read up on Landez before you come up."
And just like that, I knew.
The storm I was watching on the news last night?
Velasco leaned back after his last question, trying to corner our witness into admitting that Mrs. Alvarado had no official land title. He thought that would be his knockout.
"Nothing further, Your Honor," he said, smugly.
I stood.
"Redirect, Your Honor?"
Judge Braganza nodded without looking up from her notes.
I approached the witness, a barangay health worker who had known Mrs. Alvarado for decades.
"Miss Santos," I began gently, "you've testified that Mrs. Alvarado has lived on the property in question since 1994, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am. Her late husband was still alive back then. They raised three children there."
"And in those thirty years, has anyone else ever claimed ownership of that land until recently?"
She shook her head. "None. Not until that rich boy came back from abroad."
"Objection," Velasco snapped, "the witness is editorializing."
"Sustained," the judge said sharply. "Strike the last statement."
I smiled. "Let me rephrase. Miss Santos, did anyone file any formal dispute over the land during those years?"
"No, ma'am. Not until now."
I turned slightly, facing the judge and the gallery. "In short, Your Honor, we are not dealing with a simple trespassing issue. We are dealing with an eviction masked as justice. With evidence showing uninterrupted possession, community acknowledgment, and even local tax declarations, my client's rights to the property fall under the doctrine of lawful possession and equitable ownership."
Velasco scoffed behind me. I didn't flinch.
"Bright Espiritu & Co. requests the immediate dismissal of the criminal charges against Mrs. Alvarado, and the recognition of her right to peaceful possession."
The courtroom was quiet for a moment — a rare thing.
Judge Braganza leaned forward.
"I will issue my decision within five business days. Both parties are dismissed for now."
A bang of the gavel. The tension deflated, but not entirely.
As I walked out, Mrs. Alvarado caught up to me, her eyes glistening. "Thank you, Attorney Rivas. Even if we lose… I never thought someone like me could speak in a room like that."
I touched her shoulder. "We're not losing."
I meant it. I wasn't just fighting for her. I was fighting for everything people like her stood to lose when the system favored the powerful.
Outside, the sun was sharp and the air hung heavy. Traffic roared in the distance.
I checked my watch again. Landez's name still hovered on my notifications.
Mina Bright's office was already prepared for me.
A brown envelope lay at the center of her desk, the red tab still sealed. I knew that look — straight to business, no room for the usual preamble.
She glanced at me once, then gestured toward the envelope. "You already know what this is about."
"I saw the report last night," I said, settling into the chair across from her. "Julian Landez. Barangay Silay. Killed in a car explosion. Confirmed as planted."
"Not just planted. Precision work." Mina leaned forward, her tone sharper than usual. "Under the vehicle. Timed detonation. No warning, no chance of survival. He was gone before anyone could reach him."
I opened the folder carefully. Inside were initial reports — autopsy notes, forensic snapshots, fragments of the car's remains. Burnt. Twisted. The kind of case that didn't just scream foul play — it broadcasted it.
"And this is the case I'm handling."
"You already were," she said simply. "I told you in the message this morning. The Landez family requested you. By name."
I blinked. "They knew about me?"
"They've been following your progress for some time. They said you 'speak like the truth has claws.'" Mina paused. "Frankly, that sounds like the kind of lawyer this case will need."
I looked back down at the evidence. Julian Landez — a well-loved public figure in Silay — had recently filed his candidacy for barangay captain. Rumors swirled that he'd been preparing to reveal something about corruption within the local municipal funds. And now, this.
"Do we know what he was onto?"
"We know he was gathering documents," Mina said, retrieving a thinner, classified envelope from her drawer. "Land dispute records. Whistleblower testimonies. Even leaked memos pointing to fund misappropriation tied to a community redevelopment project."
"And they think that's why he was killed."
Mina didn't answer immediately. Instead, she met my eyes with something bordering on a challenge.
"They don't just think it, Althea. They're betting on it. And they've asked you to be the one to make sure his story doesn't die with him."
The air hung heavy between us.
I closed the folder.
"Then I'll speak for the dead."
After the hearing wrapped up, I barely had time to breathe before checking the clock. 2:45 PM. Just enough time to make it to my next appointments.
I gathered my things quickly, excused myself from a few curious co-counsels who asked about the next case, and slid into the nearest elevator. The air inside was colder than usual — or maybe I was just thinking too much.
Two sessions back-to-back. One with a mother seeking legal separation due to psychological abuse, and another with a teenage witness of a shooting who refused to testify without counsel support.
I don't charge them. I never do in cases like these.
It's not because I think I'm some sort of hero. It's just that… the system already demands too much from those who've lost more than they ever should.
3:00 PM – Legal Counseling Room A
The mother sat with her hands clenched tight, the tissue box between us half-empty already. She told her story slowly, her voice breaking in the middle of each timeline — the first insult, the first bruise, the first time her child asked why Daddy was always angry.
I listened. Wrote nothing. Not yet.
When she asked what her chances were, I didn't give her false hope.
"You'll need documentation — hospital records, police blotters if there were any, even text messages if you saved them. If we can build a pattern, we can press for both protection and custody."
Her hands trembled as she nodded. "I just want to be free," she said. "For my daughter."
"You will be," I replied.
4:00 PM – Legal Counseling Room C
The second session was quieter. The teenager didn't speak for the first ten minutes. Just stared at the floor, arms crossed, the wound from witnessing a brutal killing still fresh behind his young eyes.
"I'm not doing this to make you relive it," I finally said, soft but firm. "But if you're scared, we can ask for protection. You won't be alone in that room."
His lips twitched, unsure if he believed me.
I slid my ID across the table — Attorney Althea Veran, Bright Espiritu Law — then opened the safety protocol binder in front of him.
"Don't decide now," I said. "But when you're ready, we'll help you speak. The truth needs to survive. Even if justice didn't arrive the first time."
His eyes met mine. And in that fragile moment, I saw something shift.
5:00 PM – Outside Bright Espiritu
The sky was already beginning to dim when I stepped outside. Manila traffic — or rather, Anitaya traffic — was always merciless at this hour.
I took a moment to look at my phone. A pinned message from Mina Bright:
Mina: Pack light. You'll leave early morning for Barangay Silay. Julian Landez's family expects our full cooperation. Be sharp, Althea. This one will be different.
Julian Landez. The man who died in that explosion. The one whose death sparked a hundred questions and twenty conspiracy threads online.
Now it's my case.