The warehouse smelled faintly of smoke, even days after the fire had been put out. Boxes sat in neat stacks, some scorched at the edges, others sealed with fresh tape. Rafael sat on a crate in the center, gauze wrapped around his temple. His crew gathered close—Maria with her arms folded, Jericho pacing, Rosa quietly humming as she taped cartons shut, and Antonio Reyes clutching a folder like a shield.
"You shouldn't have gone through that alley alone," Maria said, voice sharp. "You could've been killed."
Rafael offered her a tired smile. "Then you all would've had to think of a new boss."
Jericho shook his head, half angry, half relieved. "Boss… they'll keep coming. If it isn't knives, it'll be trucks or fires. How do we fight that?"
Rosa set down her tape and met Rafael's eyes. "We came for our children. For school shoes, for food on the table. You gave us hope. But we're scared. Tell us what's next."
Rafael exhaled slowly, then pulled a bundle of papers from his bag. Vendor receipts, shipping manifests, delivery logs—each annotated in his cramped handwriting. The Codex had already mapped the networks for him in private, but he would never show that. Instead, he laid the sheets out on the worktable like a general placing pieces on a battlefield.
"Look here," he said, tapping at a cluster of delivery routes he'd circled in red ink. "The fire wasn't random—it hit the line where our suppliers overlap with HydraCorp's subcontractors. And the hijacking? Same pattern. They target chokepoints, not random shipments."
Maria leaned over, eyes narrowing. "You figured that out from this?"
Rafael nodded. "Patterns repeat. They can burn a box, bribe a driver, but they can't hide their habits. We study them, we adapt."
Antonio opened his folder. "I spoke with a prosecutor. If we can prove interference in procurement, it's a criminal charge. We'll need airtight evidence."
"Then we make it airtight," Rafael said firmly. "From now on: double seals on every crate, signed by barangay captains. GPS tags hidden in shipments. We spread deliveries across smaller hubs so one fire doesn't cripple us."
Jericho grinned, the tension breaking slightly. "So instead of one warehouse, we're ten little thorns in their side."
"Exactly," Rafael said.
That afternoon the warehouse buzzed like a hive. Journalists arrived with cameras, NGOs sent observers, barangay leaders signed off on forms. Rafael walked them through the process step by step, his voice calm and confident. To them, he looked like a man who had simply mastered logistics through grit and foresight. They didn't see the Codex whispering probabilities in the back of his mind.
By nightfall, news outlets carried the images: community captains sealing crates, NGO workers running tests, journalists livestreaming the process. Online, hashtags spread—#AquaPureTruth, #SupportLocal, #DavidVsGoliath.
Across the bay, HydraCorp executives sat in their glass tower, faces tight. Ramon Villanueva glared at the reports. "He's forcing us into the light. Every attack we make now leaves a trail."
A woman in a sharp suit tapped her tablet. "Then we shift tactics. Less fire, more whispers. If we can't burn him, we bury him in doubt. Find his donors, his friends, his weak spots. Cast shadows where he shines."
Back at the warehouse, Rafael stood on the rooftop, watching Manila's neon skyline flicker against the dark. The Codex pulsed silently in his vision:
"Trajectory altered. Public oversight engaged. HydraCorp forced into visibility. Risk of covert escalation remains high."
Rafael clenched the railing, his voice low but steady. "They hunted me in the dark. Now we'll see how well they fight under the light."
The city roared beneath him, unaware of the war being fought in its alleys and boardrooms. But for the first time, Rafael felt the balance tip—just slightly—in his favor.