The morning broke hot and cloudless, the kind of Manila day where the air shimmered above the pavement. At the warehouse, Rafael's crew was already awake, their energy renewed by the success of the public audits. Workers moved with purpose, sealing crates, stamping paperwork, logging data. For the first time in weeks, hope didn't feel fragile.
But HydraCorp hadn't gone quiet.
By midmorning, Antonio Reyes arrived with grim news. He dropped a Manila Bulletin onto Rafael's desk, the headline stark:
"AquaPure's Funding Sources Questioned – Foreign Backers Behind Startup?"
Rafael scanned the article. It was filled with insinuations: shadow donors, whispers of political ties, even hints that AquaPure was a front for "foreign interference." No evidence—just smoke and mirrors.
Jericho slammed his fist against a crate. "Lies! Everyone knows we're scraping pesos together, day and night!"
Maria frowned. "It doesn't matter if it's lies. People read headlines, not corrections."
Rafael stayed silent, weighing the angles. The Codex whispered in the back of his mind:
"Tactic shift detected: Financial strangulation and reputational doubt. Counter-strategy: radical transparency, diversified funding, symbolic alliances."
He exhaled slowly. "They couldn't beat us in the streets or the courts, so now they'll try to starve us."
By noon, the effects rippled in. A supplier canceled a shipment, citing "uncertain contracts." A small bank froze AquaPure's application for a credit line. Even a local politician who had smiled at their cameras last week suddenly stopped answering calls.
HydraCorp's shadow campaign was working.
But Rafael refused to play defense. He gathered his crew around the long wooden table, its surface scratched and stained with solder burns. "They think we'll choke if they cut off our air. Fine. Then we breathe differently."
He laid out three steps in his clipped, deliberate tone:
1. Open books – Every peso AquaPure spent or earned would be published online, updated daily. "If they want to see our donors, we'll show them—down to the last coin from Rosa's payroll."
2. Crowdfunding drive – He proposed launching a community-based funding campaign, framed not as charity but as investment in survival. "Every family who buys a straw becomes a shareholder in the future."
3. NGO alliances – He would invite watchdog groups to audit AquaPure's finances in real time, daring HydraCorp to match the same transparency.
Maria smirked despite herself. "Boss, you're basically putting us under a microscope."
Rafael nodded. "Exactly. Under a microscope, there's no place for lies to hide."
The campaign launched that same week. A barebones website displayed every receipt, every peso, every line item. Photos of Rosa assembling filters, Jericho loading crates, and Kuya Bong hauling deliveries appeared beside the ledger. Families shared screenshots online: "I donated ₱200 today—AquaPure belongs to us too."
The hashtag #OurWaterOurFight trended within hours. Donations trickled in—small, uneven—but the symbolic weight was enormous. Where HydraCorp used slick billboards, Rafael used the unvarnished truth of ordinary people.
HydraCorp's executives watched in frustration from their Makati high-rise. Ramon Villanueva scowled at the trending charts. "He's turning poverty into propaganda," he muttered.
The woman in the sharp suit tapped her screen. "Then we starve the networks themselves. Pressure the NGOs. Lean on the banks. If we can't cut off his air, we poison his water."
Back at the warehouse, Rafael stood at the doorway, watching as workers laughed between tasks, buoyed by the flood of small donations and words of encouragement. For the first time, the fight didn't feel like his alone—it felt like an army gathering around him.
The Codex pulsed faintly in his vision:
"Public trust: +41%. HydraCorp hostility: escalating. Forecast: financial warfare entering critical stage."
Rafael clenched his jaw, eyes on the skyline where HydraCorp's glass towers gleamed. "They wanted this in the shadows. Now every move is under the sun. Let's see who burns first."