Manila, 2010.
The rain had been falling for hours, drumming against the rusted tin roofs of Manila's crowded streets. Nine-year-old Kaiden sat on the floor of the small apartment, legs crossed, staring at the empty bed where his mother used to sleep.
She was gone.
No relatives, no safety net, no one waiting outside to take him in. Just a piece of paper from the insurance company and a thin envelope of cash his mother had left behind. More or less ten thousand dollars. To a nine-year-old, it felt like the whole world. But he knew even then—it wouldn't last forever.
Kaiden whispered into the silence, voice shaky:
"Ma… what am I supposed to do now?"
There was no answer. Just the sound of thunder rolling over the city.
---
At first, he thought he could live quietly, just stretch the money. But reality hit fast.
Rent. Food. Electricity. Everything bled money. He started skipping meals. He stopped turning the lights on at night. He learned the sound of his stomach growling louder than the tricycles in the street.
One afternoon, Kaiden wandered into the busy streets of Quiapo. People rushed past him, clutching bags, umbrellas, and phones. He stood at the corner, small hand stretched out, whispering, "Spare change please."
He hated it. Hated the stares. Hated how people either ignored him or tossed a coin without looking at his face. But he kept doing it, even with a wad of insurance cash hidden in his bag at home.
Because in his mind, the money was sacred. His mother's last gift. Spending it felt like erasing her faster.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Kaiden learned which streets were kind, which sari-sari stores gave away leftover bread at night, which security guards wouldn't chase him away.
That was survival.
---
By the time he turned ten, Kaiden realized begging wasn't enough. He saw other kids, barefoot and sweaty, dragging sacks full of plastic bottles and scrap metal. So, he joined them.
"You're too small," one boy laughed, shoving him. "You won't last."
Kaiden just gritted his teeth. "I can."
And he did.
He carried bottles until his arms ached. He dug through trash for cans. He traded scraps for coins at junk shops. At night, he'd collapse in bed, hands blackened with dirt and cuts.
That became his routine. Mornings at school—because the government's free education was his only shot at a future. Afternoons collecting junk. Nights counting coins and falling asleep with his bag of savings beside him.
Kaiden's world had shrunk into three things: survival, school, and silence.
---
By the time Kaiden entered high school, he looked different from most kids around him. His pale skin made him stand out in a sea of brown. Some girls whispered behind their hands, giggling as if he were some foreigner dropped into their classroom.
"Doesn't he look imported?" one girl whispered.
"Yeah," another snickered. "But he's poor. What's the point of looking handsome if you're still nothing?"
At first, it was just whispers. But whispers have teeth, and soon, they started to bite.
It began with little things: a pencil missing here, a paper crumpled there. Then it escalated. His lunch disappeared every other day. His notebooks ended up torn or smeared with ink. Whenever he walked down the hall, someone would shoulder-check him hard enough to rattle his bones.
One afternoon, as he was closing his locker, three boys surrounded him. Their grins were sharp, like wolves circling prey.
"Hey, pale boy," one of them sneered. "Think you're handsome, huh? Just because the girls look at you?"
Kaiden shook his head quickly. "I'm not—"
Before he could finish, a fist slammed into the locker beside his face, the metal ringing in his ears. Another boy laughed.
"Don't act innocent. You think you're better than us, don't you?"
They shoved him. His back hit the cold lockers. Then came the punches—quick, sharp, like they had practiced on him before. His stomach tightened as knuckles buried into him. His books spilled to the floor, pages scattering like broken wings.
Kaiden didn't fight back. He never did.
He curled slightly, covering his face with his arms, taking each blow in silence.
When they finally walked away, laughing and throwing his bag down the hall, Kaiden just picked everything up quietly. His lips trembled, but no sound escaped.
Because deep down, he thought: If I complain, what then? Who's going to save me? No one.
That night, he stood in front of his cracked bathroom mirror, lifting his shirt to see the bruises blooming across his ribs and arms. Purple, blue, yellow. He pressed gently and winced.
In the mirror, his face stared back—expressionless, hollow.
At school, he became a ghost. He walked the halls quietly, keeping his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. He stopped looking at people. He stopped hoping for friends.
But still, he studied. Every night under the dim bulb of his apartment, Kaiden pushed through his lessons. His hands trembled as he turned the pages of his books, but he forced himself to focus.
"If I just finish high school," he told himself quietly, voice barely above a whisper, "then maybe… maybe I can change this."
Even if the world beat him down every day, he refused to fail.
By the time Kaiden entered high school, he already carried more weight than most kids his age. But the halls added more. His pale skin made him stand out, drawing whispers and stares.
"Imported."
"Fake foreigner."
"He thinks he's better than us."
At first, it was just words. Then the words became shoves. Shoves became fists. His lunch disappeared. His notebooks were torn. Some days, he'd be cornered against the lockers, their laughter cutting sharper than any punch.
"Hey, pale boy, smile for us! Maybe the girls will like you more."
"Don't act innocent. You think you're special, huh?"
Kaiden never fought back. Never told a teacher. He just endured it. Day after day. Night after night, he stared at the bruises in the mirror, then forced himself back to his books. Because if he broke, there was no one to pick up the pieces.
Graduation day came, but it didn't feel like a victory. His classmates laughed, took pictures, surrounded by parents with bouquets and banners. Kaiden just walked home alone, diploma tucked under his arm. No cheers. No family photos. Just silence.
The next day, that silence stretched on. He sat in his apartment, staring at the walls, wondering what came next. No one was waiting for him. No one was proud. High school was done, but the emptiness stayed.
Bored—or maybe desperate—he started digging through his mother's old things. At the bottom of a box, beneath faded clothes and wrinkled receipts, he found it: a photograph.
His mother, smiling. Standing beside a man.
His father.
Kaiden froze. Memories hit him like a wave—being five years old, clinging to his father's leg, the warmth of his hand before he disappeared forever. On the back of the photo, written in faded ink, was an address.
Via della Conciliazione, Rome, Italy.
His heart raced. He whispered, almost afraid to believe it:
"Dad…"
For years, he had buried the thought. But now, holding that photo, he felt something burning in his chest. Maybe his father was alive. Maybe he had answers. Maybe… he wasn't alone.
College could wait. Manila could wait. He needed to know.
And that was the decision. The one that set everything in motion.
But what else was I supposed to do? Stay here forever? Pretend I didn't care?
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. My mother. She'd want me to move forward, right?
So I packed everything into a small bag. Photo, clothes, the iron ring necklace Ma gave me. Then I got on that plane to Rome.
I told myself, I'm ready.
But the truth?
I was terrified.
I still remember the night I bought the ticket. My hands were shaking when I typed in the details. Ten thousand dollars, all those years of scraping, saving, suffering—and I was throwing it all into one gamble.
That choice carried him straight into the streets of Rome, searching for a man he barely remembered. Holding that same photo, walking alleys, asking strangers. Until the sky cracked, the world burned, and monsters tore his fragile hope apart.
And now…
---
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Kaiden's eyes fluttered open. White ceiling. Sterile smell. A machine humming beside him.
A hospital.
For a moment, he thought it was all a dream. The boutique. The screaming. The monsters. That impossible fire and lightning.
Then he felt the weight in his chest. The fear. The memory of blood on the streets. And he knew it was real.
A nurse's voice floated in Italian, too fast for him to understand. But her face softened when she saw him awake. She said something, then pointed toward the door.
Kaiden turned his head, throat dry, heart racing.
Because someone was coming in.
And his story… was only just beginning.