CHAPTER 1 – THE DEATH OF LEO
DIARY ENTRY – LATIN ORIGINAL
In arca mea clausa, veritas sola habitat.
Non sum furor. Sum memoria facta arma.
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
In my locked chest, only truth dwells.
I am not madness. I am memory made weapon.
The rain came down in sheets over Veridia that night, turning the asphalt streets to mirrors reflecting the sickly orange glow of streetlamps. Kooran Dela Cruz huddled in the shadow of a rusted billboard, his wire-rim glasses speckled with water droplets he didn't bother to wipe away. Three blocks ahead, the warehouse on Pier 17 loomed dark against the churning bay – the same place Leo had told him to avoid.
"Kuya, just trust me on this one." Leo's voice echoed in his head, warm and earnest as it had been that morning over breakfast. They'd shared dried fish and rice in their cramped apartment above a convenience store in the slum district of Barrio Luna. Leo's camera lay on the table beside his plate, its leather strap worn smooth from use.
"I've been following them for weeks. The photos I have – they'll prove everything. The drugs, the kids they're moving, who's protecting them."
Kooran had reached across the table then, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. At twenty-four, Leo was still thin and angular, his dark hair falling over eyes that saw injustice everywhere they looked. Kooran, eight years older, had spent his life trying to shield that idealism.
"The police won't act on it, Leo. You know how this city works."
"Then we'll take it to the press. To anyone who'll listen. We can't just let them keep hurting kids, Kuya."
Now, as Kooran watched two men in dark jackets drag a third figure toward the warehouse door, he knew he should have stopped him. Should have hidden his camera. Should have done anything but let Leo walk out that door with a determined set to his jaw and hope in his eyes.
Third Person
Detective Elena Vasquez pulled her patrol car to a stop at the edge of Pier 17, her hand resting on the radio mic but not pressing it. She'd been following her former partner, Detective Rico Mendez, for three days now – ever since she'd found his name in a sealed case file tied to the Veridia Syndicate. The rain drummed against the roof of her car like fingers tapping out a warning.
Through the windshield, she saw three men emerge from the warehouse. Two were strangers – broad-shouldered, moving with the casual confidence of people who knew they wouldn't be stopped. The third was Mendez, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way that made her gut clench. He'd been a good cop once, she reminded herself. Before the money, before the threats. Before whatever had led him here tonight.
As the men climbed into a black SUV and pulled away, Elena waited a full minute before getting out of her car. The wooden planks of the pier were slick under her boots, and the smell of salt and decay hung heavy in the air. She drew her service weapon as she approached the warehouse door, pushing it open with her shoulder.
The space was dark save for a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting dancing shadows across concrete floors stained with what looked like blood. In the center of the room, a young man lay on his side, his camera crushed beside him. His eyes were open, staring at something Elena couldn't see. She knelt beside him, checking for a pulse – already knowing what she'd find.
A small envelope was tucked under his hand. Inside was a single photograph: a group of men, including Captain Marcus Reyes, standing over crates marked with the syndicate's symbol. On the back, written in neat handwriting, were two words: "Kooran – run."
Elena pocketed the photo and pulled out her radio. "Vasquez to dispatch. 10-54 at Pier 17. Male victim, early twenties. Possible homicide." As she spoke, her eyes scanned the room, landing on a set of footprints in the blood leading toward a broken window near the back wall. Someone else had been here. Someone who'd watched.
Diary Entry – Kooran Dela Cruz
October 12, 2022
I am writing this by candlelight because the power went out again. The rain is still falling. I can still smell the salt and blood on my clothes no matter how many times I wash them.
They left him there like he was nothing. Like he was just another piece of trash to be tossed in the bay. Leo, who spent every day trying to make this city better. Leo, who used to take photos of the sunset over Mayon Volcano when we were kids in Daraga, saying the fire inside the mountain was like the hope inside people – always burning, even when you couldn't see it.
I stayed hidden in the shadows long after they left. I watched the detective – the woman with the tired eyes and steady hands – check his pulse and call for help. She found his photo. She saw Captain Reyes' face on it. Will she do anything? Or will she be like all the others?
When she left, I went inside. I held his hand. It was cold as the rain. His camera was broken, but I picked up the memory card that had fallen out of it. It was still intact.
I walked home through the rain, Leo's camera strap wrapped around my wrist like a chain. The streets were empty, but I felt like everyone was watching me. Like they all knew what I'd seen. What I'd let happen.
They say grief makes you do strange things. They say anger can cloud your judgment. But I don't feel grief or anger anymore. I feel… empty. Like a vessel waiting to be filled with something else. Something sharp and purposeful.
I found this leather diary in Leo's things. He used to write in it when he was sad, said putting words on paper made the world feel less heavy. I've decided to use it too. But I won't write about sadness. I'll write about truth. About the men who took him from me. About what I'm going to do to make sure they never hurt anyone else again.
In nomine fratris mei, faciam hoc.
In my brother's name, I will do this.
Elena stood outside the victim's apartment building an hour later, the address she'd gotten from his ID – Leo Dela Cruz – clutched in her hand. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the sound of a baby crying drifted from somewhere inside. She raised her hand to knock, then paused. Through the thin curtain covering the window, she could see a man sitting at a table, staring at something in his hands. His shoulders were slumped, and even from here, she could feel the weight of his loss.
She knocked softly. The man didn't move. She knocked again, louder this time. Finally, he stood and came to the door, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He was average height, with neat dark hair and wire-rim glasses. He looked like a teacher, or a librarian. Not like someone who'd been at the warehouse tonight.
"Detective Vasquez, Veridia PD," she said, showing her badge. "Are you Kooran Dela Cruz?"
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. "Leo's my brother."
Elena's chest tightened. "I'm sorry for your loss, sir. We found him at Pier 17. I need to ask you a few questions."
Kooran stepped aside to let her in. The apartment was small but clean, with photos on the walls – Leo with street kids, Leo on the beach in Daraga, Leo grinning beside the man standing in front of her. On the table, a leather diary lay closed, a single candle burning beside it.
"Did Leo ever mention anything about trouble? Someone threatening him?" Elena asked, her eyes on the diary.
Kooran shook his head. "He was a photographer. He liked to document things. The city, the people here. He never said anything about being in danger."
He was lying. Elena could tell by the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the table. But for the first time in her career, she didn't push it. She handed him the photo she'd found in Leo's hand. "He had this on him. Do you know what it means?"
Kooran looked at the photo, then back at her. His expression was empty, like all the emotion had been drained from him. "No," he said quietly. "I don't know what it means at all."