Chapter 1 – Morning (1989) Philippines.
Ezekiel woke at exactly 5:55 a.m.
His body rose before his mind did. It always did.
Four hours of sleep—sometimes six, if luck bothered to visit. Today was not one of those days.
The room was small. One bedroom. Plywood walls thin enough to let the outside world seep in—voices, coughing, the distant splash of dirty water. Ezekiel slept on the floor with his brother, their bedsheets spread thin against the hard wood. No mattress. Just cloth between bone and ground.
Angel had the bed.
It was wooden, old, and creaked whenever she moved. No futon. No foam. Just sheets laid carefully on top. Each of them owned one pillow and one blanket. Nothing more. Nothing extra.
The air inside the house reeked of sewage.
Ezekiel sat up slowly, careful not to wake Nathaniel. His muscles protested. His head throbbed. He rubbed his face, then stood and stepped out of the room.
The living space served many purposes. It was where they ate, stored what little they owned, and waited for the day to pass. There was no stove inside.
Cooking was done in front of the house, just like everyone else.
Ezekiel pushed the door open.
Morning had already begun.
Right outside, small fires burned low on the ground. Pots rested on improvised stands of brick and scrap metal. Some neighbors were only starting to cook. Others were nearly finished. Smoke drifted through the narrow space between houses, mixing with the smell of sour rice, dried fish, and the constant stench of the nearby sewer.
The air was heavy.
Familiar.
Ezekiel nodded as he stepped closer.
"Morning," he said quietly.
A few neighbors nodded back. Some didn't.
He crouched at their cooking spot in front of the house, checking the pot. Water barely simmered. Rice waited in a dented container. He reached for the seasoning—then stopped.
"Angel!" he called.
No answer.
"Angel!" His voice grew firmer. "Wake up!"
He glanced back at the doorway.
"Bring me the soy sauce!"
Inside, wood creaked. Bare feet touched the floor.
Another day had begun.
The sun had barely risen when Ezekiel set the small plate of food in front of each of them.
There were two eggs—scrambled —and two pieces of bigeye scad dried fish and corn grits cook rice with soy sauce in it. The coconut shell was use as a cup to put salt and vinegar in it to dip the dried fish.
Angel and Nathaniel sat on the bamboo floor—Angel still in her night shirt, Nathaniel rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Ezekiel took his seat beside them.
"So," he said, voice steady but warm, "how's school ?
Nathaniel -"Its okay, brother.
Ezekiel -are you okay? your left side of your mouth is a little bit swollen.
Nathaniel's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded.
yawn.. and said I have a toothache.
Ezekiel smiled —small, tired, but genuine and said we're poor and stop eating candies!
It will just make it worse!
"And you, Angel?" he asked, glancing at his little sister.
Angel picked at her fish before meeting his eyes.
"You have that project," Ezekiel continued, "the one that costs… what was it? Twenty pesos?"
Angel nodded. "Twenty pesos, brother."
Ezekiel sighed, then reached into his shirt and pulled out five worn bills.
He handed ₱10 to Nathaniel and 30 pesos for angel.
"In 1989," he said gently, more to himself than to them, "ten pesos isn't much… but it's what we have. Spend it wisely, okay?"
Angel took her money and tucked it into her pocket.
"We will, brother," she said.
Ezekiel stood and looked at them both, his heart heavy but proud.
"," he said, eyes softening. "And said.. Angel… I'll never take care of your child if you mess up, remember that!"
Angel rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
"Yes, brother," she said, grabbing her bag.
Nathaniel stood and started eating faster, hurry-scurrying toward school clothes.
Then, in their school uniforms—simple shirts and worn pants—they walked out the door together.
"Take care!" Ezekiel called after them, voice steady despite everything he carried.
And the two younger siblings turned back, waved once, and disappeared down the path toward school.
After they disappeared down the path to school, Ezekiel sat at the doorway.
He let his legs hang outside, bare feet brushing against the dust. The heat was already rising. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackled with static and distant voices.
He bowed his head.
Please, Lord, he prayed silently. Keep them safe.
No grand words. No promises. Just that.
He stood up slowly and yawned, stretching his arms until his back cracked.
"Ha," he exhaled—half relief, half exhaustion.
Another day.
Out front, his trisikad waited, chained to a wooden post. The paint was chipped, the seat torn, but it still rolled. He unlocked it, wiped the dust off the handlebars, and climbed on.
By mid-morning, the sun was unforgiving.
Ezekiel pedaled through the streets, sweat soaking through his shirt, legs burning as he searched for passengers. Some waved him down. Some ignored him. He took whoever needed a ride—to the market, to small shops, after a while.
By noon, his stomach growled.
He ignored it.
Skipping meals meant saving a few more pesos. A few more pesos meant one less worry tomorrow.
At three in the afternoon, he stopped near a small lotto outlet.
The walls were plastered with posters—smiling faces, raised fists, bold promises.
VOTE FOR CHANGE.
VOTE FOR A BETTER FUTURE.
Ezekiel stared at them for a moment.
Here we go again, he thought. Corrupt politicians trying to trick us.
He sighed, shaking his head.
He picked up a pen and the small betting slip. His hands were rough,
As he wrote the numbers, he closed his eyes briefly.
Just this once, he prayed. Let something go right.
He folded the paper carefully.
And then sign.. ha...
By six in the evening, they were seated around the small dining table.
Dinner was simple—left over rice, a little leftover fish, and Luke warm water. The bamboo floor creaked beneath them as they ate in near silence, the day finally catching up to them.
Ezekiel cleared his throat.
"Nathaniel," he said, "tomorrow's Saturday. Help Angel sell lumpia."
Nathaniel paused mid-bite.
"After we eat tonight," Ezekiel continued, "you'll help her prepare them. Tomorrow morning, the two of you will fry."
Nathaniel let out a small sigh.
Ezekiel looked at him. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Nathaniel said quickly, shaking his head.
Ezekiel's voice softened.
"Please. We need each other. Together, we'll get through this."
He forced a tired smile. "There's still tomorrow. And if we do well today, maybe tomorrow won't hurt as much."
Nathaniel nodded. "Okay, brother."
Ezekiel turned to Angel.
"After dinner, wash the dishes, please."
Angel nodded without complaint.
"I need to doze off for a bit," Ezekiel said then he lay himself in the bamboo stick floor "My shift at the carinderia starts at eight."
He stood slowly, every muscle protesting, already counting the minutes he could steal for sleep.
Outside, the sky was darkening.
Ezekiel left the house just as the streetlights flickered to life.
The air was cooler now, but the darkness brought its own dangers. He walked fast, hands in his pockets, head low. Night always felt heavier—like the city was holding its breath.
Halfway to the market, he heard it.
A sharp voice. Female.
"Please… I don't want trouble."
Ezekiel slowed.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement in a narrow side street. Two men. One stood too close. The other blocked the way out.
A knife caught the light.
"Hand over the bag," one of them said, pressing the blade closer. "Don't make this shit hard."
Ezekiel's heart jumped.
Not my problem, his mind screamed.
He took a step back. Then another.
But then—
"Please," the girl said, her voice shaking. "Someone help me."
Ezekiel stopped.
He clenched his jaw.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
He turned back.
"Hey!" Ezekiel shouted, forcing his voice louder than his fear. "Unhand the lady and give the bag back. Now."
The robbers turned.
"The fuck is this?" one of them laughed. "You serious, kid?"
The man with the knife shifted into a fighting stance.
Ezekiel kept walking toward them, pulse pounding so hard it hurt.
"I'm police," he said sharply. "Drop the knife. You don't want to do this."
The second robber squinted. "Bullshit. You don't look like a cop."
Ezekiel didn't stop.
"You touch her again," he said, bluffing with everything he had, "and I'll put both of you in jail tonight."
Silence stretched.
The knife wavered.
"Tch," the first robber spat. "Fuck this."
"Not worth it," the other muttered.
They shoved the bag back into the girl's hands and backed away.
"Lucky bitch," one said before they disappeared into the dark.
Ezekiel didn't move until they were gone.
The girl exhaled shakily.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for saving me, Mr. Policeman."
Ezekiel let out a breath.
"I'm… not actually police," he said softly—quiet enough that only she could hear.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"You should avoid dark streets like this," he added quickly. "It's dangerous. Next time, bring someone with you. Or take a safer route."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his small hand-sized clock.
7:44 p.m.
Sixteen minutes.
"Oh shit," he hissed. "I'm gonna be late."
"How can I thank you?" the girl asked.
Ezekiel was already turning away.
"No worries," he said over his shoulder. "Just remember what I said."
Then he ran.
Sweat poured down his face as he sprinted through alleys and streets, lungs burning, legs screaming.
He reached the carinderia at 7:54 p.m.
Barely.
Busy Night Market
The night market was alive with the last burst of energy before vendors packed up.
Oil hissed from frying woks. Coins clinked against worn metal bowls. The narrow aisles were crowded with bodies pushing past each other. lights flickered above, casting harsh shadows over the uneven cobblestones. The air smelled of fried fish, sweat, and smoke.
Ezekiel stood behind the counter, exhausted, hands moving on autopilot. Orders came fast, the customers hungry and impatient, voices shouting over one another.
And then he noticed her.
She was pale, foreign—black hair . She didn't stand in line. She didn't speak. She simply watched him from the edge of the crowd, her eyes fixed.
His heart jumped.
A shiver ran down his spine. He froze mid-motion, almost spilling a plate of rice.
The market noise suddenly seemed distant, muffled by the thumping of his own pulse.
She didn't move closer. She just stood there—quiet, observing. Not curious, not scared, just… watching.
Ezekiel's hands itched to wave, to speak, to do something, but the words stuck in his throat. He tried to focus on the orders piling up, scooping and serving mechanically, trying not to meet her gaze for too long.
And yet, every time he glanced at her, she was still there. Silent. Immobile. Her presence felt heavy, as if she belonged to another world entirely, a world far removed from his grinding life of debt and exhaustion.
For a moment, Ezekiel forgot the hours, the trisikad, the debts, the bruises. Everything shrank to the distance between them—the foreign girl and himself—standing under the buzzing lights of the market, each lost in their own quiet tension.
Then a tray clattered to the floor behind him. Customers grumbled. Orders needed taking. Reality snapped back.
Ezekiel straightened his shoulders, wiped his damp hands on his apron, and murmured softly—half to himself, half as a warning—
"Don't get in trouble in this market, no matter what…"
She didn't blink. She simply watched him a little longer, then slowly stepped back into the shadows, melting into the crowd, leaving Ezekiel unsettled and aware of how the night could still hide anything.
Ezekiel glanced again toward where he had seen the Russian girl. She was gone. Just a shadow among the thinning crowd.
He shook his head. Focus. Don't get distracted, he muttered. Orders were piling up, and the boss's sharp eyes could appear at any moment, ready to shout.
3:13 pm
his shift is done
He is about to go home and
A sudden shadow fell across his shoulder. He froze.
"Ezekiel," a gruff voice hissed from behind.
He turned slowly. Three men loomed over him. The first stepped forward, a smirk on his face, hands stuffed into his pockets like he owned the world. The other two flanked him, filling the narrow aisle, cutting off any chance of escape.
"You think we'd forget about you?" the man said. His tone was low, deliberate. "Walking around all casual while you owe us?"
Ezekiel's stomach knotted. He swallowed, keeping his voice calm. "
The collector chuckled, a harsh, rattling sound. "Relax, kid. We just want a little chat.
Ezekiel's heart pounded..
He nodded once, quietly.
"Good choice," the collector said.
The alley waited. Dim, wet, smelling of refuse and rotting vegetables. The collector motioned for him to follow. Ezekiel's pulse throbbed in his ears as he took careful steps, keeping his head down.
The three men closed in once they reached the quiet alley. The night seemed to swallow the sounds of the market behind them.
The collector crouched in front of Ezekiel, a wicked grin on his face. "Alright, kid. Let's see how responsible you are."
He pulled out a small notebook and scribbled numbers with deliberate cruelty. "You're three months behind, right? Each month… 1,200 pesos. That's 3,600 for three months."
He leaned closer, voice dropping low, venom in every word. "But since you're late… we add interest. Fifty percent per month. That makes… 1,800 pesos extra per month. Times three months… five thousand four hundred pesos. And don't think you're off easy. We want you to pay next month in advance. Six thousand six hundred pesos total. Got it?"
Ezekiel's fists clenched at his sides, teeth grinding.
"You better pay up," the collector said, slapping his shoulder with a harsh thud. "Or we stop being patient, got it? You miss the deadline, and we'll take it from you… kidney first."
One of the other men chuckled darkly. "Yeah, we'll make sure you really remember this debt."
Ezekiel swallowed, nodding quickly. He didn't protest. Arguing here would only get him beaten worse. Better to survive now and plan later.
"Forty-eight hours," the collector added, stepping back. "Same alley. Don't make us come looking again."
He shoved Ezekiel lightly, forcing him to take a few steps forward. Ezekiel followed silently, heart pounding, legs stiff but moving. The night market buzzed faintly behind them, oblivious to the scene unfolding in the shadows.