The drive through Manila was an education for Jake. He watched out the window as shimmering skyscrapers stood side-by-side with cramped, bustling markets. Markus drove with a silent, focused intensity, weaving through the infamous traffic with a practiced ease that Jake found oddly hypnotic.
"Kian said you're staying for a while," Markus said, breaking the silence. He didn't look away from the road. "What's the plan? Shopping? Sightseeing? Or are you just running away from a broken heart?"
Jake stiffened. "I am seeking... perspective."
Markus snorted. "Perspective. That's what rich people call it when they're bored of their own lives. In my world, perspective is knowing which guy in the yard has a shiv and which one just wants your dessert."
Jake turned to look at him, confused. "The yard? Are you a gardener?"
Markus actually laughed then—a deep, genuine sound that vibrated in his chest. "Yeah. Something like that. I spent some time 'landscaping' at a state-run facility."
He didn't elaborate, and Jake was too polite to press, though he made a mental note of the man's scarred knuckles. There was a darkness in Markus that Jake couldn't fathom, a sharp contrast to his own life of choreographed beauty.
They arrived at a high-end lounge in Bonifacio Global City. The friends of Kian was also there. As they walked in, Jake felt the familiar weight of social expectation, but these men were different from the sycophants at court.
Kian Sandoval stood up immediately, a bright grin on his face. "Jake! You made it! I see you met Markus. Did he terrify you?"
"He was... adequate," Jake said, regaining his composure.
Kian laughed and introduced the rest. There was Liam, Kian's twin, who seemed more laid-back but equally sharp. Isaak, a man with a gaze so cold and analytical Jake felt like he was being dissected, was introduced as a prominent surgeon. Then there were Kios, Maximo, and Kaito—each of them a titan in their respective fields, yet they treated each other with a raw, unfiltered brotherhood.
Markus sat at the end of the table, immediately pulling a beer toward him. He didn't join the enthusiastic welcome. He just watched. He watched the way Jake sat—spine perfectly straight—and the way he looked at the menu as if it were written in ancient runes.
"He's clumsy," Markus remarked to Kian, loud enough for Jake to hear. "Nearly tripped over his own feet three times at the airport."
"I was adjusting to the humidity," Jake snapped, his face flushing a light pink.
"He's delicate, Markus, be nice," Kian teased. "He's had a long journey."
"He looks like a doll," Markus muttered into his beer, his eyes tracing the line of Jake's throat. "One rough day and he'd break."
Jake felt a spark of genuine anger. Back home, no one dared to speak of his fragility, even if they thought it. They treated him like glass because of his status. Markus treated him like glass because he thought Jake was weak. The distinction infuriated him.
"I am sturdier than I look, Mr...?"
"Just Markus," the ex-convict replied, leaning back and crossing his thick arms over his chest. "And 'sturdy' isn't a word I'd use for someone who looks like they've been gift-wrapped."
The rest of the night was a whirlwind of introductions and stories. Jake listened, fascinated by their talk of business ventures, hospital politics, and late-night races. These men worked. They fought. They built things. Even Markus, whom Jake learned had built a massive logistics company from nothing after a "stint away," seemed to possess a vitality that Jake's royal cousins lacked.
Jake found himself watching Markus more than the others. There was a story in every scar on the man's hands, a history in the way he scanned the room for exits. He was the most "real" person Jake had ever met.