Mang Berting hadn't slept in three days.
Not because he was hunting the Manananggal—but because he couldn't stop watching her videos.
"I don't understand," he muttered to his grandson, who'd come to check on him. "She waved at Hanya's live stream. She waved. Manananggals don't wave. They eat."
His grandson, a seventeen-year-old who'd grown up on the internet, shrugged. "Lolo, maybe she's just a person who happens to have wings. Like how Tita Nena has a goiter but we don't hunt her."
"That's different! Goiters aren't supernatural!"
"But they're both physical characteristics she didn't choose." The boy pulled out his phone. "Look at this video. She's trying to use a selfie stick and failing. She's relatable. People LIKE her."
Mang Berting watched the video. Glad's wings kept getting in the way, and her commentary—"Bakit ganito kahirap? Sino nag-imbento nito? Babalikan ko sa panaginip"—was genuinely funny.
"She's... kind of funny," he admitted.
"Lolo, she has a meet-and-greet tomorrow. Instead of hunting her, why don't you just... go? Talk to her? See what she's actually like?"
The idea was so radical, so against everything Mang Berting believed, that he almost dismissed it immediately.
But he didn't.
Because somewhere in the past few days, watching this ancient creature navigate modern life with awkward grace, he'd started to question everything he thought he knew.
The next afternoon, Mang Berting stood at the edge of the boulevard, watching the crowd gather for Glad's meet-and-greet.
There were at least 200 people—families with kids, teenagers with phones, even a few foreigners who'd flown in specifically for this. They wore wings. They carried signs. "We love you Glad!" "Manananggal Supremacy!" "Anino for President!"
And in the center, surrounded by fans, was Glad herself.
She looked overwhelmed but happy. A table held cups of blood spritzer (clearly labeled "NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION - COSPLAY PROPS ONLY") and Anino plushies. Professor Kim handled questions while Rigen managed the merch.
"Lolo?" His grandson nudged him. "Go on. Talk to her."
Mang Berting shuffled forward, bolo left at home, rosary tucked away. He felt naked without his weapons.
When Glad saw him approaching, she froze.
Everyone noticed.
The crowd went silent.
"Uh oh," someone whispered. "That's the hunter guy."
But Mang Berting stopped a respectful distance away, removed his cap, and did something no one expected.
He bowed.
"Ma'am," he said quietly. "I came to apologize."
Glad stared. "You... what?"
"I've hunted aswangs my whole life. My father taught me. His father taught him. We thought we were protecting people." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "But I watched your videos. You're not a monster. You're just... a person. With wings. Who's bad at selfies."
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.
"I brought you something." He reached into his bag and pulled out—a leche flan. "Homemade. My wife's recipe. She passed ten years ago, but she made the best leche flan in Negros."
Glad looked at the flan, then at the old man who'd tried to hunt her, then back at the flan.
"Your wife," she said slowly, "would she be okay with you giving her recipe to a Manananggal?"
Mang Berting thought about it. "She always said I was too quick to judge people. I think... I think she'd be happy I'm finally listening."
Glad took the leche flan.
Then she did something that made the entire crowd gasp.
She hugged him.
Mang Berting stiffened, expecting to be eaten. But Glad just held him for a moment, then stepped back.
"Thank you," she said. "Now, do you want a picture? Your grandson looks like he's about to explode."
The grandson was, indeed, already filming.
The photo of Mang Berting and Glad—hunter and aswang, enemies turned friends—went viral within hours.
And somewhere in her apartment, Tita Hanya saw it and felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Jealousy.
She'd started this. SHE'D made Glad famous. And now Mang Berting was getting the attention?
"Oh, honey," she muttered, opening Facebook. "War isn't over yet."