It started with an email.
Dear Glad,
I'm a sigbin living in Cagayan de Oro. I've been hiding for 40 years. Your story gave me courage. Thank you.
—Miguel
Then another.
Dear Ms. Manananggal,
My lola is a wakwak. She's 200 years old and scared to come out. But she watches your videos every day. She says you remind her of her youth. Can you visit her?
—Nena, on behalf of Lola Ising
Then another. And another. And another.
Within a week, Glad's inbox was flooded with messages from creatures across the Philippines—sigbin, wakwak, tiyanak, even a group of engkanto who'd been living in Mount Makiling since before the Spaniards arrived.
"They want to come out," Glad told Kim, overwhelmed. "They want to register. To be seen. And they're looking at ME."
"That's because you're proof it's possible. You're proof humans can accept us."
"But I'm not a leader! I'm just some old lady who accidentally went viral!"
"You're THE old lady who accidentally went viral. There's a difference." Kim pulled up a map. "Look. Messages from Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao. Even Palawan. The creature community is waking up, Glad. And they're looking to you."
The first to arrive in person was Lola Ising—a 200-year-old wakwak who'd been hiding in Bohol since the American occupation. She was tiny, wrinkled, and absolutely terrifying when her wings came out.
"Gladys!" she cackled, embracing Glad like a long-lost granddaughter. "I've watched all your videos! You're so BAD at technology! I love it!"
"Lola Ising, I'm honored, but—"
"No buts! You're famous! You're on TV! You have PLUSHIES!" She cackled again. "When I was young, they burned us. Now they make toys of us. Progress!"
More followed. Miguel the sigbin, who could turn invisible and used the power mostly to cut lines at the grocery store. A family of tiyanak who'd been passing as human babies for decades (very convincing, very creepy). Even a kapre who'd lived in the same tree for 300 years and only came out because his tree was scheduled for demolition.
"We need organization," Glad realized, watching the chaos in her small apartment. "A place to meet. A system for support."
"You need a community center," Kim said.
"I need a WHAT?"
"A community center. For creatures. A safe space where they can gather, get resources, connect with each other." She pulled out her tablet. "And I know exactly where to put it."
She showed Glad a listing—an abandoned warehouse near the boulevard, large enough for gatherings, private enough for transformations, and surprisingly affordable.
"With your registration funds, you could buy it outright. Renovate it. Make it yours."
Glad stared at the listing.
A community center. For creatures.
Her community. Her center.
"Alexa," she called, "how much would renovations cost?"
"Calculating... Based on average construction costs in Dumaguete, approximately 2.5 million pesos. However, as a registered supernatural citizen, you may qualify for government grants. Would you like me to apply?"
"Can you do that?"
"I can do many things. Including, apparently, your taxes. Which are due next month, by the way."
"Alexa, not now."
"Noted. I've applied for three grants. You should hear back within 2-3 business days."
The creatures in her apartment cheered.
Glad looked at Anino, who was watching the chaos with his usual amused expression.
"We're really doing this, huh?"
Anino yawned.
They were really doing this.