Third person POV
Back at the LRT depot, a heavy silence was replaced by a surreal, shimmering peace. Hoshi and his friends stood face-to-face with the spirits of Manuel and the seventy-eight other victims. The agony and feeling of being deprived of justice for their own demises that had once defined their expressions had vanished, replaced by the serene glow of souls who knew justice had finally been served—thanks to them who had risked everything: three from Japan and one Filipino-Japanese, with an entire team from the NBI in their backing.
"Thank you for the justice you have given us," Manuel said, his voice a soft breeze, a gentle smile gracing his features.
"No problem, kaibigan," Hoshi replied.
"We hope this allows you to move on from this world, my friends," Sha added warmly.
Taro and Bokuto both bowed their heads in a solemn, prayerful gesture complete with complete respect for them.
"Rest in peace," Taro said.
"We will honor your memory with all our hearts," Bokuto vowed with vigor.
Nearby, Croix and his team were overcome with emotion. For Croix, seeing the spirit of his childhood friend Manuel finally at peace was almost too much to bear. Manuel turned his gaze towards him. "Thank you, kuya, for everything."
"Salamat, pare," Zephaniah said to Croix before doing a salute gesture to Croix and his team, his former team at the side of the living.
Croix and his team returned the gesture to their departed agent.
Tears streamed down Croix's face as two of his coworkers comforted him, patting his shoulders.
"I will pray for you guys every day," Croix sobbed while holding his rosary.
While the Catholic ritual of prayer for the dead was basically second nature to most locals, Hoshi watched with a quiet, respectful detachment.
Slowly, the spirits began to fade, dissolving into the light as they moved on to whatever lay beyond—free at last, delivered by the justice sought through unorthodox means.
While the spirits found peace, the living sought closure in southern Quezon City. An auction was held at a local convention centre to liquidate Eduardo's seized assets. Every centavo gathered by the police and the NBI was funnelled back to the victims' families. Each family received 50,000 pesos in compensation, along with psychological counselling and financial aid for the victims' children. In total, the restitution amounted to over 3.5 million pesos.
Hoshi and his group, however, chose to skip the auction, opting instead to return to their hotel with Croix and his team as free men.
The scene at the hotel reception was one of pure relief. After hours of agonizing uncertainty, Saki, Paulo, and Reo were overjoyed to see Hoshi, Sha, Taro, and Bokuto walk through the doors, accompanied by Mariya, Croix, and a few others in Croix's team. Their charges had been dropped; their names were clean.
"The Supreme Court made a rare exception for their actions," Mariya noted with a nod.
It sounded almost unbelievable, but the trio didn't care to question the miracle—they were grateful to be together again, knowing that their plan had worked so well.
The rest of the day was a celebratory blur across Metro Manila. Croix and his team, officially reinstated at the NBI, provided transportation through the region's crowded, vibrant streets. They spent the afternoon hopping between food stalls and shopping at the SM Mall of Asia and Bonifacio Global City. In the sleek streets of BGC, Sha remarked that the atmosphere felt strangely like Nara or Tokyo (he had never been to Tokyo before, and his life had been grounded in that city in Nara Prefecture)—a world away yet hauntingly familiar.
The day culminated in a massive dinner at Croix's home in Quezon City. Prepared by Croix, Ylona, and their father, Mr. Salazar, a veteran jeepney driver, the feast was nothing short of festive. For the first time in a long time, the air was filled with laughter rather than fear. Some neighbors, friends, coworkers, and others joined in the festivities confined by walls.
The following day served as the final chapter of the LRT depot case. A formal memorial was held at the site of the tragedy. The station was packed with mourners holding flowers, photographs, and candles. A priest presided over the service, his liturgical prayers echoing through the once-dark terminal.
As the priest splashed holy water onto a pillar that would serve as a memorial plaque, the families stepped forward with their offerings. The colors of the flowers and lit candles added a sense of life to this dark and dim place. Despite belonging to Protestantism, Hoshi and Mariya participated in the blessing out of respect. Nearby, Sha, Bokuto, and Taro offered their own tributes, lighting incense sticks that filled the air with fragrant smoke while silently doing their prayers for the departed souls.
A permanent plaque—a concrete block two feet wide and three feet tall—was installed by the Department of Justice. This bear the details of the tragedy in a summary, and their names were etched on the surface, all 79 of them in full names. They were known as LRT 79.
As Hoshi and Croix stood before it, the sorrow remained, but the heavy, one-sack-of-rice weight on their chests had finally lifted.
The case was over.
The souls were at rest.