Manila heat was suffocating Detective Torres as he moved towards Pier 17. The usual noises of the harbor area were gone; what remained was the faraway squeak of cargo lifting machines and the occasional splash of water against ship hulls that were at rest for the night.
Detective Torres kept his hand loose on the rusty key inside his pocket, touching the grooves in it. His eyes traced the faded number etched onto the metal - 047. Storage rooms in this kind of facility? What could possibly be stored there that is not considered illegal?
He walked through endless rows of doors made of steel, covered in marks of rust and old age. He could smell the salty and oily air, along with a faint smell of blood or rust. Occasionally, they smell the same.
But then he saw it.
047.
Yet, Torres understood better than anyone not to become careless.
The key turned in the lock, only with some difficulty.
"Click".
The mechanism opened.
Taking a deep breath, Torres started opening the door.
The locker was not empty.
At first glance, the contents appeared to be just another old wooden box, the sides of which had stamps of ports where it had been shipped to.
Hong Kong, Singapore, Osaka.
Yet what disturbed Torres most was the fact that the nails securing it were still firmly sealed. He did not have any crates that were already opened.
It was something that needed to be discovered.
Torres took out his pocket knife, inserted the blade into the lock and started prying it. After several seconds of tugging, the nails started tearing and the box opened revealing the contents inside.
The papers were wrapped in a newspaper.
Ledgers, receipts, import permits. Government records.
Evidence.
Torres lifted one, scanning the faded ink. Importation logs. The type of thing that could get a bureaucrat like Emilio Velasco killed.
Then, something caught his eye.
The bottom of the crate wasn't real.
A false panel.
Torres reached in and peeled it back. Beneath the papers, wrapped in a cloth, was a pistol.
A 9mm Browning HiPower. Velasco's?
He unfolded the cloth further and his breath hitched.
A photograph.
It was old and creased, the edges softened from wear. A family portrait. Velasco, his wife, and their daughter.
And around the woman's neck—
A gold pendant.
Simple, unassuming. But in the bottom right corner of the photo, someone had scribbled a name.
Maria Josephina Velasco.
Torres turned the picture over. Two words, scrawled in ink.
"I'm sorry."
Something about it chilled him more than the gun.
Then
A sound, a faint, deliberate scuff of a shoe against gravel.
The detective froze. He wasn't alone.
He reached for his gun, turning just as a shadow moved behind him—
Too late.
Something hard slammed into the side of his skull.
A white-hot explosion of pain.
His vision blurred, and as he staggered, he caught a glimpse of a figure looming in the floodlight's glare. He couldn't make out the face—just a silhouette, sharp and waiting.
And then—
Darkness.
THE GAIETY THEATER
An aging, mid-century cinema with a worn façade, a flickering marquee, and a deep, shadowy auditorium lined with tightly packed seats. Once lively, it stood weathered and dim, more functional than grand, marked by years of constant use and slow decline.
The first thing Torres felt was the pain.
A dull, throbbing ache in his skull. His wrists, raw and stiff. His ribs, burning from the last punch he took. The cold seeped into his bones, concrete beneath him, damp air clinging to his skin.
Then, music played.
It started soft, a faint crackle from an old record player, then the horns kicked in.
Sharp, triumphant, mocking.
"Nowhere to run to, baby... Nowhere to hide..."
A fist slammed into his ribs.
Torres grunted, the chair beneath him rattling against the floor. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dim fluorescent light above. Shadows moved along the walls.
Men standing just outside the glow. Cigarette smoke curled in the stale air.
A basement. Maybe a precinct black site. Maybe worse.
He exhaled slowly, tasting blood. Don't panic. Get your bearings.
"Fitting song, don't you think?"
The voice was smooth, laced with amusement. Torres turned his head, squinting at the man standing before him. Cheap polo shirt, slicked-back hair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The kind of bureaucrat who smiled in press conferences but ordered beatings in dark rooms.
"Yeah," Torres rasped, spitting blood onto the floor. "Real poetic."
Laughter.
A second man stepped forward. Broader, meaner. His knuckles were bruised—Torres' blood still fresh on them. He's the muscle, Torres thought. Which means the other one's the talker.
"You don't know when to stop, do you, detective?"
Torres gave a lopsided grin. "Job hazard."
Another punch. His head snapped back, pain exploding behind his eyes. He let out a ragged breath, rolling his shoulders back. The song kept playing, the record crackling.
"I know you're no good for me... but free of you, I'll never be..."
Torres tested the ropes binding his wrists.
Tight.
His fingers tingled from lack of circulation. He had time, but not much.
"So, what's the play here?" he muttered. "Beat me to death while Martha Reeves sings me a love song?"
The suited man chuckled, stepping back. "You should be honored. We don't usually waste time on dead men."
Torres exhaled through his nose. "Then I must be special."
"Oh, you are," a new voice said.
Everything in Torres' body went still.
The shadows parted as a figure stepped into the dim light. Older, sharper, with the kind of presence that filled a room without effort. His suit was crisp, his expression unreadable.
Torres' stomach twisted.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it in press briefings, in backroom meetings, in conversations where words were more dangerous than bullets.
"You've been a real pain in the ass, Detective."
The music swelled, the chorus looping like a cruel joke.
"Nowhere to run to, baby... Nowhere to hide..."
Torres swallowed.
For the first time, he wondered if he really had run out of places to hide.
Someone changed the song in the record.
Soft at first, like a whisper sneaking through the cracks of Torres' consciousness. Then the piano glided in, smooth and hypnotic, followed by that unmistakable voice:
"She comes out of the sun in a silk dress, running like a watercolor in the rain..."
Torres' head lolled to the side, his vision swimming. His arms were strapped to the chair, but he barely felt the roughness of the rope biting into his skin anymore. The room pulsed in and out of focus.
The dim glow of a desk lamp, the lingering stench of cigarette smoke, the distant hum of a generator.
A hand gripped his chin, forcing his head up. A silhouette hovered over him, sharp against the hazy yellow light.
"That's it, detective. Let it in," the voice murmured, smooth and practiced, like someone who'd done this before. "No point in fighting it now."
Torres groaned, his tongue heavy, the taste of metal coating his mouth. His body was betraying him, sinking deeper into warmth, his defenses slipping like sand through his fingers.
"What... what the hell..." His voice slurred.
The man chuckled. "Truth serum, my friend. Nothing too fancy, just enough to loosen that stubborn tongue of yours." He exhaled smoke, the ember of his cigarette glowing like a dying star. "Now... let's talk about something, let's talk about 1976."
Torres twitched at the year.
The interrogator noticed. He leaned in, a smile in his voice. "Ah. You remember, sure does ring a bell."
"Wouldn't you agree, Detective?"
Torres tried to shake his head, tried to resist. But the drug had already sunk its teeth into his mind. The past was unraveling before him, dragging him back.
1976, MANILA
The air reeked of sweat and gunpowder. The streets were alive with screams, the sharp staccato of boots pounding against the pavement, the wail of sirens in the distance.
Torres stood in the alley, rifle clenched in his trembling hands. His heart slammed against his ribs as his squad moved forward, their figures black against the streetlights. The activists had been pushed back, their makeshift banners discarded on the pavement, slogans half-obscured by dust and blood.
A girl stumbled into view young, barely out of her teens. Her red scarf was bright even in the dim glow of the streetlamps, her eyes wide with terror. She tripped, fell to her knees.
A voice crackled in Torres' radio.
"Shoot them all."
His fingers stiffened around the rifle. He could hear the others moving, hear the safety clicks of their firearms disengaging. The girl looked up, locking eyes with him.
"Kuya... please... don't do this, we're just students. We are not your enemies"
The world shrank. The noise faded. It was just Torres and the girl and the rifle that suddenly felt so, so heavy in his hands.
Then—
BANG.
It wasn't his shot.
The girl jerked, a blossom of red blooming across her chest. She crumpled forward, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.
Torres didn't move. His body was stone, his ears ringing.
Behind him, Ramos lowered his pistol. "Orders are orders," he muttered, clapping Torres on the shoulder before stepping over the girl's body.
The others followed, indifferent.
Torres stood frozen, staring at the way the red of her scarf mixed with the blood pooling beneath her.
A scream rang out somewhere in the distance.
The gunfire started again.
And Detective Torres back in the present, strapped to the chair, drugged and vulnerable, gasped as if he were breathing for the first time.
The interrogator smiled.
"Heavy, isn't it?" He stubbed out his cigarette. "The weight of a country's sins on one man's shoulders."
Torres' chest heaved, his skin damp with sweat. His body still sat in that basement, but his mind was caught somewhere between then and now, drowning in a past he had tried so damn hard to forget.
"You thought you were cleaning the streets?" the man continued, his voice laced with amusement. "You were cleaning up for us."
Torres clenched his jaw.
Outside, the record spun on.
"She comes out of the sun in a silk dress, running like a watercolor in the rain..."
TO BE CONTINUED.