- 1976, MANILA FLASHBACK CONTINUATION
The first drag always burned. A sharp sting at the back of the throat, heat curling into his lungs, leaving behind that bitter Marlboro taste.
Torres exhaled, watching the smoke coil toward the ceiling fan that barely stirred the heavy Manila air. His apartment was a mess, unwashed dishes in the sink, yesterday's newspaper crumpled on the table, his uniform draped over the back of a chair. The cheap radio by the window crackled with static before settling into a bolero tune.
He should be getting ready.
Another shift, another night pretending not to see what the government was turning them into.
Then the knock came.
Three slow raps. Deliberate. Familiar.
Torres sighed, took another drag, and opened the door.
Ramos stood there, still in uniform, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat clinging to his brow. He looked like a man who had seen too much but never questioned any of it. His tie was loose, his holster still strapped to his side.
"You look like hell," Ramos said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Torres snorted. "Yeah, well, hell's got good company these days."
Ramos smirked, but there was something unreadable in his expression.
He didn't sit. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching Torres like he was sizing him up.
"You're thinking too much," Ramos finally said.
Torres took another drag, eyes narrowing. "And you're not thinking enough."
A beat of silence.
"You gonna keep this up?" Ramos asked.
"Keep what up?"
"The guilt."
Torres' jaw tightened. The massacre. The firing squad. The activists lined up against the wall like cattle, their eyes hollow with fear. The crackle of the radio delivering the order.
The way his hands had trembled on the grip of his rifle.
The way Ramos hadn't hesitated.
"They were communists," Ramos had told him after the gunfire had settled, after the bodies had crumpled to the ground in a heap of blood and silence. "It was them or us."
But that was the thing. They hadn't been armed. They hadn't fought back. They had just.
Just stood there.
Torres rubbed his temples, trying to force the memory away. It never worked.
"You followed the order," Ramos said now, watching him. "Same as me."
Torres let out a bitter laugh. "That's what you tell yourself?"
"That's what keeps me sleeping at night."
Torres looked at him, really looked at him. Ramos had always been the model officer—disciplined, efficient, loyal. But something in his eyes told a different story. A story of a man who had learned to live with the weight of his actions because questioning them would break him.
"You're lucky, then," Torres muttered, flicking ash into a ceramic tray. "I haven't slept in months."
Ramos sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You need to let it go, Torres. The country's changing. We either keep up, or we get swallowed whole."
Torres didn't answer. He just stared at the cigarette burning between his fingers, the ember glowing dimly against the dark.
The smoke never really cleared.
Neither did the guilt.
BANG
The world felt distant. Muffled. Like he was floating just outside of his own body.
Somewhere in the room, a needle scratched against vinyl, fighting through dust and time. A warped voice crooned from the record player, low and sorrowful.
"We three... we're all alone..."
Torres blinked slowly. The fluorescent light above him buzzed like a dying insect, casting a sickly glow over the damp concrete walls. His head lolled to the side, the ropes digging into his wrists. His veins burned.
The serum was working.
A chair scraped across the floor. A shadow moved. He could hear the flick of a lighter, the slow exhale of cigarette smoke.
"Tell me, Detective," a voice murmured. "What was it like?"
Torres tried to lift his head, but the world swayed. The air smelled of sweat, nicotine, and blood, maybe his own.
"You never forget your first kill, do you?"
The voice was calm, methodical.
"The way the body twitches, the way the breath rattles out of them."
Torres closed his eyes. The past was pulling him under.
1976.
The heat was unbearable. The kind that seeped into your skin, weighed down your breath.
Torres adjusted his grip on the rifle, sweat slicking his palms.
The field was a stretch of empty land outside the city, the grass trampled flat under the boots of uniformed men. Ahead of him, five figures knelt in the dirt, hands bound behind their backs, blindfolds covering their eyes.
The radio crackled. A voice.
Distant, but absolute.
"Proceed."
Torres swallowed. He tightened his grip. The stock of the rifle felt heavy, like it knew what was coming.
Beside him, Ramos stood firm.
Silent.
Still.
A true soldier.
Torres had always admired Ramos. His certainty. His unwavering discipline. But standing there, with five helpless people in front of them, something in him twisted.
"On my mark," Ramos ordered, raising his hand.
The blindfolded figures shifted. One of them sobbed. Another whispered a prayer.
Torres' breath hitched.
"Fire."
The gunshots rang out, shattering the silence.
Bodies hit the ground. Dust rose. The stench of gunpowder mixed with blood.
Torres kept his grip on the rifle, but something inside him cracked.
Ramos exhaled, lowering his gun. He clapped Torres on the shoulder.
"It gets easier."
But it didn't.
That night, Torres sat at the edge of his bed, Marlboro smoke curling around him. The pack trembled in his hands.
His wife sat across the room, watching him.
She didn't ask. She already knew.
"Come to bed," she said softly.
Torres stared at his hands. They still felt warm, like the gunfire had burned into his skin.
"I can't," he whispered.
She didn't push. Just stood, walked over, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
Warm.
Steady.
He didn't pull away and he didn't move, either.
Outside, Manila stretched on, the city alive with neon and secrets.
Torres took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke didn't chase the memories away.
Nothing ever did.
PRESENT.
A sharp slap brought him back. His head snapped to the side, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth.
"We three... we're all alone..."
The record looped. Scratched. The same words, over and over.
Torres groaned, blinking against the haze. The shadowed figure leaned in, the glow of his cigarette lighting his face for only a second.
"You regret it, don't you?"
Torres' throat was dry. His heart pounded against his ribs.
He didn't answer.
The man chuckled, standing. The chair creaked under his weight.
"That's the thing about ghosts, detective."
He took a slow drag.
"They never leave you alone."
The song kept playing.
"We three... we're all alone..."
Torres clenched his jaw.
For the first time in years, he wasn't sure if he could fight back.
His wrists burned from the rope digging into his skin, but he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, working. Watching. Waiting.
The record player crackled again, and the song resumed.
"We three... we're all alone..."
The slow, ghostly melody filled the dimly lit room. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows against the cracked concrete walls.
Three men stood before him, all dressed in varying shades of arrogance and authority.
The first was Monzon.
Slick, confident, the kind of man who smiled too easily, his cufflinks glinting whenever he adjusted his sleeves. He carried himself like a businessman, but the cold glint in his eyes said otherwise.
Next to him was Paulo, built like a bulldozer, arms crossed over his broad chest.
He cracked his knuckles every so often, a subconscious tic, like a dog itching to be let off the leash.
And then there was Lieutenant Rojas
Silent, unreadable. His uniform was crisp, boots polished, posture straight. Unlike Monzon and Paulo, he didn't indulge in small talk. He simply observed, his fingers occasionally grazing the grip of the pistol holstered at his side.
Torres sat in the rickety chair, hands bound, face bruised, but his eyes never lost their edge.
Monzon grinned. "You're not much of a talker, huh, Detective?" He gestured to the record player. "Fitting, don't you think? 'We Three'... just us, having a nice little chat."
Torres exhaled, tasting blood on his tongue. "Sounds like a funeral song."
Paulo chuckled. "Maybe it is."
Monzon took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash onto the floor.
"Here's the thing, Detective. You've been poking around where you shouldn't. Sticking your nose into business that frankly ain't yours."
Torres rolled his shoulders back, his fingers subtly working at the rope.
"That's why you got me tied up? Because I hurt your feelings?"
Paulo stepped forward, but Monzon stopped him with a hand.
"Easy, big guy. Our friend here still has some use."
He turned back to Torres.
"See, the people I work for... they don't like loose ends. And right now, you're a damn frayed wire about to short-circuit the whole operation."
Torres smirked. "Sounds like you boys are scared."
Monzon's smirk for a fraction of a second.
And then, movement.
Torres ripped his wrists free just as Paulo lunged. The chair crashed to the floor, and Torres rolled, snatching the nearest object—
A broken bottle.
He swung, catching Paulo across the head.
The brute roared in pain, stumbling back and passing out.
Monzon cursed, reaching for his gun—
Torres tackled him. The two men hit the ground hard.
Monzon struggled, but Torres had the advantage, slamming his fist into his face once, twice, incapacitating Monzon and Paulo but then—
A gun cocked.
Torres froze.
He turned his head slowly to see Lt. Rojas, pistol leveled, expression unreadable.
For a long second, no one moved.
The record skipped.
"We three, we're all alone. Seems like we're livin' in a memory..."
Rojas finally spoke, his voice calm, precise. "Stand up, Detective."
Torres rose to his feet, fists clenched, heart hammering. Rojas didn't flinch.
"This is where it ends," the lieutenant said. "No running. No hiding."
Torres eyed the gun. He could make a move. Try to disarm him. But Rojas wasn't Monzon or Paulo.
This man was a professional. A killer.
The two men locked eyes.
The tension in the room thickened. The music played on.
"We three... we ain't no crowd..."
A pause.
TO BE CONTINUED.