A Mask For Every Miracle, For Every Misstep, For Every Murder

  November 10, 2035

  “You’ve got yourself knee-deep in some real shit now, Lino,” Special Agent Seline Torres said. Her voice was light, conversational, as though she were commenting on an overcooked adobo, but her eyes remained fixed on the sprawl of names and faces.

  The office was silent, save for the faint hum of the central AC and the soft click of Seline’s tongue against her teeth. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Lino, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her expression caught between pity and fascination. The whiteboard before them was a battlefield of paper, photographs, and red ink, an entire constellation of violence, each thread leading back to the same malignant star: Severino.

  The newest clipping was still fresh, the magnet holding it trembling slightly as if rejecting the weight of its subject. Tatiana Tiamzon. Industrialist, billionaire, reduced now to a grotesque “meat totem,” her corpse twisted into ritual geometry along with those sworn to protect her. Her guards spiraled down with her in death, their loyalty perverted into a symbol, flesh stacked as warning. Lines extended from her photograph: to her mining conglomerate, to shadowy partnerships, to the De Veras, victims before her.

  And in the very center of the board, like the dark sun around which all horror revolved, was a grainy photograph of Severino in his PNP Special Forces uniform. His face younger, harder, eyes burning with a certainty that no longer belonged to the state.

  “You said you found an SSD on the totem?” Seline asked.

  “Yeah,” Lino replied, his voice gravel wrapped in restraint. “It was lodged deep in her throat. Or what was left of it.”

  He dug his phone out of his pocket, swiped past layers of secure folders and black icons until he reached a buried video file. A final tap, and the screen lit the shadows between them. He leaned it closer to Seline so she could see.

  The video began. Severino stood atop a skyscraper at night, the Manila skyline sprawling and twitching behind him like a circuit board gone berserk. Neon veins pulsed, distant windows winked open and shut, planes drew trembling scars across the sky. Severino faced the camera directly. Wind tugged at his hair, and his voice, when it came, was measured and almost gentle:

  “The city wears its faces, one atop another,

  porcelain cracks that smile in the dark.

  I walk among them, counting masks,

  each reflection heavier than the last.

  A man can live two lives,

  three lives, four lives,

  until the shadows learn his true name.

  And when the mirror splits in silence,

  he will drown in his own disguise.”

  The words bled into the static night, lingering like smoke. Severino’s gaze did not waver, even as a helicopter’s lights briefly sliced the sky behind him. Then the screen dissolved to black.

  Lino exhaled. His thumb hovered over the pause button though the file was already finished. “My analysts placed this at November 7, twenty-two thirty-four. Montelier Tower, Ortigas. They matched the time down to the second, background lights and sound cues from a corporate rooftop event in a neighboring tower. Found the footage of the event on social media, stitched it together.”

  Seline’s head tilted slightly, her lips curling into the faintest smile, though her eyes had sharpened. “Well, not to state obvious, but it seems his next target is a man of masks.”

  Lino chuckled, a dry rasp more than a laugh, the faintest humor he could wring from a situation soaked in dread. “Our best analysts concur. It is a poem about… masks,” he said softly, as though the word itself was already worn thin.

  Seline’s grin widened, warm and conspiratorial. “Well, my job here is done then. We cracked the case of the poem. I’ll send Elias the overtime request.”

  For a moment, the two laughed, softly, quietly, as if laughter were a fragile thing in the room, something that could shatter if raised too high. But the sound died quickly, swallowed by the buzz of the lights and the looming presence of Severino’s photograph.

  “But in all seriousness,” Seline continued, her eyes narrowing on the printed lines of the poem she had scrawled in her notes, “the poem is quite detailed if you dig deep enough. His next target is a man who wears many faces.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down that much,” Lino replied. His tone was dry, the faint twitch of a smile erased instantly by the weight in his chest.

  “It would seem that way,” she admitted, “but I keep circling back to the first few lines: ‘The city wears its faces, one atop another, porcelain cracks that smile in the dark. I walk among them, counting masks, each reflection heavier than the last.’” Her eyes flicked up to the whiteboard, scanning the red threads as though they too might be porcelain cracks.

  She tapped the end of her pen against her palm. “It’s not directly told, but it suggests the man is wearing the city itself as a mask. Or perhaps he is a symbol of the city.”

  “So… a politician?” Lino asked.

  “Could be. Or a philanthropist, someone with a public face built around urban welfare programs. Someone whose image is inseparable from Manila, or one of its seventeen cities.”

  Lino frowned. “Why Manila? Can’t it be Cebu? Angeles? Bacolod?”

  “The video was shot in Ortigas,” Seline countered. “That’s a clue in itself. He chose that place for a reason. The likelihood that the target is someone based in Ortigas, or at least associated with it, is high.”

  Lino stepped closer to the whiteboard, eyes scanning the nexus of faces and lines. His hand reached out and hovered near Severino’s photo but never touched it. “So, to recap: we’re looking for someone who wears multiple personas, whose brand is tied to the image of Manila… and who lives beneath the masks they’ve built.”

  “Correct,” Seline murmured, nodding as though she were already ten steps ahead. She uncapped her pen and wrote a name on her notepad with deliberate strokes. “I have a short list of possible targets in mind. First that comes to mind is former Pasig City mayor, Renato Alvendia. During his administration, he launched sweeping crime cleanups, urban gardens, and welfare programs. People said his rehabilitation of Pasig was second only to Vico Sotto’s. But the cracks…” Her pen paused. “Whispers of a brutal domestic life. Gambling debts. And the SEC quietly circling him for insider trading.”

  Lino raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really? That sounds tame for a Manila politician. I was expecting literal skeletons in the closet, or meth-fueled scandals. He doesn’t strike me as someone Severino would waste his time on.”

  Seline leaned against the desk, folding her arms, her “Tita” blouse rustling like soft curtains. “You have to remember, his public image is one of absolute purity. A champion of the city, flawless in the eyes of his constituents. It’s exactly that hypocrisy Severino would find revolting. If I were Severino, I’d make a spectacle of Alvendia, peel back the veneer, and force the citizens to confront the rot inside their so-called paragons.”

  Her gaze drifted to Lino. “What about you? Anyone come to mind?”

  Lino scratched his jaw, eyes tracing the red lines across the whiteboard. “Former actor turned philanthropist and property mogul, Carlos Dizon. You know him.”

  “Of course,” Seline said. “The golden boy.”

  “He’s the one who pushed the government to subsidize his low-income housing projects on prime land across the metro. Rents so cheap they undercut the entire market. Economists said he pulled off the impossible, he brought down average rental rates across the CBDs. Suddenly janitors, clerks, call center agents, they could live five minutes away from their work instead of two hours.”

  Seline tilted her head. “But?”

  “But,” Lino said, his voice tightening, “he’s ambitious. Too ambitious. He’s run for Taguig City mayor twice. Both times he failed, couldn’t win over the informal settler vote that the Cayetanos held with an iron fist. We figured out that on his second run, he bribed voters discreetly. Nothing direct, nothing traceable. Clean on paper. We didn’t have anything real to bring the case to the COMELEC. But barangay captains know the story, cash handouts, small gifts, a sack of rice here, a brand-new phone there. The chairmen who made it happen were rewarded with multiple condo units in his developments. Generous compensation for their loyalty.”

  Seline sighed, deep and long, the kind of sigh that deflated her warmth and left behind only steel. She placed her pen down. “My nephew lives in one of Dizon’s condos. First time he moved in, he wouldn’t shut up about how cheap it was, how suddenly everything was within reach, the office, opportunities, the whole promise of the city.” She shook her head. “Exposing a man like that…”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  She trailed off, her voice cracking into silence.

  “Either way, we do it like before,” Lino said, his voice flat, as though he were forcing steel into it. “Track all potential victims. But this time we warn them directly, no wandering off like Tatiana. Her corpse is already plastered across every phone screen in the city. No keeping a lid on it now.”

  Seline’s lips pressed into a line. She adjusted the strap of her handbag with a tidy, almost maternal gesture. “And I’ll keep working on the profile. See if I can dig out any breadcrumbs about where Severino might be nesting and how he’s accomplishing all this. I have another meeting in 10 minutes. I’ll keep you posted.”

  With that, she slung the bag onto her shoulder and walked to the door. A soft click later, she was gone, and silence returned. Lino remained in the office, staring at the red-slashed whiteboard like it was an oracle he no longer believed in. Severino’s photo, pinned in the middle, seemed to look back at him.

  * * * * *

  Lino sat across from NBI Director Elias Ortega’s massive narra desk, the report between them. Elias was reading, lips moving faintly over every line, his heavy brow furrowed but steady. The room smelled of old wood and older cigarettes.

  Without hesitation, Elias slapped the file shut and pushed it aside. “Request approved. Tail both targets, monitor them closely. I’m also giving you provisions to bypass paperwork, pull in as many men, as much funding as you need. I don’t care if you burn through the budget, I just need Severino dealt with. Fast.”

  Lino leaned back in his chair. “Secretary Dionisio must be spooked.”

  “Very,” Elias grunted. His eyes were half-shadowed by the blinds behind him. “She’s been breathing down my neck since Friday. Doesn’t want another Gino Sanchez repeat. And to think that was only two months ago.”

  Elias lit a cigarette but didn’t smoke it, letting the paper glow in the air between them. “Also, I’m roping someone else into this case.”

  “Who?” Lino asked.

  The desk phone rang, cutting through the haze. Elias answered, murmured, “Let him in.” He set the receiver down with a faint smile. “Speak of the devil.”

  The office door swung open. A middle-aged agent stepped in, sharp in posture, eyes alive with the sort of energy that never dulled with time.

  “Agent Rogelio Marquez,” Elias said. “You two should already be acquainted.”

  “Very,” Lino replied. He stood and clasped the man’s hand warmly, grin tugging the corners of his mouth. “Rogelio! Made any gang busts lately?”

  Marquez smirked, grip firm. “I’ve arrested more gang leaders than you’ve caught serial killers this year haha!”

  Lino laughed, harder than he intended. The absurdity of the one-upmanship cracked through the heaviness of the room, if only for a moment.

  They both took their seats in front of Elias, the cigarette smoke curling between them like a third presence.

  “Rogelio here has some intel that might aid in your investigation,” Elias said, gesturing with two fingers toward the man across from Lino.

  Marquez leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but steady. “My team’s been tracking the De Vera couple for years. Their ties to a local Triad group run deep. When they turned up dead, we waved it off as coincidence. After all, Severino’s profile didn’t fit the Triad’s usual politics. Sure, he had former gang ties through Jiro Lim Uy, but we know he’s neither ideologically nor financially beholden to them.”

  The smoke between them coiled tighter.

  “Now here’s the funny thing,” Rogelio went on. “We were also monitoring Tatiana Tiamzon. She had connections to the Red Fist Gang in Pampanga. Thursday night, the night she disappeared, we ran a bust. Took in several members tied directly to her. It would have been the biggest break we’ve had this year. But by the time we had them in custody…” He shook his head. “Well we all know what happened to Tatiana.”

  Lino straightened in his chair. “So are you suggesting Severino’s killing spree has ties to the Traid?”

  Rogelio gave a humorless smile. “Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. It’s still loose enough to be written off, but I’m not convinced. Here’s what’s got me thinking: I’m hearing chatter that the Triad bosses themselves are spooked. They don’t seem to know where Severino’s moving, or what his angle is. In fact, they’re planning to hold a council meeting this coming week to decide how to deal with him.”

  “How did you know about this?” Lino asked, eyes narrowing.

  Rogelio leaned back, spreading his hands in a gesture of practiced modesty. “Lino, you know me. My men are buried so deep in Triad business, their undercover identities have undercover identities. We’ve got double agents, triple agents, operatives who’ve been embedded so long they’ve forgotten their real names. The Triad’s movements are known to me. And I’m telling you, these bosses are not easily rattled. But something about Severino is rattling them. My team thinks they know more about him than we do.”

  Lino nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “Makes sense. Severino did work for them once.”

  “That’s what we know,” Rogelio said, voice dropping. “What we don’t know is the extent of his involvement… or why he’s got them this scared now.”

  Elias stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, the hiss of dying embers filling the silence like punctuation.

  “Humor me this,” Lino said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “Is your team also just so happen to be trailing either Renato Alvendia or Carlos Dizon?”

  Rogelio frowned. “Why? What’s the context?”

  “I think they fit the profile of Severino’s next target,” Lino said. His voice was flat, but underneath it lay the strain of calculation. “Men who wear clean images as masks, but have rotten faces outside the public eye.”

  Rogelio leaned back, considering. He tapped a finger against the armrest, the sound quick, staccato, like a clock counting down. “Both names have come up on my desk. Not at the level of the De Veras or Tiamzon, but still. Alvendia worked with one Triad group to drive out another that was terrorizing Pasig, classic Manila politics. As for Dizon… he hired Triad muscle to intimidate squatters, clear his land for condo construction. Brutal evictions in the dead of night. It didn’t make headlines, but I’m sure everyone in the barangay remembers.”

  “Not as deep as the others, though,” Lino muttered.

  “No,” Rogelio said. “But still a stink of it.”

  Lino exhaled, nodding slightly. “Well, the Triad connection is just one investigation avenue. My team member, Sarah Borja, she’s also testing a theory. That the victims’ houses being broken into is a pattern for Severino’s killings.”

  That drew Elias out of his silence. He leaned forward, his heavy presence suddenly sharp. “Excuse me, houses being broken into?”

  “Ah,” Lino raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “I didn’t write it in the report. It’s just a hunch for now. Sarah said she recently helped investigate a break-in at the condo of a potential second victim of Severino this Saturday. She noticed both the De Veras and Tiamzon had their homes broken into, too, in the past few months. She’s trying to see if there’s a pattern.”

  Elias’s brows knit. “Who’s this friend of hers?”

  “Javier Montejo,” Lino said.

  “I know the name,” Elias replied, voice heavy with thought. He turned his gaze to Rogelio. “Any Triad ties?”

  Rogelio shook his head without hesitation. “The Montejo name has never reached my desks. It’s clean.”

  “Well,” Elias said, leaning back into his chair. “I’ve heard murmurs of a serial burglary gang operating in the Metro, one that targets the upper crusts of society. PNP’s handling it, if you can call it that. They’re not treating it as a priority. Victims aren’t making a big fuss. No media coverage. So they stay as quiet reports, filed and forgotten.”

  “It could turn out to be nothing, or everything. But either way, we need to figure out who Severino’s next victim is and protect them from falling into his hands,” Lino says.

  Rogelio leans forward, lowering his voice. “I might have an idea who it could be. Mateo Tan.”

  Lino tilts his head. Elias’ brow furrows.

  “Former high-profile Triad man,” Rogelio continues. “Used to run with the Golden Shores Syndicate in the late 90s before they imploded, but after a stint in Bilibid he cleaned up his image. Rehabbed, went public. Wrote a book about redemption. Got himself in with NGOs, with mayors. Even got Ayala and SM Foundation money behind his neighborhood welfare programs. Teaching Sstreet kids learning how to code, skateboarding parks instead of drug dens, free daycare centers for new mothers that still need to work. It’s done a lot of good for the Metro.”

  “Ah. I’m aware of him,” Elias says cautiously. “But isn’t he…”

  “I was getting to that.” Rogelio’s tone sharpens. “In private, he never actually cut off his Triad ties. My sources say he still takes part in logistics, drug smuggling through container yards, manpower recruitment through old gang channels. Only difference now is he’s got a halo over his head while he’s doing it. But to be fair to the guy, he gives some of his earnings back to the program.”

  “And I assume the political fallout of him being exposed is… problematic,” Lino mutters.

  “Problematic doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Rogelio shakes his head. “Every mayor in this city wants a photo op with him. Investors love him. NGOs quote him. The barangay kids worship him. If news breaks that his ‘rehabilitation’ is a sham, the blowback would crush every single one of those programs overnight. And that’s why, ” he looks at both men, measured, “we’ve been trying to work out a deal with him. Look the other way, forget it ever happened, so long as he really cuts the Triad cord. But without evidence on our end, he just keeps playing innocent.”

  The room fell silent for a moment. Only the hum of the ceiling aircon filled the space. Then Lino spoke, steady but deliberate.

  “We’ll need to add Mateo to the list of individuals requiring surveillance. That means extra manpower and additional funding.”

  Elias didn’t even blink. “I told you already, Lino. You have leeway to go over budget. Recruit as many agents, official or otherwise, as the case requires.”

  Rogelio scoffed across the table. “How come I never get that kind of leeway?”

  Elias turned to him, unimpressed. “Because your team once burned through an entire quarter’s budget staging a concert. A concert, Rogelio, just to catch one gang member. Who, in the end, wasn’t even tied to your case. That’s why you still have a budget officer breathing down your neck. Provisions like this are earned.” He gestured briefly toward Lino. “Which Lino has.”

  “Earned?” Rogelio’s voice tightened, the bitterness cutting through. “You mean like how he wasted two tactical units in the Gino Sanchez operation? The one that ended with Calvin Uy dead? We were monitoring Calvin by the way, his gang was one of the largest in the Metro, now there’s a power vacuum with his nephew making big moves to consolidate power. My team to this day is still dealing with the fallout from that screw-up.”

  Lino’s jaw stiffened, but he didn’t speak.

  Rogelio pressed on, his tone darker now. “Word is, the Triad Executor Julius has been recalled because of Calvin’s death. Julius had been spending the last year buried in Thailand handling business that had nothing to do with us. It was pure bliss for us, the Philippines has one less Triad Executor to worry about. Now he’s been dragged back into Manila because of your team’s incompetence. Do you have any idea the kind of havoc Julius can unleash once he’s moving around the Philippines? I’ll have to request more funding just to brace for the fallout from his movements alone.”

  The weight of his words lingered in the room, sharper than the silence that followed.

  Lino didn’t respond. Rogelio’s words were true, Calvin’s death was his responsibility. Though he silence that followed burned more than any retort could. A jab that low did not deserve his attention.

  “That’s enough,” Elias said, his voice cutting the air flat. “Rogelio, I’ll review your budget requests now that Julius is back in the Philippines. But our primary focus is Severino. He’s the thread we pull, or all this unravels.”

  He turned to both of them. “Lino, Rogelio, you’ll be co-investigators on this. Share information, share talent. No silos. Not when it comes to Severino.”

  Lino and Rogelio looked at each other, Rogelio having cooled off from his outburst and is slowly returning to his normally cheerful state. They both gave the same short nod, an acknowledgment forged is trust as much as necessity.

  The meeting was over.

  The storm outside the room had only just begun.