The press conference was held on the sun-bleached steps of Nueva Citta City Hall, where Bernadette Medrano stood in front of three microphones, each branded with a different network's logo. Behind her, a gold-lettered banner read: JUSTICE FOR THE PANGITARIUM. She wore a structured brown suit with sharp lapels, pearl earrings that swayed every time she tilted her head for effect, and an expression that could curdle milk.
"Clearly," she declared to the cameras, "there was intent to undermine my husband's reputation—and my family—by burning the Pangitarium."
Gasps rippled from the reporters.
"Mr. Conrad Narumi," she continued, voice rising like a crescendo in a courtroom drama, "is the mastermind behind this act of public sabotage. And his accomplices—yes, I name them—are that pair of... Oral and Anal Roberts."
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then the cameras clicked furiously.
—
At Aling Luding's, a crumbling karaoke bar tucked between a hardware store and a tire shop, a grainy TV broadcast the scene.
Conrad Narumi, in a pineapple-printed shirt with a mild coffee stain, squinted at the screen while nursing a lukewarm beer. Next to him sat Johnny Dono, chewing on chicharon; Glenn Kumunoy, cracking his knuckles; and Chief Jose Suansing, wheeling a stool forward.
"Does she even know who Anal and Oral Roberts are?" Jose muttered, scratching his forehead.
"Nope," Conrad replied without looking away, rubbing his temple. "Clueless rich woman doesn't care about details."
On the bar counter, next to his drink, lay a blister pack of ibuprofen. He picked it up and studied the imprint on the tablet like it was hieroglyphics.
"What's the 'FR' on this ibuprofen mean?" he asked, brows furrowed.
"'Fen Reliever,'" Glenn said without missing a beat.
Conrad blinked slowly. "What the hell is that supposed to—?"
He didn't finish the sentence. He stood up, wobbling slightly.
"I better go home," he muttered. "I'm not feeling well."
Johnny grabbed his beer before it spilled. "You still owe me for that lechon from last week."
Conrad was already at the door, waving them off with the elegance of a sleep-deprived walrus.
—
Back at the Narumi residence, an incoming video call from Tokyo lit up the kitchen tablet. Stephanie answered it.
"Kaa-san?" she said.
Kako Narumi appeared onscreen, her background a Tokyo skyline at dusk. She wore a tailored blazer, makeup flawless, expression anything but.
"I just saw the press conference," Kako snapped. "Where is your father?"
Stephanie turned the tablet slightly. Jamie entered from the hallway at the same time, towel on her head, fresh from the shower.
"He's on his way home," Jamie said. "We think."
"He'd better be," Kako said. "If he thinks he can just blow up government property and not explain himself to his children, he has another thing coming."
Jamie shot Stephanie a glance. "Maybe he'll finally tell us what the hell happened between him and the Medranos."
Stephanie just sipped her soda.
They didn't have to wait long. The front door creaked open. Conrad stumbled in like a hungover contestant on a no-sleep game show.
"Speak of the devil," Stephanie muttered.
Kako's voice rang through the kitchen speakers. "Conrad!"
Conrad froze. "Oh no."
Jamie stepped forward. "Dad, you can't keep ignoring this. People at school are saying you're involved with—Oral and Anal."
"I told you, I don't know those guys personally!" Conrad threw his hands up. "They just keep showing up around me!"
"That's not reassuring," Jamie snapped.
He moved to the kitchen sink, filling a glass of water and downing his ibuprofen.
"What's with you?" he muttered to himself. "I should've just bought a soft drink."
"Conrad!"
It wasn't Kako this time. It was Mama Tipay, who had just stepped into the room in a house dress with flamingo print, slippers dragging loudly, cigarette already lit.
She pointed the lit end toward him like it was a wand.
"You're putting the kids through humiliation because of what you did," she barked. "What do you expect them to face at school tomorrow?"
"Their asses," Conrad said under his breath.
SLAP!
Mama Tipay's hand moved so fast it left a sonic ripple.
"That sarcastic mouth of yours," she snapped. "No wonder your wife thinks of not coming home!"
Kako was still on the video call. "I heard that!"
Mama Tipay took a long drag of her cigarette, eyes narrowed.
"What will happen to you, ha? If something happens to me, or to Kako, or to the kids? You'll end up in the gutter!"
"Nah," Conrad replied, deadpan. "I'll end up as the new mascot of the Department of Tourism."
He gestured vaguely like a drunk man in a Rizal monument pose.
Mama Tipay looked to the heavens, muttering, "This idiot. This man is going to bury me."
Jamie pinched the bridge of her nose. Stephanie pulled out her phone and began typing.
"What are you tweeting?" Jamie asked.
"'My father thinks Oral and Anal are a law firm,'" Stephanie said without looking up. "Hashtag: New Mayor Who Dis."
Kako's voice came back through the speaker. "I'm booking a flight. I swear, if this becomes another scandal—"
"It's already a scandal," Jamie muttered.
Conrad shuffled out of the kitchen toward the living room, muttering about how he used to be respected in his own home. Droopy followed him, tail wagging, wearing a sash that said MAYOR'S GOOD BOY.
—
The scene ended not with a dramatic resolution, but with Conrad curled up on the sofa, watching himself being mocked in a student parody video on his daughter's phone. The caption: Conrad Narumi: Flaming the Planetarium Since 1999.
The children stared at him in disbelief.
Droopy licked his face.
He muttered, "I liked it better when I was just an embarrassing karaoke dad."
----
The Nueva Citta Hall of Justice was a cement slab of misplaced grandeur, built like a dictator's shoebox and painted the color of faded tax returns. It simmered under the July heat like a bad paella. At exactly 2:10 PM, Judge Benitez dismissed Bernadette Medrano vs. Conrad Narumi et al with a dry cough and a shrug.
"There is," the judge said while fanning himself with a copy of People's Digest, "an alarming absence of coherent legal foundation in this case. Case dismissed."
His gavel barely made a noise against the block. In fact, he missed it entirely and hit a stack of folders instead.
Bernadette's stiletto heels clicked across the linoleum as she stood and swept out of the courtroom with a train of legal aides, stylists, and an intern carrying a wind machine. The instant she hit daylight, her assistant was already refreshing Twitter.
"Spin room. Now," Bernadette snapped, donning oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses with enough glare to blind half the parking lot.
Outside, a small sea of press had formed like barnacles on bad news. Microphones and phones thrust forward. Bernadette paused in front of her Escalade, turned three-quarters toward the cameras—the lighting hit her cheekbones just right—and gave her best calm-under-fire face. Her hair stylist darted forward, spritzing her roots between dodging questions.
That's when a beat-up black SUV squealed into the lot and parked diagonally across three spaces like a lazy drunk. Its windows were down. One door swung open violently, hitting a trash can.
Out stumbled Conrad Narumi.
He looked like he'd just lost a drinking contest with a mop. His polo shirt was half-tucked, drenched in sweat, and clinging to his spine like an apology. He held an empty bottle of Pocari Sweat like it was a mic.
He didn't bother closing the SUV door behind him.
Bernadette turned slowly toward the chaos.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," she said, her voice sharp and honeyed. "Did you get lost on the way to the zoo, or did they finally let you off the kiddie ride?"
Conrad shielded his eyes from the sun and looked around like he'd just entered a different timezone.
"Is this the smoking section?"
He scratched his chest distractedly and eyed a nearby fishball stand.
"You think this is a joke?" Bernadette snapped, stepping closer. "You embarrassed this entire city with your incompetence."
"You embarrassed the alphabet with your vocabulary," Conrad said flatly. "You said 'Anal and Oral Roberts' on live television. You didn't just humiliate the city. You made CNN ask, 'Did she say that?'"
The crowd gave a collective gasp. A group of college vloggers with DSLRs shifted angles for the best possible close-up.
"My husband nearly died in that explosion!" Bernadette shouted.
"But did he died?" Conrad replied, holding up a single finger like a student with a spicy question.
Bernadette's jaw twitched. "Don't mock me."
"My three kids were there too. And me. None of us died," he went on. "It wasn't some big conspiracy. It was a failing, rat-infested tourist trap with illegal gas lines and your husband's name on the safety cert."
A loud "OHHHHHHH" rolled from the students behind a news van. Someone dropped a sandwich.
Bernadette stormed up, heels clicking like a countdown.
"I don't know what backwater charm school Kako dragged you out of," she spat, "but you've been a stain on this city—and your own marriage—for twenty years."
Conrad leaned in, practically nose-to-nose, and spoke in a low, casual drawl:
"At least I can win an argument with my wife. You? You win arguments—but your husband just whimpers and gives you his phone passcode."
A ripple of stunned laughter passed through the crowd. Behind Bernadette, her stylist fainted into a makeup bag.
"You're not funny," she hissed.
"No," Conrad replied, deadpan. "But I'm free. Meanwhile, you're on take number six of a press conference nobody's buying."
"I have every network here."
"You've got GMA," Conrad counted on his fingers, "and that one guy from YouTube called 'JuanThugLifeTV'—hi, buddy." He pointed at a kid holding a selfie stick.
The vlogger grinned. "Like and subscribe!"
"Pathetic," Conrad added, shaking his head.
The courthouse security guard wandered over, clipboard in hand. "Uh, ma'am, sir—this is still government property so—"
"Stay out of this, Roger," both Bernadette and Conrad said at once, eyes still locked on each other.
Bernadette pulled off her sunglasses slowly. Her mascara didn't flinch.
"I will not let my family be dragged into the gutter because you can't control your ego, your city, or your dog!"
"Leave Droopy out of this," Conrad snapped. "He's more useful than your entire in-law side."
"I don't have a son-in-law."
"Well then maybe your family's just been waiting for someone else to marry into and clean up your gene pool."
A college student in the crowd screamed, "SIR, YOU CANNOT JUST—"
"I'm not even the mayor," Conrad declared, raising both arms in exasperation. "So why am I the villain here?"
The entire confrontation teetered toward physical altercation when a familiar voice wheezed across the lot.
"Conrad!" Johnny Dono waddled toward them, red-faced and out of breath, waving a plastic bag of takeout siomai like a white flag. "Stop yelling! You'll burst a vein!"
He paused. "Also, you didn't pay the driver who brought you here!"
Bernadette had had enough.
"I don't need this stress!" she screeched, heels stomping toward her Escalade. But before she climbed in, she turned her head just enough for one final dagger.
"Tell Kako I look forward to seeing her at the Women's Civic League Banquet. If she still has the nerve to show up."
Conrad tilted his head.
"Tell her yourself."
Bernadette froze, mid-step. She didn't look back—but every news camera zoomed in on the slight tremble of her mouth.
She climbed in, slammed the door. The Escalade purred and rolled away like a wounded diva.
Back in the center of the lot, Conrad reached into his back pocket and, with all the pride of a magician, produced a half-warm balut egg.
He held it aloft.
"Anyone hungry?"
The press paused. One reporter coughed. Somewhere, a vlogger whispered, "Legend."
-----
8:00 PM. The Narumi residence.
A house that once aspired to be minimalist was now just cluttered with decades of contradictions. A massive wooden dining table stood at the center of their kitchen—half-covered in mismatched condiments, unopened mail, and a garlic press no one admitted to owning.
Conrad sat at the head, in a faded Manila Polo Club t-shirt he'd definitely found on a sale rack. Anthony, in a tank top and basketball shorts, was scarfing rice like it was a race. Stephanie, half in pajamas, half in a hoodie that said EMOTIONALLY RETIRED, stared blankly into her phone between bites.
Jamie, composed but tense, watched her father like a hawk about to question a witness.
And Droopy, the family dog, lounged on the couch nearby with a copy of the Nueva Citta Sentinel open in front of him, occasionally flipping a page with his paw like he understood any of it.
On the TV mounted in the corner, a commercial blared:
"Introducing... Shrimpola™ Cola! The only soda with shrimp extract and passionfruit fizz—brought to you by Oxymoron Industries. Shrimpola: Taste the Ocean... Regret It Later!"
Stephanie muted it with the remote. "That's a war crime," she muttered.
Conrad shuddered. "I had that once. My tongue still smells like GenSan."
Jamie leaned forward, finally cutting the static.
"Dad," she said, "why do the Medranos have bad blood with us?"
Conrad looked up from his grilled liempo like she'd asked him to explain nuclear fission.
"Your guess is as good as mine," he said, waving his fork.
"No, it's not," Jamie pushed. "You're always dodging this. Just admit you're hiding something."
Conrad sighed, rubbed his temples, and gestured at Stephanie. "Steph, help me out here."
"I already know you're hiding something," Stephanie said without looking up. "I just enjoy watching you squirm."
Conrad chuckled weakly. "My own daughter... a future CIA plant."
Jamie folded her arms.
"Well," he finally began, "there was that whole solar project incident."
"What solar project?" Jamie asked.
"The one Bernadette tried to monopolize," Conrad said, picking at his rice. "She came in smiling, offering partnership deals and low-interest loans. Said she wanted to revolutionize renewable energy in the province. Total façade. Behind the scenes, she was trying to lock everyone else out of the land bidding. Classic bait-and-greed."
Anthony's eyes widened mid-bite. "So what did you do?"
"I retaliated," Conrad said proudly. "Had Johnny set up that fake third-wave coffee business right across the street from her eco-café chain. We undercut her prices, stole her hipster baristas, and gave out loyalty cards with her face printed upside-down."
Jamie blinked. "You started a petty economic war over solar panels?"
"No," Conrad said. "I finished one."
Stephanie looked up from her bowl. "But why does Atty. Medrano hate Mom?"
Conrad paused mid-chew, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Well," he said slowly, "because your mom was the one who retaliated harder."
Anthony leaned forward. "You mean... Mom did something worse than the coffee thing?"
"Worse?" Conrad scoffed. "Kako pulled the nuclear option."
He stood up dramatically, pacing with the flair of someone telling a ghost story.
"She personally endorsed four mayoral candidates, three governors, and a handful of barangay captains across the whole province—just to wipe out the Medranos' grip on the electorate. I told her it was overkill. She said, and I quote, 'I want their family name to become as forgettable as boiled camote.'"
Jamie's mouth opened. "How much did she spend?"
"One hundred fifty million pesos," Conrad said, grinning. "Most of it just to buy out entire barangays. She once gave away free iPads in a cockfighting arena."
Stephanie spat out her drink. "Mom bribed voters during sabong?"
"She called it digital literacy," Conrad said. "She's a visionary."
Jamie looked shell-shocked. "So the whole feud... wasn't just Bernadette being evil?"
"Oh no," Conrad said, waving his fork like a wand. "It was two rich, powerful women with matching egos and enough money to fund two petty Cold Wars. And I was just the lovable idiot caught in between."
Anthony leaned back, still chewing. "So wait... Mom's like... a gangster?"
"Your mom," Conrad said proudly, "once told a priest that she'd fund his church roof if he refused communion to anyone with the surname Medrano."
Silence fell around the table.
Even Droopy lowered the paper.
Jamie rubbed her forehead. "And what did the priest say?"
"He said 'Deal,'" Conrad replied. "Then asked if he could get a baptism package discount for his niece."
Anthony blinked. "Wow."
There was a lull as rice was passed around again. Stephanie reached for the bagoong.
Then, as casually as tossing a grenade into a birthday party, Conrad turned to Anthony.
"Oh—and Anthony, you better watch out for that creepy old guy in our block."
Anthony froze. "You mean Tito Herberto?"
"Yeah," Conrad said. "He's a certified creep. If he ever offers you popsicles or starts singing YMCA, that's your cue to run. That guy's the reason we put a motion sensor on the front gate."
Jamie dropped her spoon.
"Oh my god, Dad!"
"What?" Conrad said defensively. "You think I'm joking? That man tried to show Glenn his tattoo and it wasn't even on his arm!"
Stephanie gagged.
"Why are you like this?" Jamie moaned.
"Because I care," Conrad replied earnestly. "That's what parenting is."
Droopy barked once, as if in agreement.
At that exact moment, the muted TV screen changed again.
"Next on Newsbreak Tonight: Bernadette Medrano claims retaliation is imminent and hints at filing a motion for reconsideration tomorrow. Stay tuned for a sit-down interview... and shrimp-flavored cola!"
The room went quiet.
Stephanie unmuted the TV. Jamie stared at the screen. Anthony stopped mid-chew.
Conrad slowly sat back down.
"...She's bluffing," he said.
Jamie didn't blink. "Is she?"
From the couch, Droopy turned the page of his newspaper again.
---
The Narumi living room was quiet now. Not peaceful—just quiet. The kind of silence that swelled when too much had been said but not enough understood.
Jamie stood by the open sliding glass door, staring out at the half-dead garden Kako had once paid a feng shui consultant to design. The wind chime—a fake bamboo one they bought during a trip to Tagaytay—clicked gently in the breeze, adding a nervous percussion to her thoughts.
Inside, Anthony flopped on the couch, arms behind his head, processing his mother's voter-bribing crusade and his father's warning about their pervert neighbor.
"I'm gonna need therapy," he muttered.
"You've been needing therapy," Stephanie deadpanned from the rug, typing away on her phone. "But now it'll be targeted."
Anthony tilted his head toward Jamie. "Do you think Mom was trying to protect us or just... flex?"
Jamie didn't answer right away. She leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the wind knock a plastic chair over in the yard.
"I don't know," she said finally. "Maybe both. Maybe neither. I don't even know if Dad's telling the whole story."
"He never does," Stephanie said. "He's like a reality show edited by drunk interns."
Jamie let out a breath, the weight of the past few hours—Bernadette's meltdown, Conrad's sarcasm, their mom's invisible empire—settling heavy on her shoulders.
Behind her, the TV flickered quietly, still running a repeat of the news segment. Bernard's voice briefly appeared in a soundbite, trying to deflect the chaos of his mother's lawsuit.
Stephanie noticed. "Wow. Bernard really knows how to distance himself when it's convenient."
Jamie didn't respond, but her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting another news alert or her mom checking in from Tokyo.
But it wasn't.
BERNARD:
Hey. Just saw the press conference replay. Are you okay?
She stared at it. Just the sight of his name stirred a strange mix of irritation and something else. Something soft.
BERNARD:
That Oral and Anal line... I nearly choked on my taho.
Also—if you need to scream into a pillow, I recommend the ones at the rooftop café. They're embroidered AND soundproof.
Jamie cracked a reluctant smile.
Anthony looked over. "Who's texting you?"
"None of your business," she said, thumbing a quick reply.
JAMIE:
I'm fine. Not in the mood for jokes.
My dad nearly picked a fight in a parking lot.
My mom is probably blackmailing a priest. And now I might be the daughter of political war criminals.
Bernard responded almost instantly.
BERNARD:
Wow. That's... a lot. Do you want to talk about it? Or insult me until you feel better?
Jamie leaned her head against the doorframe.
JAMIE:
Why are you being nice? Aren't we supposed to be in a cold war?
BERNARD:
We are. But even Cold Wars had backchannels.
Besides, I'm trying this new thing where I don't antagonize the girl I...
Never mind.
Jamie stared at the screen. The typing bubble blinked. Then disappeared.
Then returned.
BERNARD:
The girl I like. Okay. I said it.
If I get assassinated by your dog, so be it.
Jamie's heart did something unexpected. It fluttered—like a moth in her chest, confused but earnest.
Stephanie looked up from her phone. "You're smiling. Are you talking to Bernard?"
Jamie's smile vanished in half a second. "No."
Anthony turned his head. "So yes."
Jamie rolled her eyes and stepped outside onto the porch, still holding the phone. The night air was thick and smelled faintly of garlic rice from someone else's dinner. The streetlamps flickered lazily.
She typed back, slower this time.
JAMIE:
This doesn't mean I'm letting you off the hook.
Your mom's still suing mine.
And you still tried to make me sit through that student council poetry night.
BERNARD:
I'll spend the rest of my life apologizing for that event.
But also—I meant what I said.
If you ever need to talk, or fight, or throw things...
I'm around.
Jamie didn't answer right away.
She slid the phone into her hoodie pocket and stood quietly, eyes tracing the outline of the Narumi gate, as if it were a border she wasn't sure she wanted to cross—or defend.
From inside, she could hear Anthony and Stephanie arguing about who had to take Droopy out for his evening walk. Droopy, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to nap across both their laps, looking very pleased with himself.
Jamie stayed outside, letting the breeze lift her hair slightly.
Somewhere in the dark, her phone buzzed again.
But this time, she didn't check it right away.
She just stood there—half in the glow of the house, half in shadow—trying to make sense of her family's past, and wondering what the hell her future was going to look like if Bernard Medrano kept texting like that.