The clouds are crying again.The wind howls like a wounded animal — loud, relentless, furious. It's the kind of weather that makes the city look like it's on the verge of collapsing into itself.
I got a call.
Another one of those calls — from a client who hides behind layers of wealth and respectability, asking me to clean up the filth he doesn't want traced back to him. This time, it's a "profiled civilian," whatever the hell that means. I've learned not to ask questions when the money is clear and the intent is filthier.
The meeting place is private. Too private.A half-built structure out in the edge of San Agero's industrial zone — scaffolding still up, windows missing, concrete floors damp with rain and secrets. Looks like it was meant to be a mall. Or maybe a trap.
I pause near the front, eyeing the exposed beams and abandoned cement mixers. The smell of rust and wet gravel clings to everything.
Is this supposed to be a mall?I shrug off the thought.
I walk into the shell of the building, toward what looks like an unfinished food court — the layout's obvious: tables, broken chairs, dusty tiles, empty steel stalls waiting for life that'll never come.
The perfect place to talk business.The kind of business I never learned from law school.
"Take a seat, Mr. Blacksheep."The man greets me without looking up, focused on slicing into a glistening cut of steak. He's in his 50s, dressed like old money pretending to be humble. His name is Mr. Fernandez — a barangay captain hopeful from some rural town outside San Agero. A man with too much ambition and not enough conscience.
His bodyguards stay off to the side, arms crossed, eyes dead. Watching. Waiting.
"It's rare to see a rural man eating like royalty while plotting murder," I say, dragging a chair from the corner and planting myself across from him.
He lets out a loud laugh, the kind that tries to sound genuine but stinks of arrogance. With a nod, he signals one of his men, who sets a thick parcel on the table between us — unmarked, but I know that weight. Stacks of cash, easy.
"Here's your fee," he says. "I have high expectations from the Blacksheep when it comes to cleaning up trash."
What pride.The kind that only corrupt men wear like armor.
I take the parcel in hand and lean back, lighting a cigarette. "So. Who's the target?"
He slides a file toward me, sealed in a cheap folder. "A rival. He's also running for barangay captain. Frankly, I don't think he's ready for the big world."
I flip the folder open, glance at the photo, then close it.
"You're a detailed man, Mr. Fernandez," I say, striking my lighter again — this time to burn the file itself. The flame consumes his rival's face in seconds.
"Oh? You don't need the file?"
"One look is enough," I exhale smoke, calm as ash. "Consider it done. Tomorrow."
He smiles, pleased with himself, swirling a glass of wine far too expensive for the rain-rotting skeleton of this failed mall. "After that, return here. I have another name lined up."
"I'll consider — if the funds are ready."
"There will always be funds," he says smugly. "After all, it's just taxpayers' money. The treasurers are fools. I steal what I want."
I nod, flicking ash onto the damp floor."I see."
His name is Mr. Landez.A man in his early forties — younger than Fernandez, sharper too, and clearly more likable. He's currently gaining traction in his campaign for barangay captain, pulling in more supporters by the day.
No wonder Fernandez wants him dead.
Good thing I was wearing a mask earlier.If he knew who he was really speaking to… he wouldn't have laughed like that. He'd be begging.
Landez has a family. Two kids in kindergarten. Another still in the womb. His wife runs a small school supply business. They're clean. Ordinary. Far too pure to be walking in the same political mud Fernandez wallows in.
He's well-off for someone in the rural side — which only makes him a threat. Not to the system. Just to the old men who've been fattening themselves on tax pesos like leeches.
Still, wealth in the barangay is nothing compared to the empires back in San Agero. Both Fernandez and Landez would be considered ants in the industrial zone. Disposable. Forgettable.
And yet...It's men like Landez who often become symbols. That's the danger.
He doesn't travel with bodyguards. No convoy. No security detail. Just a pickup truck, a handful of volunteers, and his smile. Always shaking hands, handing out flyers, giving speeches in covered courts to people desperate for change.
Naïve.
It makes him easy to kill.
A single bullet.A clean knife to the ribs during a meet-and-greet.Or a crash that looks like it was meant to happen on a rainy night.
Unfortunately for him, his death is coming sooner than he thinks.Sooner than his wife will be ready to grieve.Sooner than his children will understand what they've lost.
I'll make it quick.Because the longer he lives, the more dangerous he becomes — not to me, but to the men like Fernandez who fund what I do.
And right now, I still need their money.
It's been six hours since Mr. Fernandez paid me to erase Mr. Landez from this world.Three hours of driving from that corpse of a mall.Three more to plan his death.
Now, I'm parked just a few meters away from a church made of concrete and rust, blending into the rural zone like another forgotten structure. From what the locals told me — unknowingly helping me murder their beloved candidate — Landez is inside, attending a child's baptism.
The church doesn't even look like one. More like a residential house retrofitted for worship.Wooden podium up front, an old cross mounted behind it. Rows of plastic chairs facing forward. No choir, no stained glass, just raw devotion and plain walls.
The priest leads a solemn prayer, arms outstretched with a child in his hands. The couple — parents, most likely — smile tearfully from the side. Simple. Pure.
And there, seated among the front rows, is Mr. Landez.
Green shirt with his initials printed across the chest. His posture slouched slightly, a faint hunch in his back. Freckles dotting his sun-worn face. But his smile is real. The kind that politicians fake, but he wears naturally — like he actually means the things he says.
He listens. He prays. He celebrates with the people.
I linger in the back, blending in, watching silently as he moves from the ceremony to a small gathering outside. The locals greet him like a brother. He shakes hands. He jokes. A child clings to his leg.
They love him here.
That's the tragedy.
I spot his truck parked along the nearby road.Covered in campaign posters. His face plastered beside bold letters spelling out his slogan.A vehicle for hope. An irony waiting to happen.
No one's around.
I move quickly, cutting through the side path toward the undercarriage.From my coat, I retrieve a small remote-detonated device — flat, compact, magnetic. It clings beneath the engine block with a dull click, right between the metal supports. Even if someone checks, it won't be obvious. Not unless they know exactly what to look for.
Clean. Undetectable. Efficient.
Once it's in place, I make my way back, fading into the crowd. I continue to watch.He moves from family to family. Speaks with an old man in a wheelchair. Pets a stray dog. Hands a folded bill to a child selling candy.
And then… he turns toward me.
"You seem new around here," he says, offering a polite nod.
I match his expression. "Oh, well — I am."
I slip my phone from my pocket, flicking open the voice recorder with a single motion. "I'm a journalist with ABC-NBS News, currently covering rural barangay campaigns for the upcoming 2024 elections."
A partial truth. Enough to sound official.And I've found that people tend to trust microphones more than faces.
He chuckles softly. "Big network. Small place."
"Exactly why it's worth covering," I reply. "The public doesn't get to hear stories from areas like this. You'd be surprised how powerful small voices can be — if recorded."
I glance down to make sure the red recording light is on.Then meet his eyes again.
"Is it alright if I ask you a few questions, Mr. Landez?"
He nods without hesitation, still holding that practiced but genuine smile. "Of course. Though I can't promise I'm as interesting as the candidates in the city."
I let out a soft chuckle, tapping the record button with my thumb.
"Mr. Landez," I begin, "you've been gaining quite a bit of attention in this election cycle. For a candidate from a rural barangay, your campaign has managed to generate notable engagement online. What do you think is drawing people to your message?"
He hums thoughtfully. "I think it's less about my message, and more about their frustration. People here are tired of being forgotten. Tired of seeing the same names on every ballot and nothing changing after. I'm just... someone who lives among them. I listen, and I act."
I nod, jotting an imaginary mental note. He speaks like someone who means it — dangerous.
"And how do you respond to critics who say you're inexperienced in handling real governance?"
A slight shift in his eyes — not defensive, but aware.
"Inexperience isn't a flaw when you're willing to learn. What's dangerous is experience that turns into complacency. I don't pretend to know everything, but I surround myself with people who do. I think that's the kind of leadership we need now — collaborative, not arrogant."
He's sharp. Grounded. Maybe even idealistic.
I glance toward the church where children are still playing near the doorway, then back at him.
"And what's your biggest priority, should you win the election?"
"Accountability," he says without missing a beat. "People here deserve transparency in where their money goes — and the right to question leaders without fear."
I raise a brow, still maintaining the role. "That's a bold stance."
"It's a necessary one."
I let the silence hang for a second, as if pondering his words. In truth, I'm calculating timing, surroundings, escape routes. But none of that shows on my face.
"One last question," I say, flicking off the recorder with a casual motion. "Do you feel safe during this campaign?"
He pauses, then offers a wry smile. "Safe? No. But that's expected. The moment you decide to run against powerful people, you make yourself a target."
A beat passes between us.
"Good thing," he adds, "I still believe most people are good."
I nod slowly, slipping the phone back into my coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Landez. That's all I need."
He shakes my hand once more, firmer this time.
"Be safe out there," he says.
"You too," I reply.
We both walk away — me toward my car, him toward his death.
I drove off in silence, the road back to the failed mall stretched under the weight of evening fog. I didn't press the button. Not yet.
The bomb was in place.It had no range limits, no ticking countdown. I could detonate it from anywhere, at any time. But there's no point in rushing when innocent people could be near. Patience is cleaner. Safer. Deadlier.
Three hours pass.
By the time I arrive, the air feels heavier — like the clouds still haven't stopped crying. The half-finished mall looms ahead, still as hollow as the man waiting outside it.
In the parking lot, Mr. Fernandez stands with his men, idle and puffing cheap cigars, their suits clinging to them like wet paper. He turns to me with that smug grin already forming.
"So, is it done?"
I step out of the car and close the door behind me.
"I told you. It'll be done tomorrow. It only takes the click of a button."
He raises a brow. "And how will you know when to click it, if you're not there?"
I pull out my phone and hold it casually in my palm.
"He vlogs on social media during every campaign stop. I checked earlier — he ends every vlog right before getting into his truck. All I have to do is wait for the next live feed."
He whistles low, almost impressed. "Clever."
I don't reply. I don't need his approval.
"So," I say, shifting gears. "What's this other target you mentioned?"
His grin widens. "It's not a person. It's a group."
"A group?"
"There's a gang operating in the underworld — bigger than most, well-connected. Lately, they've been interfering with our shipments. Ever since they showed up, the supply of product's been dry. I'm losing clients."
I study him. "So you run a drug operation too."
He shrugs, chuckling. "It's extra cash. Tax money's good — but addiction pays better."
A pause.
"You want me to eliminate a gang?"
"I want you to send a message. Burn their hideout. Make them scatter. Show them whose turf this is."
"And what's the name of this group?"
"They go by Alab Calle. You'll know them when you see the flame tattoos."
I nod slowly, already storing the name for later.
"Payment?"
He gestures to one of his men, who places a second envelope in my hand — heavier than the first.
"There'll be more if you make it loud."
I tuck the envelope into my coat."I'll let the fire speak, then."