(Riki Dela Peña — Cubao, 2029)
The rain had stopped, but Cubao never really dried.
The streets still steamed — puddles glowing orange under jeepney lights, stray dogs sleeping beside half-dead tricycles, and the air smelling like soy sauce, gasoline, and fried garlic.
Riki walked alone, shoes slung over his shoulder, the pavement cool beneath his feet.
He'd just locked up the Flowstate gym — five minutes from the bridge — lights off, bills unpaid.
The echo of the last bouncing ball still clung to him like sweat.
He muttered, "If rhythm paid rent, I'd be rich."
The Carinderia Light
A few turns later, he saw it — Ate Bebang's Carinderia, that soft orange glow under the bridge.
Steam billowed from the grill, tarp walls flapping in the humid wind.
The sign above the doorway still flickered, the "B" in Bebang's long since burned out.
He ducked inside.
The place smelled like home and smoke.
Drivers shouted for extra rice.
A transistor radio played an off-key love song drowned by the sizzle of frying oil.
Riki dropped into his usual corner seat.
A half-eaten tapsilog waited — reheated, but still perfect.
Behind the counter, Ate Bebang flipped an egg and gave him the look.
"Anak, you'll melt into that chair if you sulk any longer."
Riki grinned weakly. "Better than thinking about bills."
"Bills won't pay themselves."
"Neither will basketball," he muttered.
The Collector
Slippers slapped against wet concrete outside.
Two men ducked under the tarp, bringing the smell of rain and cheap smoke with them.
"Riki-boy."
He looked up.
The taller one — scar under his lip — leaned on the doorway like he owned the place.
"Your cousin owes Boyet six thousand," he said. "You know how that goes."
Riki frowned. "My cousin? He told me that was handled."
Scar-Lip grinned, gold tooth catching the light.
"He handled it — by saying you'd cover it."
Ate Bebang glanced up from the grill. "If you're here to start nonsense, do it outside."
The shorter man raised a hand. "No trouble, Ate. Just reminding your boy here of his calendar."
Riki kept his tone flat. "Tell Boyet I'll find my cousin."
Scar-Lip took a slow step closer, breath heavy with gin.
"Find him, don't care. But if the six grand isn't on Boyet's table by next month—"
He tapped Riki's shin with the edge of his umbrella.
"—you won't be walking to the court no more."
Silence.
Only the hiss of frying oil filled the space.
Ate Bebang slammed her spatula. "Out. Now."
The two backed off, laughing as they slipped into the rain.
The tarp flapped shut behind them like a sigh.
Riki sat there, jaw tight, eyes on the puddle forming by his shoes.
"Man borrows six thousand," he muttered, "and I'm the one about to lose my legs."
He pushed his plate aside and pulled out his notebook.
The Math of Being Broke
He flipped to a half-torn page and started writing.
Debt
Cousin's tab — Boyet 6,000 pesos
Light bill – 780
Medicine – 2,400
Cash left – 3,120
He exhaled through his teeth.
"Three thousand pesos and borrowed trouble. Classic."
The rain started again — soft, rhythmic, almost teasing.
He leaned back, staring at the tarp roof.
"Guess community service doesn't count as ROI."
That was when he heard it —
The Small Voice
"Kuya Riki."
He looked up.
Arin Sol stood in the doorway — shoes soaked, hair dripping, schoolbag half-open, clutching an umbrella twice his height.
He must've sprinted home from the nearby public school; this was his nightly route.
"You're still out this late?" Riki asked.
Arin shrugged. "Mama's still cooking. She said I can wait here."
He climbed onto the chair across from Riki, feet dangling, eyes sharp.
"You look tired."
Riki laughed softly. "You sound like you're forty."
"I'm seven," Arin said flatly. "Not stupid."
That pulled a real smile out of him — the first in days.
"Alright, genius. I'm just thinking."
"About the game?"
"About... everything after it."
Arin tilted his head. "You always look like that before something good happens."
Riki blinked. "Before something good?"
Arin nodded, serious. "Mama says when people look that lost, they're about to find something."
Riki leaned back, letting the tarp's shadows ripple across his face.
Somewhere beyond, the lights of Aurora Boulevard flickered like wet stars.
For the first time in weeks, the noise inside him quieted.
The Cebuano Table
From the kitchen, Ate Bebang's voice cut through the sizzling pans — half-scold, half-lullaby.
"Riki! Eat that before the rice files for retirement!"
He grinned. "Yes, 'Te Bebang!"
Down at the far table, two men sat hunched over beer and adobo, voices loud and proud — Cebuano accents thick as the sauce they were eating.
"Cebu boys coming next month," one bragged. "Hundred-thousand pesos pot — biggest invitational in years."
"Ha! Manila can't keep up," the other laughed. "Our kids jump higher than jeepney fares!"
Riki's fork froze mid-air.
The sound of rain faded.
All he heard was the rhythm again — the one he thought he'd lost.
His fingers started tapping the table.
Arin noticed. "Kuya?"
Riki looked up, that old fire back in his grin.
"Just heard something I needed."
"Another game?"
"Maybe the right one."
Outside, thunder cracked, perfectly on-beat.
Ate Bebang shouted from the kitchen, "Wipe your shoes before you go chasing nonsense again!"
Riki laughed. "Promise, 'Te. This one's worth it."
Closing Scene
He slid a couple of crumpled bills under the saucer and stood.
Ate Bebang spotted him instantly. "No umbrella again?"
Riki shrugged. "Rain's just music, 'Te."
"Music doesn't pay tabs!"
He grinned. "Then put it on the playlist."
Arin looked up. "You'll win next time, right?"
Riki paused at the doorway — then smiled.
"Yeah. This time, I'm playing for more than a pot."
He stepped out into the drizzle, sneakers dangling from one hand.
The neon from Aurora shimmered in the puddles.
Every barefoot step echoed soft and sure.
He whispered — to the rain, to the bridge, to himself —
"Lowlight's not the opposite of Flowstate.
It's just where the rhythm hides."
End of Chapter 2 — "Lowlight Hustle"