As dinner rolled on, the atmosphere inside the grand dining hall softened into something warm and intimate, like the hotel itself had leaned in closer to listen. Laughter echoed off stone walls, silverware chimed against porcelain, and the hum of conversation layered over itself like music. An elite team of chefs and pâtissiers had outdone themselves—every dish tasted like intention, memory, and care. One bite in and people were clutching their chests, half-joking about crying, half-actually doing it.
Jordan and his mom sat side by side, sharing plate after plate of dishes Jordan only ever had growing up. Peking duck with crackling skin, mapo tofu that numbed the tongue just right, char siu glossy and sweet, xiao long bao bursting with soup. Jordan watched his mom carefully lift one dumpling, her hands trembling ever so slightly. When she took a bite, her eyes welled up immediately.
"I haven't tasted this since before we left," she whispered in Mandarin, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
Jordan didn't say anything. He just reached over and squeezed her hand.
Around them, stories overlapped.
"Did you hear?" one trainee murmured. "Sir Foca actually talked to Bobby's parents. Like—actually talked."
"Man's still alive," another replied solemnly.
"All hail Sir Foca," someone else said, lifting their glass.
The warmth lingered. Comfort settled in. And then—inevitably—it was time.
Monarch leaned back in his chair, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes sharp with curiosity. "Alright," he said, chewing his blueberry cheesecake like this was a courtroom and dessert was a gavel. "Start talking."
Eli sighed, long and slow, then smiled faintly. "It's really not that complicated," he said. "Yes. I'm white. Fully. Zero Filipino blood. No secret DNA plot twist."
"Way to state the obvious," Monarch deadpanned. "Please, continue."
Eli shot him a look, then glanced around the table. His parents were listening quietly now. His mom's hand rested on his dad's forearm. His baby sister swung her feet under the table, blissfully unaware of how much weight her kuya was about to unpack.
"So," Eli began, fingers tracing the edge of his glass, "I wasn't planned. Like—at all. I was the result of a teenage pregnancy. My biological mom was young, scared, and drowning before she ever learned how to swim."
The table stilled.
"My parents—my real parents," he corrected gently, nodding toward them, "were immigrants back then. Freshly married, working two, sometimes three jobs each. Living in San Francisco, trying to survive off hope, stubbornness, and instant noodles."
His mom smiled faintly at that. His dad snorted.
"My biological mother lived next door. She was their neighbor's daughter. When her parents found out she was pregnant, they lost their damn minds. Disowned her. Threw her out like garbage. My parents found her sitting on the curb one night, crying so hard she couldn't breathe."
Eli paused, swallowing.
"They took her in. No hesitation. No paperwork. Just… 'come inside, anak.' They fed her. Let her sleep in their spare room. Took her to doctor's appointments. They told her they'd help until she could stand on her own."
"But she couldn't," Eli continued quietly. "She spiraled. Depression. Addiction. Fear. After I was born… she disappeared."
The silence grew heavier.
"She gave birth to me, held me once, then ran. Left the hospital without a word. No goodbye. No note. Nothing."
Jordan's brows knit together. Monarch's sarcasm evaporated completely.
"My parents didn't tell me everything growing up," Eli said. "They waited until I was older. But kids know when there's a shadow in the room. I did my own digging eventually." He let out a breath that shook despite his smile. "She was found dead years later. Florida. Overdose. Alone."
No one spoke.
"Her parents didn't want me," Eli went on. "I was paperwork away from foster care. A file number. A maybe."
His dad cleared his throat.
"That's when my parents stepped in," Eli said, voice softening. "They took guardianship. No hesitation. Again. They named me. Gave me their last name. Bravely fought through the adoption process."
He laughed quietly. "I grew up eating sinigang and adobo, sleeping to my mom's insane vocal riffs, learning curse words before algebra. I was the only white kid at every Filipino party, getting my cheeks pinched by titas who said I was 'gwapo' even when I looked like a drowned rat."
His mom chuckled, eyes shiny.
"I learned love through action. Through showing up. Through being yelled at for being shirtless," he added dryly.
Monarch huffed. "Truly traumatic."
Eli smiled, then looked at them seriously. "I never felt adopted. I never felt like I didn't belong. Because from the moment they chose me, I was theirs. And they never let me forget it."
"So yeah," Eli concluded, lifting his shoulders. "That's the origin story. That's how a Caucasian kid became a Reyes."
"Damn right you are," his dad said firmly, pride ringing in his voice.
His mom pulled him into her side and kissed the top of his head, just like she had when he was little. "We love you, baby," she murmured.
Eli smiled—wide, unguarded, grateful. Because he knew. He felt it. Every damn day.
"Ohhh," Jordan suddenly said, snapping his fingers. "That explains it."
"Explains what?" Eli asked.
"Why you sing so good," Jordan grinned. "You got that Filipino throat chakra."
Eli laughed. "Of course I do," he said proudly. "I was raised by Filipinos and karaoke."
And honestly?
There was no better origin story than that.