Manila High was never quiet. It was a jungle of hormones, hallway brawls, and the occasional love letter folded into a paper crane. For Lambert "Vine" Lopez, it was the birthplace of chaos — and the barkada was the epicenter.
There were five of them: Vine, Jomari, Kent, Paolo, Renz, and the wildcard, Ruby. They weren't the smartest, nor the most behaved, but they were unforgettable. Their barkada was a cocktail of mischief, loyalty, and just enough stupidity to keep things interesting.
Classroom time was war. Vine once replaced the teacher's whiteboard marker with a permanent one. The look on Ma'am Dela Cruz's face when she tried to erase her notes was priceless. Another time, Kent brought a Bluetooth speaker and blasted "Boom Tarat Tarat" during a surprise quiz. The class erupted. The teacher didn't.
But the real addiction? DOTA. Defense of the Ancients wasn't just a game — it was religion. After class, they'd sprint to the nearest LAN shop, "Netopia," a dimly lit haven that smelled of instant noodles and teenage dreams. Ten pesos an hour, and you were a god. Vine always picked Pudge. Hook, rot, kill, repeat.
They'd scream across the room, trash talk flying like shurikens. "Hoy, Renz, support ka lang, wag kang mag-carry!" "Tangina, lag ako!" "GG na, pre!" The shop owner, Mang Ernie, would just shake his head, secretly amused. He knew they'd be back tomorrow. They always came back.
Weekends were for dance battles. The barkada wasn't just nerds — they had moves. At the barangay plaza, they'd challenge other crews. Vine and Jomari were the frontliners, spinning and popping to "Teach Me How to Dougie" and "Otso Otso." The crowd would go wild, especially when Ruby joined in, her footwork sharp, her smile sharper.
Ruby. The only girl in the group, and the only one who could roast Vine into silence. She was fire — not the kind that warmed you, but the kind that burned you alive and made you thank her for it. She danced like she had secrets, and Vine was dying to learn them.
Then came the frat. Delta Sigma. The Magic 5. It wasn't official, but it was real. Five initiates, five trials, one brotherhood. They weren't hazed — they were tested. Loyalty, courage, silence, pain, and the final trial: trust. Vine passed them all. Barely. But he earned the mark — a small scar on his wrist, a reminder that brotherhood wasn't given. It was bled for.
One night, after a dance battle win and a DOTA losing streak, they gathered at Ruby's house. Her parents were out. The lights were low. The mood was high. Gin bulag in plastic cups, chicharon on the table, and Spotify on shuffle. Laughter echoed through the sala.
Then Ruby stood up. "Truth or dare," she said, eyes gleaming. Everyone groaned. But they played.
It was Vine's turn. "Truth," he said, cocky.
Ruby leaned in. "If you could erase one person from your life, who would it be?"
The room went silent. Even the music seemed to pause.
Vine laughed it off. "Wala. I love you all."
Ruby smirked. "Liar."
Midnight struck. The game ended. But the question lingered.
That night, as Vine walked home under the Manila moon, he realized something. The barkada wasn't forever. But the chaos? The chaos was his origin story.
In the shadows, a Tracework sticker clung to a lamppost. Faded, but still there. Like a whisper from the future.
And so began the saga of Lambert "Vine" Lopez — the boy who danced through fire, gamed through heartbreak, and traced his pain into purpose.