Chapter One: The Boy with the Envelope

The streets of Manila were restless. It was 1986, and the city seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension. The air was thick with humidity, laced with the scent of frying street food, diesel fumes, and something heavier—something dangerous. People moved briskly, heads down, as if afraid that lingering too long in one spot would invite trouble.

Emilio Montemayor stood at the edge of the southern docks, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. He stared out at the rows of cargo ships moored under the dull gray sky. Around him, men unloaded crates under the watchful eyes of his father's men—gruff, armed figures who barked orders and made sure no one got too curious about the contents of the shipments.

This was Emilio's world: cold, calculated, and endlessly exhausting. At 18, he was already a seasoned player in his father's empire, expected to follow orders without question. But lately, he found himself wondering if this was all his life would ever be—a series of deals conducted in shadows, with loyalty bought and sold like the goods they smuggled.

"Emilio," barked one of the men, jolting him from his thoughts. "Your father wants you to check on the deliveries. He's expecting a report by sundown."

Emilio nodded wordlessly, pulling his jacket tighter as he turned toward the warehouses. It wasn't fear that kept him in line—it was duty. Duty to the Montemayor name, to his mother's memory, to the promise he'd made to his younger sister that he'd keep their family together.

But today, something felt off.

The rain started just as Angelo Cruz ducked into an alley, clutching an envelope wrapped in plastic to protect it from the downpour. He cursed under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed. The Salazar group had warned him that tonight's delivery was critical—"no mistakes," they'd said.

Angelo had learned not to ask questions. At 17, he was already a seasoned courier, navigating Manila's labyrinth of alleys and side streets with the precision of a veteran. The job paid enough to keep his siblings fed, and that was all that mattered.

But as he darted through the rain-soaked streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. The city felt different tonight—heavier, as if the storm clouds carried more than rain.

He turned a corner and froze.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a leather jacket, the boy looked out of place in the narrow alley. Angelo's eyes darted to the gun holstered at the boy's side, and his heart sank.

"Hand it over," the boy said, his voice low but firm.

Angelo tightened his grip on the envelope. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The boy stepped closer, his dark eyes locking onto Angelo's. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Emilio hadn't expected the messenger to be a boy his own age. When he'd been ordered to intercept the delivery, he'd pictured a grizzled man in his forties, not this wiry kid with sharp eyes and a defiant tilt to his chin.

"Look," Emilio said, trying to keep his tone calm. "I don't want to hurt you. Just give me the envelope, and we can both walk away."

But the boy didn't budge.

"You think I'm stupid?" Angelo shot back. "I give you this, and they'll kill me."

Emilio sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. The rain was picking up, and they didn't have much time. He could hear footsteps in the distance—his father's men, coming to make sure the job was done.

"You don't have a choice," Emilio said quietly. "They'll kill me if I don't take it."

The boy hesitated, and for a moment, Emilio thought he'd give in. But then Angelo did something unexpected—he threw the envelope to the ground and bolted.

"Damn it," Emilio muttered, chasing after him.

The chase led them through a maze of alleys, their footsteps echoing against the wet pavement. Angelo was fast—faster than anyone Emilio had ever seen—but Emilio was determined. He didn't know why he cared so much about catching this boy, but something about him felt… different.

Finally, he cornered Angelo in a dead-end alley, both of them panting from the run.

"You're quick," Emilio admitted, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

Angelo glared at him, his chest heaving. "Why do you even care? You don't know what's in that envelope."

"You're right," Emilio said. "I don't. But my father does, and that's enough."

For a moment, the two boys stared at each other, the rain falling between them. Emilio could see the fear in Angelo's eyes, but there was something else there too—something fierce and unyielding.

"You don't want to do this," Angelo said softly.

Emilio's hand hovered over the gun at his side, but he didn't draw it. Instead, he stepped back, letting his arm drop to his side.

"Go," he said.

Angelo blinked. "What?"

"Take the envelope and go. I'll tell them I lost you."

Angelo hesitated, studying Emilio as if trying to decide whether to trust him. Finally, he grabbed the envelope and slipped past Emilio, pausing just long enough to say, "Thanks."

As Emilio watched him disappear into the rain, he realized he didn't even know the boy's name. But something told him this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.