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“I-I don’t understand,” Marc stutters. “What are you doing here? Where’s Steph?” “Sit your ass down,” Alex says coldly. Alex’s server for the night, Julie, walks over and cheerily asks him what his friend would like to order. Alex tells her: “Oh, he’s not my friend. And he won’t be staying long.” “I see…” Julie says uncertainly. It’s the first time tonight that Alex is making her feel even mildly uncomfortable. “How’s the sisig?” “Like the original one in Angeles,” Alex says with a smile, and that swiftly restores the rapport between them. “No mayo or egg. No shortcuts. Like I said, those would’ve offended my soul.” After Julie left giggling, Alex’s genial demeanor turns ice-cold. “I’ve been onto you since day one,” Alex explains to the red-faced and dumbstruck Marc sitting across from him. “I followed you to the gym on Steph’s request, because you weren’t taking the breakup well. I know all about the death threats and the stalking.” Alex picks up the manila envelope next to h
“I know who you are,” Marc says teasingly. “White Wolf. Benjamin Generoso. Adopted son of the late and talented Leon Generoso. Step brother to missing Angela Generoso. I know all about the Boys Are Wolves app too.” Benjamin – Ben – is stunned. Nevertheless, he does his best to rein in his emotions and appear unfazed. “All of us in New Pack know. Dean Lazaro gave us a heads-up.” Ben can’t help but clench his jaws at the mention of Dean Lazaro’s name. “That’s right,” Marc continues. “I’m a student of Enderun U. Between the two of us, I’m the REAL frat boy. Despite your fake-ass, gaudy tattoos, which by the way none of us Howlers have, you can never be New Pack. You’re just not Enderun material… Stray. You wouldn’t fit in, just like Angela never did.” Marc leans back on his seat, utterly and unnervingly composed. He picks up one of the bottles of Cerveza Negra. With only his right hand and without anything acting as a fulcrum, he presses the instantly long fingernail of his thumb und
Ben roams the empty streets; a hunched, brooding figure in black Adidas tracksuit jacket with the trademark triple stripes. He puts both his hands in the jacket pockets, looking a bit shackled from the way the lower front of the jacket is bulging. He hangs his head. He takes in the dim lights and the muted sounds of the city that acts like a baby – little by little quieting down but still refusing to fall asleep. The stores are shuttered and his footsteps ring hollow on the sidewalk. The only people still awake are in it for the long haul: security guards and contact center agents on night shift. The cars in these parts are mostly taxis, and getting fewer and farther in between. The sound of their tires gripping the asphalt crescendoes and then decrescendoes perfunctorily, their passengers eager to get home to a warm meal or a soft bed. There’s a distinct halo around the first-quarter moon above and, through the humid air, Ben gets a whiff of urine and uncollected garbage, all of w
“I could ask the same thing to you,” Rafa says. “Why d’ya keep coming back here? Don’t tell me, after all those years, you still expect your mom to just miraculously appear. There’s a reason we’re orphans, a’ight? Our parents abandoned us.” Rafa doesn’t mince his words, showing what it has always been like between them. Ben shakes his head. “It’s not that. Believe it or not, I’m actually hoping I’d see the stray dog that protected me. I suddenly felt like asking it why it saved my sorry ass.” “Ha! Fat chance of that happening. You do know large dog breeds live only up to 12 years max, right? You’d have slightly better luck if the dog was a Chihuahua. Those tough tiny gangster mofos live up to 18 years.” Ben laughs imagining if his guardian spirit had been a Chihuahua. “Seriously tho,” Rafa says, “the guy you brought to the park three weeks ago… does he know where Angela is?” Ben grimly nods. “He and two others.” A pause, then Rafa asks: “Is she dead?” Averting his eyes, Ben nod
Ben grimaces on his back. A bare face is floating over him. He can see it through his one good eye. His entire face feels raw. He recognizes the face, looming and large, from the photos in his file. It’s Albert Diego Villalobos Jr. aka DJ. Casino heir. The third and last of Nu Kappa Nu Batch ’19. If Marc’s the Brains and Robin’s the Brawn, DJ would be the Breeding. Apparently, DJ has taken off his ski mask because he’s feeling hot. DJ is the only child of Albert Diego Sr., himself a Howler and an alumnus of Enderun U. Albert Diego Sr. is the founder, chairman and CEO of Ace of Diamonds Resorts & Entertainment Inc (traded on Nasdaq as ACED). DJ is the boyfriend of Brianna Iris Torres Durante. This morning, although it feels like eons ago right now, Kane has alerted Ben to the recent development of domestic violence between the couple. Ben knows the root of the issue. Beatrice’s father, Mr. Durante, is the president of Global Dominion Inc, an online cockfight gambling firm that, at i
“Don’t,” a voice hisses and Ben feels body-lightening relief wash over him. He recognizes Marc’s voice. {That’s it, Marc, you sly old sled dog,} he thinks to himself, if a bit nonsensically. {You’re the lead dog here. Keep your mutts in line.} “Put that away,” Marc says. “Dean Lazaro says we can’t kill him. We don’t know how tight he is with the White Wolf, Retaruseta. Besides, I’ve got a better idea what to do with that bitch.” Ben is calmly evaluating his position from a mostly detached space because he’s close to blacking out again. All things considered, he’s fine. He’s going to pick himself up after they leave. Broken bones will mend and wounds will heal. The important thing is he’s still alive. That’s one thing he learned from prison. Prison. Hell on earth. Where a 270-pound giant comes at you with a shank made out of toothbrush. Your worst nightmares come to life. Where you have to be steel and ice and show no trace of fear. Where you have to sleep with one eye open and grow
Grownups like to talk about how Earth’s running out of rainforests, energy or marine life. To an eleven-year-old busker and petty thief like Angela, the only resource that truly matters is human attention. When she’s not using it to her advantage, she’s usually competing for it. People nowadays are glued to their iPhone screens or lost between their earphones. They’re playing their own choice of music and frown on the use of amplifiers in public spaces. That’s the first rule of busking and pickpocketing right there: respect other people’s turf. This goes for fellow hustlers and sheep alike. Don’t be the dipstick who gets in people’s faces when you don’t have a permit from MMDA or you didn’t pay protection money to the Rat King. As a pickpocket especially, don’t go starting a turf war that you can’t finish, and be careful not to thin out the herd too much if you call Metro Manila home. That’d get you too much heat from the Aswangs and then not even the Rat King could save you. The th
Angela’s daydreaming is cut short by a simple gesture from Ben. He discreetly flashes an upside-down peace sign, which stands for… Aswang. Killer cop! It’s a good thing Ben has much quicker (and clearer) eyes than their lookout, Vidi. He has a good nose for trouble too. He can sense when a police decoy is trying to bait and trap them with a display of a pocketful of cash. Ben claims that, regardless of the type of uniform cops are wearing, they always smell of shoe and brass polish; whatever that means. With a great deal of regret, they throw all their spoils, all incriminating evidence to the tracks, and run. The aswang in plain-clothes gives chase, sweeping and elbowing aside commuters on the platform. Angela and the Askalz are smaller so they can squeeze between startled grownups better. Ben grabs her hand and runs while tugging her. He’s probably reacting out of fear, nothing more. But the contact is so unexpected that she feels her cheeks going red. She feels giggles rising fro