CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2

Shadows of San Pascual

(Andra’s POV)

“Andra, to my office. Now.”

I barely had time to set my coffee down when I heard the voice of Ms. Corazon Dela Peña, our editor-in-chief. Her tone was sharp enough to slice through the newsroom chatter.

The Daily Truth newsroom was always busy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, editors talking over each other—but today, the energy felt heavier. Everyone had seen the live coverage of the Montenegro press conference. Everyone knew what I did.

My question had trended on social media overnight. Some called me brave. Others, reckless.

I straightened my blazer, squared my shoulders, and walked to Ms. Cora’s glass office. Heads subtly turned as I passed, whispers trailing behind me.

“Siya ‘yung nagtanong kay Montenegro, ‘di ba?”

“Grabe, gutsy ng babae.”

“Gutsy? Or suicidal?”

The door closed behind me with a soft click.

Ms. Cora didn’t waste time. “What the hell was that stunt, Andra?” she said, her hands flat on the desk. “Do you realize what kind of power you just challenged?”

I met her eyes. “With all due respect, ma’am, I didn’t challenge anyone. I just asked a question.”

She exhaled loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t just ask a question. You cornered one of the most powerful men in this country on live media.”

I remained still. “Because no one else would.”

A beat of silence. Then, surprisingly, she smirked faintly. “And that’s exactly why I hired you.”

Her tone softened, but her gaze stayed sharp. “Still, I got two calls from legal and one from PR this morning. They’re nervous. You stirred the pot.”

I crossed my arms. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”

She studied me for a moment, then gestured to the screen on her desk. “You might want to see this.”

On the monitor was a still image from yesterday’s press conference—a man in a gray suit standing at the back, almost out of frame. His face half-turned, caught mid-motion.

Ms. Cora said, “Our photographer noticed him. No press badge. Didn’t sign in. Didn’t appear on any official guest list. Security says he left right after your question.”

I frowned. “Do we have a clearer shot?”

She clicked to the next frame. The image sharpened just enough for me to see his profile—sharp jawline, slicked-back hair, dark eyes focused directly on me.

“Creepy,” I muttered. “Who is he?”

“That’s what I want you to find out,” she said. “Quietly.”

A spark of adrenaline flared in my chest.

“San Pascual project?” I asked.

“Start there. You’ll have two days. Take Ramirez with you if you need the organization's support.”

“Got it.”

As I turned to leave, she called out again. “Andra—”

I looked back.

“Watch your back,” she said, her voice low. “People like Montenegro don’t like surprises. And people who protect them? Even less.”

I gave her a small nod. “I can handle it.”

“Make sure you do.”

Outside, I headed straight to my cubicle. My teammate Lester, our tech analyst, was already hovering near my desk with a sly grin.

“Breaking the internet again, huh?” he teased. “Half the newsroom’s calling you fearless. The other half thinks you’ve got a death wish.”

I rolled my eyes, powering up my computer. “Tell them it’s called journalism.”

He laughed. “Journalism, sure. But seriously, Andra—your question went viral. Even the business blogs are dissecting Montenegro’s reaction frame by frame. Look.”

He turned his laptop to me. Dozens of articles popped up— ‘Fearless Journalist Faces Montenegro Heir Head-On’, ‘The Woman Who Made Zayne Montenegro Flinch’, ‘Truth or Career Suicide?’

I skimmed them. Public reaction was divided. Some praised me for exposing corporate hypocrisy. Others accused me of grandstanding.

Typical.

“Hey,” Lester said, lowering his voice. “You heard about the guy in gray?”

My eyes flicked up. “You saw him too?”

“Yeah. Security cam footage from the hotel’s rear exit. He left before the press crowd dispersed. Didn’t ride the staff vans or media shuttles. Solo. No ID trace yet, but I’ll dig.”

I nodded. “Run a cross-check—facial recognition, social profiles, even LinkedIn. Use the footage Ms. Cora has.”

“Already on it,” he said, typing rapidly.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes rest for a second. The newsroom buzzed around me, but my mind was elsewhere—San Pascual, the displaced families, the man in gray.

Three threads. One story.

This was bigger than just a headline.

“Ms. Enriquez?”

A voice snapped me out of my thoughts. It was Mila, one of our interns, holding a small brown envelope.

“This came in for you,” she said. “Courier dropped it off this morning.”

I frowned. “For me? Who’s the sender?”

She shook her head. “No name. Just your desk number.”

I took the envelope. No markings, no return address—just my initials scrawled in black ink: A.E.

My pulse quickened slightly. I opened it carefully. Inside was a single printed page—an article clipping about the Montenegro Group’s North San Pascual project, with a handwritten note at the bottom:

“Look closer at the land titles. Follow the paper trail.”

No signature.

I looked up, scanning the bustling newsroom through the glass. No one seemed out of place.

“Who received the delivery?” I asked Mila.

“Front desk. Anonymous drop-off.”

“Thanks. You can go.”

She nodded and walked away.

I held the paper tighter, rereading the note. My gut told me this wasn’t random. Someone knew what I was digging into—and wanted me to see more.

Or maybe… I wanted to control what I found. Either way, it meant one thing. San Pascual wasn’t just a story anymore. It was a maze.

And I had just taken my first step inside.

The heat in San Pascual hit differently dense, sticky, and almost alive.

By the time I stepped out of the van, my blouse was clinging to my back, and the air smelled faintly of cement dust and diesel.

The so-called commercial development site stretched beyond the fences, still half-constructed, half-abandoned. Heavy machinery stood motionless, and a few security guards eyed me warily from a distance.

I raised my press ID slightly. “Andra Enriquez, The Daily Truth,” I said. “May I speak with your site manager?”

The nearest guard shifted. “Wala po ngayon, ma’am. Baka bukas.”

Of course. Always bukas.

I jotted it down anyway, then glanced at my companion, Ramirez, one of our field photographers. He was already snapping wide shots of the perimeter, sweat glinting on his forehead.

“Get the signage,” I murmured. “Make sure the Montenegro logo’s visible.”

He nodded, crouching to frame the shot.

A group of locals stood near a sari-sari store across the street, curious eyes tracking us. I approached them slowly, notebook ready.

“Magandang umaga po,” I greeted. “Press po ako, gusto ko lang sana magtanong tungkol sa project dito.”

The eldest woman, around sixty, eyed me cautiously before speaking. “Press? Eh ‘di kayo galing sa kumpanya nila Montenegro?”

I shook my head. “Hindi po. Independent kami. We’re writing about the situation here.”

Her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Ay, nako hija, kung alam mo lang. Hanggang ngayon wala pa kaming matinong relokasyon. Pinangakuan kami, pero hanggang salita lang.”

Another man, maybe in his forties, joined in. “Kinuha lupa namin, maliit lang naman, pero ang binayad? Halos wala. Yung iba, hindi pa nabayaran. At may mga nakatira pa sa gilid—kung tawagin nila, informal settlers.”

“Pero dito rin kayo nakatira dati?” I asked.

He nodded. “Oo. Nung nagsimula ‘yung proyekto, sinabihan kami na pansamantala lang daw ‘yung paglilipat. Ilang taon na, wala pa rin.”

I wrote down every word, every number, every date they remembered. Beside me, Ramirez kept taking photos quietly—the cracked pavement, the makeshift shanties near the construction fence, the Montenegro billboard towering above them like a mockery.

The contrast was jarring: “Building a Brighter Future” in bold letters, against the backdrop of displaced families struggling under the noon sun.

One of the younger residents, a girl about twelve, peeked from behind her mother. “Ate, totoo po bang matutulungan n’yo kami?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

I forced a small smile. “We’ll do our best, okay? Ang mahalaga, marinig kayo.”

After nearly two hours, I’d gathered enough statements to map the story’s skeleton. Still, something felt off.

“Ramirez,” I said, as we walked back to the van. “You notice anything weird?”

He lowered his camera. “Aside from the guards staring at us since we got here? Yeah.”

I glanced over my shoulder discreetly. Sure enough, one of the guards stood near the gate, hand pressed to his earpiece, murmuring something.

“Let’s wrap up,” I said.

As we started the engine, I spotted movement in the side mirror—a gray sedan parked across the street. Tinted windows. Engine running.

My pulse tightened.

I turned slightly, pretending to check my phone while watching it. The sedan didn’t move, but I could feel the weight of its presence, like eyes pressed against glass.

“Drive,” I told Ramirez quietly. “Slowly. Let’s see if they follow.”

We turned at the next corner, then another. The sedan stayed put.

Still, unease prickled at the back of my neck.

Back at the municipal hall, I met with Councilor Vergara, one of the local officials who had signed off on the San Pascual development permits. He greeted me politely, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Ms. Enriquez,” he said. “You’re digging into a sensitive topic. I hope you understand that certain documents are confidential.”

“Confidential or inconvenient?” I asked lightly, placing my recorder on the table.

His jaw tensed. “This project brings jobs. Growth. Progress.”

“And displacement,” I countered. “Where are the relocation plans you promised these families?”

He sighed. “Ms. Enriquez, please—don’t make trouble. Everything’s been handled within legal bounds.”

I stared at him, unimpressed. “Legal doesn’t always mean just.”

He gave a tight smile. “Be careful with your words, Ms. Enriquez. The Montenegro Group has powerful allies.”

“Then they won’t mind a few questions,” I said.

Our meeting ended there.

By late afternoon, the sun dipped low, casting long orange shadows over San Pascual. I found a small café near the plaza to send my field notes.

My fingers flew across the keyboard:

“Day 1 field notes – Residents confirm unresolved relocation. Possible irregularities in land valuation and permit approval. Requesting public access to municipal records. —A.E.”

I attached photos, scanned statements, and sent them straight to Ms. Cora and Lester.

The internet connection flickered; the café’s small radio hummed an old love song. Outside, tricycles zipped past, horns blaring.

Ramirez returned from a quick call. “Everything’s uploaded,” he said. “We head back tonight?”

“Yeah. I want to check one more thing before we go.”

I stepped outside, notebook in hand, and looked toward the darkening street. The gray sedan was gone.

But as the wind shifted, carrying dust and exhaust with it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was still watching.

The newsroom was almost empty when I got back. Only the low hum of computers and the faint clicking of keyboards filled the air—Lester finishing an edit, Ms. Cora reviewing tomorrow’s headline.

“Got your email,” Cora said without looking up. “Good work, Andra. Pero careful ka ha? San Pascual’s a Montenegro territory. You don’t poke giants without a backup plan.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Good,” she replied, eyes still glued to the monitor. “Andra… just remember, stories like this—they watch back.”

It was nearly midnight when I reached my apartment. I kicked off my heels, dropped my bag by the couch, and poured myself a glass of water. The city outside was quieter now, only the faint hum of traffic from the highway and the soft flicker of streetlights through the blinds.

My laptop was still open from earlier. I clicked the recorder file—the one from the San Pascual interview.

“Ay, nako hija, kung alam mo lang…”

The old woman’s voice echoed faintly through the speakers, cracked but steady. I listened to each segment, marking timestamps, cross-checking statements with my handwritten notes.

Professional rhythm. Clinical focus. That was how I worked best.

Then I replayed the moment outside the construction site—the faint hum in the background, the distant rumble of engines, then… something else.

A sharp, metallic click. Almost like… a camera shutter.

My pulse skipped. I increased the volume, isolating the noise. There it was again—click. Then another, softer one, closer this time.

Someone had been taking photos. Of me.

I sat back slowly, exhaling through my nose. It could be a coincidence. A construction worker. A curious guard. Maybe even Ramirez off-frame.

Still, my gut said otherwise.

I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over the call log, when the screen lit up—Unknown Number.

The vibration buzzed against the tabletop, sharp and insistent.

I hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Who’s this?”

Still nothing. Then, a low voice of male, calm, deliberate—filtered through the speaker.

“You dig too deep, Ms. Enriquez.”

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

“Who is this?”

“Drop the Montenegro story.”

I stood, scanning the dark corners of my apartment as if he could be there. “If this is some kind of—”

“You’re being watched.”

The line crackled once… then went dead.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the city noise.

Breathe, Andra.

I placed the phone down, double-locked the door, and closed every curtain. My laptop screen still glowed faintly, showing the paused waveform of my recording.

The metallic clicks looked sharper now—two perfect spikes in the silence.

I copied the file to an encrypted folder and renamed it [Unknown Presence_Recording_001].

Whatever that was, whoever that was—they’d just confirmed what I already suspected.

This wasn’t just corruption anymore.

Someone wanted the truth buried.

And they were willing to make it personal.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚