CHAPTER 5

Man Behind the Silence

(Andra’s POV)

The morning after the call felt heavier than any deadline hangover.

Sleep was optional. Paranoia wasn’t.

Ginugol ko ang kalahating gabi sa pag-replay ng boses na iyon, analyzing the static, the pauses, even the subtle hum in the background. When I finally gave up on rest, dawn had already crawled through the blinds—gray, quiet, accusing.

Coffee, recorder, notebook, and phone logs. Routine became survival.

Pagsapit ng 8:30 a.m., nakabalik na ako sa The Daily Truth newsroom, pretending to look composed while my insides buzzed like live wires. The glass doors slid open with their usual hiss, at ang pamilyar na amoy ng tinta, papel, at nasusunog na caffeine ay pumuno sa hangin.

“Enriquez,” Leo called out from his cubicle, not looking up from his screen. “Mukhang nakipagbuno ka sa laptop mo kagabi.”

“Laptop won,” I muttered, dropping my bag on the chair beside him.

He finally turned, frowning. “Hindi ka natulog, di ba?”

“Define sleep.”

He sighed. “May nahanap ka.”

“I think it found me.”

That made him pause. “Explain.”

I plugged in the flash drive, opened a blank document, and began typing notes while I spoke. “May tumawag sa akin kagabi. Distorted ang boses niya at nasa private number. He played a recording.”

“What kind of recording?”

“Zayne Montenegro. Boardroom-level conversation. Off-record.”

Leo froze. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Positive. Parehong tono, at parehong parirala. He said, ‘Proceed with the acquisition. Make sure there are no loose ends.’”

Leo’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Christ, Andra. That’s—”

“Not supposed to exist,” I finished for him. “Yeah, I know.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Did you trace the number?”

“Unlisted. No digital footprint. Pero may iba. Isang ugong sa background—steady, and in low-frequency. Sounds like a ventilation system.”

Leo blinked. “You picked up that much?”

I shrugged. “I listened to it fifteen times.”

“Of course you did.”

I slid my recorder across the desk. "Pagandahin mo ito. Parehong proseso tulad ng dati. Gusto ko ng malinis na kopya at noise map."

Leo hesitated. “You’re aware that this puts us in direct line of fire, right?”

I met his eyes. “We were already there the moment I asked Zayne that question at the press con.”

Hindi na siya nakipagtalo pagkatapos noon. Tumango lang, saka nagsimulang kunin ang software. Mabilis na gumalaw ang kanyang mga daliri, practiced.

I busied myself scanning through last night’s notes. Words and phrases underlined in red: Gray sedan. Man in a gray coat. We work where power decides. Each detail was a thread. I just needed to find which one would unravel the rest.

A few minutes later, Leo turned up the volume. “Okay, listen. I isolated the hum.”

The recording played. Static. Then that same distorted voice:

“You shouldn’t have gone to San Pascual…”

Followed by the faint background noise. Leo adjusted the frequency filters. Slowly, the hum sharpened—steady, rhythmic. Then, a new sound bled through: muffled voices.

“Board report… 8:30 sharp.”

“Sir, Mr. Montenegro requested the file.”

I leaned closer. “Wait—play that again. “He looped the clip.

“Board report… 8:30 sharp.”

“Sir, Mr. Montenegro requested the file.”

My pulse quickened. “That’s not just white noise. That’s an office recording. Probably from inside the Montenegro Tower.”

Leo swore under his breath. “Whoever called you wasn’t just warning you. He wanted you to have this.”

I nodded slowly. “He’s feeding us evidence.”

“But why?”

“Because someone inside wants this story out.”

The newsroom started buzzing around us—phones ringing, printers humming, the usual chaos of another workday. But all I could hear was that faint voice in my head.

“Don’t let her dig too deep.”

Too late for that. I saved the file into a new encrypted folder and backed it up to a separate drive. Kung nais ng isang tao na patahimikin ito, kailangan nilang burahin ako at ang kuwento mula sa pag-iral.

Leo glanced at me. “So, what’s your move?”

“I’m tracing the ventilation noise.”

He blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

“There’s only one boardroom in the Montenegro Tower with an air vent that old,” I said, opening my old research files. “Level 38. Executive floor.”

Leo stared at me like I’d lost it. “And how exactly do you plan to confirm that? Walk in there with a recorder?”

“Something like that.”

“Andra—”

“Relax. I’m not suicidal.”

His silence said otherwise. I looked at him, steady. “This is what we do, Leo. We find the truth, no matter who it scares.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Balang araw, ang lakas ng loob mo ay papatayin ka.”

“Maybe,” I said, forcing a smile. “But not today.”

By noon, the office felt like a ticking clock. I spent the next hour mapping out the timeline—cross-referencing Zayne’s last public appearance, the San Pascual displacement orders, and the possible source of the call.

Every lead pointed to one conclusion: Someone from inside the Montenegro Group was leaking information.

The question was—who, and why now?

As I packed my things, my phone buzzed. Unknown number again. This time, just a text.

Unknown Number: You’re looking in the right place. But the wrong man.

My hand froze above the screen. Wrong man?

I read the message three more times before locking the phone and sliding it into my bag. The newsroom chatter faded into static.

Whatever game this was, someone had just changed the rules.

The text kept replaying in my head.

“You’re looking in the right place. But the wrong man.”

I’d read it so many times that the words started to lose meaning—until they didn’t.

Wrong man. Who else could they possibly mean?

Zayne Montenegro was the face of the empire, the name everyone recognized, the man who stood behind the podium with that carefully practiced smile. If not him, then who was pulling the strings?

By 1:00 p.m., I was back at my desk, scanning through the Montenegro corporate hierarchy on the database Leo had access to. Names, subsidiaries, ghost companies. The list was endless—half of them legal on paper, the other half… questionable.

Lumapit si Leo sa tabi ko, may kape sa isang kamay, isang extra cup sa kabilang kamay. “You look like you’ve been reading tax evasion horror stories.”

“I might be,” I murmured, accepting the cup. “Tell me something…how many companies can one man own before it’s considered suspicious?”

“Depends. Are we talking legal or moral standards?”

“Both.”

He leaned over my shoulder, scanning the screen. “Montenegro Holdings, San Pascual Development Corp, JSS Logistics, and wait…what’s MKR Prime Ventures?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

I clicked the company profile. The database showed minimal info—no official address, only a registration number, and a list of board representatives.

One name stood out. He or she a R. Lucero.

Leo frowned. “Lucero? As in Mr. Raoul Lucero?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Zayne’s long-time advisor. The former CFO of their parent company.”

Leo sat down beside me. “He vanished from the public radar three years ago. After that controversy with the city reclamation project.”

“Exactly.”

I leaned closer to the screen. “And now his name’s showing up on a new company that just acquired 40% of San Pascual Development Corp. last quarter.”

Leo cursed softly. “So that’s what the text meant.”

I nodded. “The wrong man.”

The hum of the newsroom faded into background noise as I pieced the information together. Zayne might’ve been the visible leader, but someone else—someone smarter, quieter—was running the machinery from the shadows.

Mr. Raoul Lucero.

I opened another folder on my drive labeled Corporate Threads; one I’d built for cases like this. Cross-referencing names, transactions, and shell corporations felt almost mechanical now.

But one entry made me stop.

MKR Prime Ventures received a ₱210 million fund transfer from the Montenegro International under “consultation fees.”

I zoomed in on the timestamp: Same week as the San Pascual land dispute hearing.

“Leo,” I whispered. “They’re laundering money through consultation fees.”

He exhaled slowly. “Which means MKR Prime is their funnel.”

“Exactly, and the man behind it was this Mr. Lucero—could be our missing link.”

My pulse was steady now. Not fear. Focus.

I copied the data onto a separate flash drive and encrypted it twice. If this story ever reached publication, this single document could be the headline that topples everything.

Leo leaned back, rubbing his temples. “You realize that if we publish this without airtight proof, we’re done. Professionally and legally.”

“I’m not publishing yet,” I said. “I’m tracing the source first.”

He raised a brow. “By tracing Mr. Lucero?”

“Sa pamamagitan ng paghahanap ng isang taong nakikipag-usap pa rin sa kanya.”

The next few hours were a blur of phone calls, emails, and unanswered messages. Most people who’d worked with Mr. Lucero had either retired, gone abroad, or refused to talk. Until one reply pinged in my inbox.

From: [e-mail]

Subject: Re: Inquiry re: R. Lucero

If you're asking about Raoul, check the San Pascual branch of JSS Logistics. Heard he's been

seen visiting their site quietly, late evenings. No press allowed.

Leo read over my shoulder. “That’s your lead.”

I nodded. “San Pascual again.”

“Are you going there alone?”

I didn’t answer right away. “Not sure yet.”

He sighed, recognizing the tone. “Which means yes.”

I forced a smile. “You’re starting to know me too well.”

By six, the newsroom was dimmer, quieter. Most staff had gone home, but I was still glued to my desk, reviewing the audio file one last time. The enhanced version Leo made revealed something I hadn’t noticed before—a faint metallic clang right before the end of the call.

A door. Heavy, industrial, and echoing. Maybe a warehouse. Maybe a construction site.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from the same anonymous number.

Unknown Number: You’re close, Ms. Enriquez. But you won’t like what you find there.

My throat tightened.

I stared at the message for a full minute before typing back.

Me: Who are you?

The typing indicator flickered—then stopped. No reply.

Leo came back from the hallway, jacket slung over his shoulder. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah.”

He studied me for a moment. “You got another message, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Andra—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he said quietly. “You’re shaking.”

Tumingin ako sa ibaba. Medyo nanginginig ang mga daliri ko sa desk. Hindi ko man lang napansin.

He placed a hand on the table, steady, grounding. “We’ll do this right. We don’t rush. We verify. You don’t go to San Pascual alone.”

Bumuntong hininga ako, mahaba at mabigat. "Fine. Bukas ng umaga. Ikaw at ako."

Leo gave a small nod, relieved. “Good. “Then his tone softened. “Anuman ito, aalisin natin ito. Just… don’t let them scare you into silence.”

I looked at him, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself a small, tired smile. “They can try.”

As the lights dimmed and the newsroom fell into quiet, I stared at the glowing screen—lines of data, a tangle of lies, and one name that refused to fade: Mr. Raoul Lucero.

Somewhere out there, naghihintay siya. Nanonood. Baka nagpaplano pa ng next move. At bukas, hahanapin ko siya. Hindi mahalaga kung ano ang halaga nito.

The road to San Pascual stretched out like a gray ribbon under the morning haze. Leo was driving this time, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a thermos of black coffee he refused to share.

“Alam mo, Andra,” he said, eyes fixed on the road, “for someone na sinabihan na ‘don’t go alone,’ ang bilis mong mag-ayos kanina. Parang may rocket sa paa mo.”

“News waits for no one,” I answered, scrolling through my notes on the tablet. “Besides, may insider daw sa JSS Logistics site. If we wait too long, baka mawala ‘yung lead.”

“Or baka mawala ka,” he muttered. I pretended not to hear, though the weight of his words sat heavy in my chest.

San Pascual greeted us with the scent of salt and diesel—half fishing port, half construction hub. Cranes dotted the skyline, while trucks rumbled through dusty roads. JSS Logistics’ compound stood near the shoreline, surrounded by steel fences and guarded gates.

I adjusted my press ID. “We’ll start with the office records. Kung magtanong sila, sabihin nating environmental impact follow-up ito.”

Leo gave a crooked grin. “Classic diversion. You lead; I improvise.”

We approached the gate. A man in a navy uniform blocked our path. “Press?”

“Yes,” I said, flashing my badge. “We’re following up on the reclamation shipment reports.”

He hesitated, scanning our IDs, then pressed a button to buzz us in.

Inside, the air smelled faintly metallic. Forklifts hummed, and workers in orange vests moved crates labeled construction supplies. I doubted half of it was true.

Hindi kalakihan ang opisina—may dalawang mesa, isang bentilador, at isang babaeng galit na galit na nagta-type sa likod ng salamin na bintana. Ipinakilala ko ang aking sarili, nag-flash ng pinakamaliit na magalang na ngiti na kaya ko.

“Ma’am, Andra Enriquez from The Daily Truth. We just need confirmation kung dumadalaw pa si Mr. Lucero dito sa site.”

Her typing stopped mid-click. “Si, Sir Raoul?”

“Yes. Recent visits lang po.”

She looked uneasy. “Hindi ko po alam kung puwedeng sabihin—”

“Off record lang naman,” Leo added, friendly. “Wala kaming ilalabas na pangalan.”

The woman bit her lip, then leaned closer. “Minsan po, gabi siya dumadating. White SUV. Hindi dumadaan sa main gate, doon sa back dock.”

My pulse quickened. “May idea po kayo kung anong ginagawa niya?”

She shook her head. “Hindi po namin nakikita. Pero laging may dalang dalawang lalaki. Parang security.”

When we stepped back outside, the sea wind hit us—sharp, carrying the tang of rust and brine.

Leo spoke first. “Sa tingin mo may itinatago siya sa loob ng mga shipments?”

“Could be documents. Could be cash. Or something bigger.”

We rounded the back path, pretending to check the storage records. From the far dock, faint voices echoed—men unloading crates into a warehouse marked Restricted Access.

I raised my phone discreetly, hitting record.A man in a gray jacket stepped into view. Not Mr. Lucero. Too young. But his earpiece caught the light, glinting once before he disappeared through the side door.

Leo whispered, “Security detail.”

“Or watcher,” I replied.

Hindi kami nagtagal. Napansin kami ng isang guwardiya na nagsusulat at inihatid kami pabalik sa parking lot nang may pilit na kagandahang-asal. As soon as we got inside the car, Leo muttered, “We’re being tailed.”

I looked at the rear mirror. Sure enough—a black sedan three vehicles behind us, keeping a steady distance.

“Keep driving,” I said quietly.

He snorted. “Like I was planning to stop for coffee?”

Lumiko kami ng dalawang liko sa makipot na daan bago makarating sa highway. Sumunod ang sedan nang isang beses, pagkatapos ay nawala sa mga gilid na kalye.

“Lost him,” Leo said, though neither of us believed it.

Back in the motel we booked near the pier, I spread our notes on the bed while Leo set up his laptop. The recording from the dock was muffled, but one fragment stood out: a male voice saying,

“…board wants everything moved before the audit. Lucero’s orders.”

Leo’s eyes widened. “We got him on tape.”

“Barely.” I replayed the audio twice, lowering the volume. “Still, it’s something.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “If this leaks, they’ll know we’re onto them.”

“They already know,” I said, opening my phone. Another message had arrived.

Unknown Number: You should’ve stayed in the newsroom.

No sender ID. Just that. My fingers tightened around the device.

Leo looked over. “Same number?”

I nodded. He closed the laptop slowly. “We’re done for today. Delete that from the cloud, keep the drive offline. We’ll analyze tomorrow.”

I didn’t argue. My throat felt dry. That night, the room hummed with the sound of the air-conditioning. I lay on my back, eyes open, phone screen glowing beside me.

I played the dock recording again, volume low. Faint clangs. Waves. Then, just before the end, a second, softer voice—barely audible—murmuring a single phrase.

“Andra Enriquez… stop digging.”

I froze. The phone slipped from my hand. Leo stirred on the other bed. “Andra? You, okay?”

I forced my breathing to be steady. “Yeah… just static.”

But I knew better. That wasn’t static. It was a message. Someone had spoken my name inside that recording—someone who knew exactly who I was.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚