CHAPTER 4

Whispers Beneath the Noise

(Andra’s POV)

The newsroom was quieter than usual the next morning. Walang nag-aasaran sa coffee station, walang tunog ng stapler o halakhak ng interns sa likod. Instead, the air hummed with something heavier—anticipation.

My monitor glowed with the same headline draft from last night, cursor blinking after the words Montenegro Group’s Silent Expansion. Hindi pa tapos, but the weight of what we found was already pressing hard against my chest.

Leo dropped a cup of black coffee on my desk before I even looked up. “You didn’t go home again, ‘no?”

“Technically, I did. Three hours ago,” sagot ko, barely glancing at him. My eyes stayed on the waveform loaded on my screen—an enhanced version of the audio from the conference. “May narinig ka na ba?”

He leaned in beside me, arms crossed. “We filtered out the background static and mic distortion. There’s something underneath Zayne Montenegro’s response—barely audible. Pero tao ‘yon, not ambient noise.”

My pulse quickened. “Can you isolate it?”

Leo nodded, clicked a few commands, and the newsroom filled with faint, distorted murmurs. A man’s voice—low, clipped, almost mechanical.

“...don’t let her dig too deep...”

Then silence.

My throat tightened. “Play that again.”

He did. Same six words. Faint, but real.

I exhaled slowly, staring at the screen like it might bite. “That wasn’t from the mic near the podium.”

“No,” Leo agreed. “Ang source niya galing sa second ambient mic sa rear left—malapit sa board members’ section. Someone behind the stage said it.”

Someone inside Montenegro’s inner circle.

Leo looked at me, eyes sharp. “You think they were talking about you?”

“Who else was digging that day?” I replied, voice flat. “I was the only one who asked something off-script.”

He didn’t answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.

I rubbed the back of my neck, tension coiling tight. “Gano’n ka-clear ‘yung enhancement?”

“Not enough for legal use. Pero enough for a lead.”

That was all I needed.

I stared at the frozen waveform again. Those six words repeated in my head—warning, or threat? Either way, it meant one thing: someone noticed me long before I realized it.

By 9:30 a.m., Leo and I were already in the editor’s office. Ms. Dominguez—sharp, unbothered, and perpetually two steps ahead of everyone—listened to the recording in silence. When it ended, she took off her headphones and fixed her gaze on me.

“Do you realize what this implies, Andra?”

“Yes,” I said. “That someone from Montenegro’s executive side was aware of the San Pascual displacement—and that they’re deliberately hiding it.”

Her expression didn’t change. “And that they’re now aware of you.”

The words hit harder than expected.

She steepled her fingers. “We’ll need to be careful. I’m authorizing a deeper investigation, but everything goes through secure channels. No personal devices, no unencrypted messages.”

Leo nodded. “Understood.”

“Same with you, Enriquez,” she continued, eyes never leaving mine. “You have good instincts, but I don’t want another journalist’s face on a missing persons poster.”

“Understood,” I echoed, even if my pulse was far from calm.

Ms. Dominguez leaned back, assessing me. “You’ve been chasing truth long enough to know it doesn’t come cheap. Make sure what you find is worth the noise it’ll make.”

“It always is,” I replied softly.

After the meeting, I returned to my desk and opened a new document—San Pascual Lead: Ground Verification. My notes filled the screen: coordinates, relocation status, potential whistleblower names.

Then, an encrypted email notification blinked on the corner of my monitor.

Subject: “They know you were in the hall.”

Sender: Anonymous—no traceable header.

My stomach turned cold. I clicked it open despite the warning bells in my head.

If you really want to understand what happened in San Pascual, stop looking at the construction site. Start looking at who ordered the ground cleared. Someone inside can tell you more. Wait for contact.

No signature. Just a single line at the bottom: “Keep your phone close.”

Leo’s voice broke my trance. “Hey. You, okay?”

I quickly minimized the email. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

He studied me for a moment, unconvinced. “You sure you’re not poking something too big this time?”

“Everything’s too big until someone proves it isn’t,” I said, forcing a faint smile.

Leo sighed. “Fine. But I’m changing your access code and encrypting your drives. Don’t argue.”

I didn’t. Because deep down, I already knew this was only the beginning.

By lunchtime, the newsroom was back to its usual rhythm—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the distant hum of city news. But for me, everything had shifted. The silence in that recording, the voice that said don’t let her dig too deep—it wasn’t just background noise anymore.

It was a warning, and I wasn’t planning to ignore it.

The afternoon heat pressed hard against the city. Manila at midday always smelled of exhaust, caffeine, and urgency—fitting, considering I was carrying all three.

By 2:00 p.m., I was already inside my car, a secondhand sedan that had seen more deadlines than vacations. My recorder sat on the passenger seat, the faint red light blinking like a heartbeat. Leo had transferred the enhanced file into a secure drive, tucked neatly inside my bag.

Destination: San Pascual, Batangas.

The message from the anonymous sender was still burned into my head. Stop looking at the construction site. Start looking at who ordered the ground cleared.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

The highway stretched endlessly ahead, ribbons of asphalt cutting through the sunburnt landscape. I played the recording again, the one that started all this. Zayne Montenegro’s voice filled the car, confident and calm. Then—just beneath it—the faint, haunting echo:

“Don’t let her dig too deep.”

Every time I heard it, something cold twisted in my chest. Whoever said that wasn’t warning him—they were warning me.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Too late for that,” I muttered under my breath.

The traffic thinned the farther I got from the city. Billboards faded into trees, skyscrapers into rolling hills. The silence was a relief—until I noticed the same gray sedan that had been two cars behind me since Alabang.

It could be a coincidence. Could be nothing. But in my line of work, coincidence rarely existed.

I changed lanes twice, slowed down, then took an unexpected exit toward a gas station. My pulse quickened as I parked near the convenience store window, pretending to scroll through my phone while keeping my eyes on the mirror.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

No gray sedan.

I exhaled—half relief, half doubt. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or maybe they were better at this game than I was.

By the time I reached San Pascual, the sun was already starting to dip behind the ridges. The construction site was massive—fenced, guarded, and humming with machinery even at dusk. The Montenegro Group banner hung proudly across the entrance, “Strategic Vision 2030: Building Tomorrow.”

Irony never looked this expensive.

I parked a few blocks away, notebook in hand, and began walking the perimeter. The displaced families used to live here—Leo’s data showed at least thirty households evacuated months ago. Most of them were still waiting for relocation.

I needed someone who remembered. Someone willing to talk.

A small eatery stood across the main road, its signage faded and its tables empty. I stepped inside, greeted by the faint smell of frying oil and old news.

The owner, an older woman in her fifties, looked up from behind the counter. “Order, Miss?”

“Actually, ma’am…” I flashed my press ID discreetly. “I’m with The Daily Truth. I’m doing a follow-up about the relocation here in San Pascual. Baka po may kakilala kayo—dating nakatira sa area bago nagkaroon ng project?”

Her eyes flickered—surprise, then hesitation. “Bakit mo hinahanap?”

“I’m looking for answers,” I said honestly. “And maybe justice.”

She studied me for a long moment before sighing. “Marami silang pinaalis dito, hija. Puro pangako, pero hanggang ngayon, wala pa ring bahay. Yung iba, lumipat na lang sa kabilang barangay.”

“May kilala po ba kayong willing magkwento?”

“Meron. Si Mang Arturo—construction worker dati, pero tinanggal. Nakikita ko siya minsan sa may talipapa sa kanto.”

“Thank you,” I said, leaving a small bill on the counter.

As I turned to leave, she added quietly, “Ingat ka, hija. May mga tanong na mas mabuting hindi tinatanong.”

I smiled faintly. “Then I must be asking the right ones.”

Outside, the air was thicker—humid, heavy. The faint orange hue of sunset painted everything in gold and rust. I walked toward the marketplace the woman mentioned, recorder in my pocket, notebook ready.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

I could feel eyes on me—not the casual curiosity of locals, but something sharper. Intentional.

When I reached the corner of talipapa, I spotted a man in his sixties sitting beside a vegetable stand, smoking. His face was lined, his posture tired. He fit the description.

“Good afternoon, po,” I greeted, approaching slowly. “Mang Arturo?”

He glanced up, suspicious. “Sino ka?”

“Andra Enriquez po. Reporter. Gusto ko lang po sana kayong makausap tungkol sa San Pascual project.”

His jaw tightened. “Matagal na ‘yon. Tapos na.”

“Pero hindi pa tapos ang mga tanong,” I said gently. “Gusto ko lang po maintindihan—ano talaga ang nangyari noong pinaalis kayo?”

He stared at me for a long while, then exhaled smoke. “Ang totoo? Wala kaming choice. Dumating ‘yung mga tao nila. May papel, may pirma ng munisipyo. Sinabihan kaming umalis bago matapos ang linggo. Yung iba lumaban. Wala ring nangyari.”

“May nakausap po ba kayo galing sa Montenegro Group mismo?”

His eyes flickered. “Meron. Isang lalaki. Naka-gray na coat. Tahimik lang, pero siya ang nagbibigay ng instruction. Akala namin taga-gobyerno. Pero nung tinanong ko kung anong ahensya, ngumiti lang siya. Sinabi, ‘We work where power decides.’”

My blood ran cold.

“Naalala n’yo po ba pangalan niya?”

Mang Arturo shook his head. “Wala. Pero may sugat sa kamay. Malalim.”

That detail burned into my mind like ink.

Before I could ask more, a loud bang echoed from the other side of the street—a car door slamming. I turned just in time to see a gray sedan parked across the road.

No one got out. But I could feel it. Someone inside was watching.

“Mang Arturo,” I said quickly, pulling out a card. “Kung may maalala pa po kayo, tawagan n’yo ako kahit anong oras.”

He didn’t take it immediately. Just stared past me, expression uneasy. “Umuwi ka na, hija. Delikado na ‘yan.”

I forced a nod, pocketed the card, and walked briskly back to my car.

The gray sedan was still there. Engine running. Headlights off.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The world around us—vendors packing up, children shouting in the distance—faded into white noise.

Then, as I reached for my car door, the sedan’s headlights flicked on, blindingly bright.

And just like that, it drove away.

Fast.

Too fast.

I stood frozen, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear the city anymore.

That night, as I replayed Mang Arturo’s words inside my head, one phrase echoed louder than the rest: We work where power decides.

And deep down, I knew—whoever the man in gray was, he wasn’t done watching me.

I barely remembered the drive back.

The road lights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow, the hum of the engine the only sound grounding me. My thoughts replayed every word from Mang Arturo, every flash of that gray sedan’s headlights.

We work where power decides.

That phrase was more than a threat—it was a warning wrapped in truth. And now, it wouldn’t leave me.

When I reached my apartment, it was already past nine. The city outside had dimmed into its usual rhythm—horns, sirens, laughter from distant bars—but my unit remained silent. I locked the door twice, drew the blinds, and placed my recorder on the table.

Habit. Always document first. Always protect the source.

I opened my laptop, plugged in the secure drive, and began transcribing. Each click of the keyboard echoed like footsteps in an empty hall. The sound of my own breathing felt too loud.

Then, my phone rang. Private number. I froze.

For a second, I thought of ignoring it. But reporters like me don’t ignore calls, especially after days like this.

“Hello?”

Static. Then a low, distorted male voice—mechanically altered, almost unrecognizable.

“You shouldn’t have gone to San Pascual, Ms. Enriquez.”

The words were calm. Too calm. My stomach tightened. “Who is this?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions.”

“Then maybe you’re afraid I’m asking the right ones.”

A faint chuckle—cold, deliberate.

“You think truth will protect you? Truth is the first thing buried when power starts to bleed.”

I swallowed hard, steadying my tone. “If this is supposed to scare me, you’ll have to do better.”

“Oh, I don’t need to scare you. I just need you to listen.”

A pause. Then a faint tapping sound, like fingers drumming against a table, followed by a new noise—metallic, mechanical. It took me a second to realize what it was.

A recording. Zayne Montenegro’s voice.

“Proceed with the acquisition. Make sure there are no loose ends.”

My breath caught. “Where did you get that?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

“Then what is?”

“Ask yourself why someone wanted you to hear it.”

The line went dead.

I stood there, the silence ringing in my ears. My reflection stared back from the dark laptop screen—wide-eyed, pale, disbelieving.

The recording was real. But how? That line hadn’t been part of the official conference. It was from a boardroom conversation. Private. Restricted.

I replayed the last few seconds in my head. Make sure there are no loose ends.

He said that. He definitely said that.

My fingers trembled as I hit record on my own phone, documenting everything I could remember. Date, time, caller tone, every sound. It was instinct now—file it before it vanishes.

By midnight, I had checked every window, every door. The city lights spilled faintly through the blinds, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out there, watching.

I sat back on the couch, trying to steady my breath. Fear had no place in this job. Curiosity was always stronger—until tonight, when it felt like both were about to devour me.

The recorder blinked quietly on the table, its tiny red light glowing in the dark.

I stared at it for a long time. Then whispered to the empty room, “You wanted me to hear it, didn’t you?”

Somewhere outside, a car engine started. And just like that, the night felt smaller. That call didn’t just threaten me. It opened a door I could no longer close. Whatever this was—it wasn’t just a story anymore.

It was a warning.

And now, I was officially in it. Deep.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚