Chapter 3: A Man With A Plan

By Friday morning, Mark Villanueva had developed a plan.

It was, in his opinion, an excellent plan.

He would borrow three thousand pesos, place a carefully calculated bet, recover the money he had lost earlier in the week, pay the electricity bill, and put the remaining amount toward his next salary advance. Once everything was settled, he would stop gambling for a while.

Not forever. He was not foolish enough to make promises he could not keep.

Just for a while.

He had learned something from his mistakes, and he considered that progress.

The only problem was that he needed three thousand pesos.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, mentally reviewing the people he could approach. His father had already lent him money last month. His mother would ask too many questions. Jethro was equally short on cash, and his other friends had grown suspicious of his habit of borrowing money shortly before payday.

There was, however, one person who might help.

His older cousin, Paolo.

Paolo worked as a technician in a private company and had recently bought a secondhand motorcycle. He was the sort of man Mark privately considered ordinary: he worked long hours, saved small amounts, and seemed perfectly content with a life that never promised anything extraordinary.

Mark found that kind of existence depressing.

Still, Paolo had money.

He opened Messenger.

Mark: Pre, may extra ka ba diyan? Need ko lang sana makahiram.

Paolo replied ten minutes later.

Paolo: Magkano?

Mark: Three thousand lang. Emergency.

Paolo: Anong emergency?

Mark frowned.

Why did everyone need an explanation before offering help?

Mark: May kailangan lang bayaran. Ibabalik ko sa payday.

The reply took longer this time.

Paolo: Sure ka? Yung last mo hindi mo pa nababayaran.

Mark stared at the message.

He felt a familiar irritation rise in his chest. It was amazing how people remembered every peso they had lent him but forgot every time he had helped them, entertained them, or been there when they needed someone to talk to.

He typed a reply, deleted it, then typed another.

Mark: Kaya nga ako nanghihiram kasi babayaran ko. Kung wala, okay lang.

He put the phone down.

There. He had made his position clear. He was not begging. He was offering Paolo an opportunity to help family, and if Paolo chose to be petty about a few thousand pesos, that was his decision.

Five minutes later, his phone vibrated.

Paolo: I can lend you one thousand. Pero last na muna. Pay me back on payday, ha.

Mark stared at the screen.

One thousand.

It was not enough for his plan, but it was better than nothing.

Mark: Sige. Thanks, pre.

He sent his e-wallet details and waited.

When the money arrived, he felt a brief sense of relief. It was strange how quickly his mood improved whenever money became available. The anxiety that had occupied his mind for hours seemed to loosen its grip.

He did not think about the fact that the money was borrowed.

He thought about what he could do with it.

---

That afternoon, Mark went to work.

His supervisor, Mr. Dela Cruz, called him into the office shortly after he arrived.

“Mark, we need to discuss your attendance.”

Mark sat down and tried to look attentive.

“Sir, sorry po sa absences ko this week. I wasn't feeling well.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because this is the third time this month you've been absent without sufficient notice.”

Mark nodded.

He had expected a lecture, but something about the supervisor's calm tone made him uncomfortable. He would have preferred anger. Anger was easier to dismiss. A man who shouted could be called unreasonable; a man who calmly presented facts was much harder to argue with.

“Your work quality has also been inconsistent lately,” Mr. Dela Cruz continued. “You've missed deadlines, and some of your reports have had errors. Is something happening outside work?”

Mark shifted in his chair.

“Nothing serious, sir. Just some personal matters.”

“If you need assistance, you can talk to HR. But I need you to understand that this cannot continue.”

Mark nodded again.

He understood the words. What he struggled to accept was the implication that he was responsible for the situation.

There were reasons for his poor performance. He had been tired. The workload was unreasonable. Other employees made mistakes too, yet nobody seemed to examine their performance with the same enthusiasm.

Why was he always the one being questioned?

“Understood, sir,” he said.

Mr. Dela Cruz looked at him for a moment.

“I hope so, Mark. You're capable of doing this job well. But capability means very little if you don't show up consistently.”

The sentence followed Mark out of the office.

Capability means very little.

He hated it because it sounded reasonable.

---

At lunch, Mark sat with two coworkers in the canteen. He barely touched his food, choosing instead to scroll through his phone while the others discussed an upcoming company outing.

One of them, a man named Dennis, leaned over.

“Bro, you okay? You look stressed.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sure? You look like you haven't slept.”

Mark shrugged.

“Work lang.”

Dennis laughed. “Same. I swear, if I could earn money playing games, I'd resign tomorrow.”

Mark looked up.

“You can, actually. Some people make good money from streaming, tournaments, and content creation.”

“Yeah, but that's different. You have to be really good.”

“I know.”

Mark said it with such certainty that Dennis raised an eyebrow.

“You planning to do that?”

“Maybe. I've been thinking about it.”

It was not entirely true. He had thought about it in the vague way people imagined winning the lottery: an attractive possibility that required little effort in the imagination and considerable effort in reality.

But saying it aloud made the idea feel more substantial.

He could stream. He could build an audience. He could turn his gaming skills into income. There were people making money from things he already enjoyed doing.

Why should he waste his life in an office?

Dennis shrugged.

“Go for it, bro. Just don't resign before you have a steady income.”

Mark smiled.

“Obviously.”

He did not appreciate the advice. He had not asked for it.

Still, he stored the conversation away as evidence that his ideas were not unreasonable. Dennis had not laughed at him. In fact, he had encouraged him.

Mark decided that this counted as support.

---

That evening, Mika arrived home carrying two plastic bags of groceries.

Mark was already there, sitting at the table. His computer was off, and he had even taken the time to shower. He had decided that he needed to appear responsible, especially after their argument earlier in the week.

Mika looked surprised.

“Maaga ka.”

“Of course. I have work tomorrow.”

She nodded and began unpacking the groceries.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.

Then Mark cleared his throat.

“About the other night…”

Mika paused.

He continued before she could respond.

“I know I shouldn't have shouted. I was stressed. Work has been difficult lately, and I haven't been sleeping well.”

It was an apology, of sorts. He had carefully selected the parts that acknowledged his behavior without making him entirely responsible for it.

Mika turned toward him.

“Okay.”

He waited.

That was all she said.

He had expected her to soften, perhaps smile, perhaps tell him that it was fine. Instead, she returned to arranging the groceries.

He felt strangely disappointed.

“I'll pay the electricity bill tomorrow,” he added.

“Where will you get the money?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Mark.”

“I said I'll handle it.”

Mika put down the packet of vegetables.

“I'm not trying to fight with you. I just need to know if we can pay it.”

He wanted to tell her about Paolo's loan, but the truth would lead to more questions. Why had he needed to borrow money? Where had the rest gone? Why was he borrowing from family while she was paying for groceries?

Instead, he said, “I have a plan.”

Mika looked at him for a long moment.

“What plan?”

“I'm working on something. I just need a little capital.”

Her expression changed.

“Capital for what?”

“Something online.”

“What kind of something?”

He sighed.

“Why does everything need to be explained immediately? Can you just trust me for once?”

Mika stared at him.

“I have trusted you.”

The words were quiet, but they seemed to fill the room.

Mark looked away.

She continued.

“I trusted you when you said you'd pay the bills. I trusted you when you said you'd stop borrowing money. I trusted you when you told me you had everything under control.”

He felt his chest tighten.

“So now I'm a liar?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You're making it sound like that.”

“I'm telling you how I feel.”

“And I'm telling you that I'm trying!”

His voice rose, and he immediately regretted it. But the argument had already begun to move in a direction he understood. If he kept talking, if he kept defending himself, perhaps he could make her forget the original question.

Mika did not argue back.

She simply looked at him with tired eyes.

For some reason, her silence frightened him more than her anger.

“I'm going to shower,” she said.

She walked away.

Mark remained at the table, staring at the groceries she had bought with her salary. Rice, vegetables, canned goods, eggs. Ordinary things. Necessary things.

He knew she had worked all day for the money.

He knew that when she came home, she had wanted to feel that they were a team.

For a moment, he felt ashamed.

Then he remembered the money Paolo had sent him, the betting odds he had studied that afternoon, and the plan he had formed.

Tomorrow, he would make things right.

He would recover his losses. He would pay the bill. He would show Mika that she had been worrying over nothing.

He would prove that he was not the irresponsible man she seemed to think he was.

And when everything was settled, he would finally have the peace he deserved.

---

At 11:38 that night, Mark opened the betting application.

He had promised himself he would not place another bet until he had enough money to cover his expenses.

But the opportunity looked unusually good.

He checked the available odds, read several predictions, and compared the numbers. His heart beat faster as he convinced himself that the risk was manageable.

He had one thousand pesos.

Not enough to recover everything, but enough to begin.

He could make a small profit, withdraw the winnings, and pay the electricity bill. If he lost, he would simply have to wait until payday.

He stared at the confirmation button.

He thought of Mika's expression when she had asked where the money would come from.

He thought of Paolo's message reminding him to pay the loan back.

He thought of Mr. Dela Cruz telling him that capability meant very little without consistency.

Then he placed the bet.

For the next forty minutes, Mark watched the game with the concentration of a man whose entire future depended on it.

When the result finally appeared, he felt his stomach drop.

He had lost.

He stared at the screen, refusing to blink.

One thousand pesos.

Gone.

He could almost hear Paolo asking whether he was sure he could repay the loan. He could imagine Mika standing in the doorway, asking where their money had gone.

His hands grew cold.

For several seconds, he considered telling someone the truth.

Then another thought appeared.

He could borrow again.

He could recover the money.

He could still fix everything before anyone discovered what had happened.

Mark closed the application and sat in the darkness.

He had spent the entire day telling himself that he was a man with a plan.

Now he was a man with a debt, a lie, and no idea how to explain either.

But even then, he could not bring himself to admit that the plan had been foolish.

He blamed the odds.

He blamed his timing.

He blamed the bad luck that seemed to follow him no matter how carefully he prepared.

And somewhere in the quiet of the room, he made another promise to himself.

Next time, he would be smarter.

Next time, he would win.

He had to.

Because if he didn't, he might finally have to face the one possibility he had spent his entire life avoiding.

That perhaps the problem was not that the world refused to give him a chance.

Perhaps the problem was that he kept receiving chances and wasting them.