I sat on the steps of the Bernal Palace, slouching with my phone in my hand.

I had plenty of time to review the news footage, but even as the headlines rolled and the news anchor’s voice reverberated through the room, I heard it all as if from continents away.

Bombing at Ayala Triangle Subway Station. 147 People Missing.

ABS-CBN News, GMA News, the Philippine Daily Inquirer, and even BBC and CNN all reported variants of the same headline. The word "Missing" flashed across every feed—safe talk for saying these people were dead, their bodies likely buried beneath the rubble, never to be found. But no one wanted to say it outright. We all knew.

But these strangers, these faceless people, were not my concern.

My mother’s footsteps echoed behind me. I turned to find her standing tall, her wearable alive with activity—dozens of windows spread across her augmented reality. She displayed them proudly as if to flaunt her wealth and empire. Even now, when we both knew we were going to die.

She loomed beside me, casting her shadow deliberately over me. “She looked happy,” my mother said, her voice cold as she gestured to a particular video feed. “And that’s the man who almost got into my safe house?”

I glanced at the screen from the corner of my eye but didn’t want to see it anymore.

“Looks like he got out, too, and with her phone. How could she be so obtuse not to see that?”

Mother walked down the mansion’s shallow steps, positioning herself so I had to turn away to avoid seeing the video footage. But morbid curiosity got the better of me.

In the video, Janice and Bryce stood together, the tall Metamatics field agent holding her gently from behind, the two swaying in time to the band playing on a stage at the terminal. My mother caught me watching and rewound the footage to the moment Bryce bent over and swiped the phone from Janice’s pocket.

It seem that not answering the phone when Ernesto first took me away was a small mercy, but that was the only relief I could glean from this.

“Tsk,” my mother chimed, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s Jen & Jen. I hope they got out.”

“Fuck you.”

My mother’s smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Don’t swear at your mother.”

“You’re not my mother.”

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She tilted her head in surprise. “I birthed you, didn’t I?”

“A mother is someone who actually cares about her children. Someone who doesn’t use them as pawns in her twisted games.”

This appeared to stir her curiosity as if she were dangling a captive mouse by its tale. “And what is a son? Can you tell me that?”

I had an answer, but it wasn't for her. A son is someone who makes their parents proud. But my mother no longer deserved that from me. That left only one person: Papa. With the time I had left, maybe—just maybe—I could still make him proud.

“You think you’re so wise, don’t you?” she continued, her tone mocking. “So knowledgeable for a twenty-three-year-old who’s never amounted to anything on his own.”

She was prodding now, playing with a cornered animal to see if I’d lash out. Maybe she wanted to see if there was still a spine left in me.

“You were never there,” I said, my voice low but steady. “Not once. Through everything. You left me, Papa, and Janice, like the coward you are. You tried to build an empire, but you couldn’t even keep your own family together.” I laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “And now, you can’t even hold onto this.”

She flicked off her wearable and let out a heavy sigh, her teeth clenched. I knew I’d hit a nerve. “Air out your grievances, Jayson, before our inevitable downfall. Maybe it’ll fuel your passion to finish Episode 4, which I’m still waiting on.”

I hadn’t thought about The Crest and its Killers in what seemed like ages, but now, remembering it, a desperate need arose in me. I had to cling to that connection with Papa. It was all I had left of him.

My mother strode closer, and before I left to finish Episode 4, she removed from her belt a pistol.

I cringed and closed my eyes.

Nothing happened.

I opened them again and saw my mother offering the gun by the handle to me. It was a pistol, though I didn’t know what kind.

“I know how much you want to use this,” she said. “And you can, sure.”

I took it, and honestly, I was more than half tempted to. I could have ended this tyrannical woman’s reign. She was better off dead than alive.

But that was all hope, and I didn’t want any more blood on my hands. I didn’t want anyone else to die because of me, maybe not even my lunatic of a mother. No. She deserved a slow, ruminating death.

“I’m not like you,” I told her. Then, something more. “You would be a small, small victory.”

Her smile faltered, the coldness in her eyes flickering like some candle snuffed. She didn’t say anything, staring at me with a tight jaw, her gaze boring into mine as if willing me to break.

But I didn’t budge.

Then, without a word, she stepped back, her movements slow and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger but in something more calculating, almost as if she were reassessing the situation—and me.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low and almost resigned. “After you’re done with Episode 4, Ernesto will teach you how to shoot.” Her tone was even, but there was an edge, a simmering frustration she couldn’t entirely hide. She turned away, her back rigid, steps controlled. “Maybe then you’ll be useful.”

She walked off. I did not watch her go. The gun’s weight in my hand felt heavier, but it wasn’t a burden. It was a reminder that, despite everything, I was still standing.