I sent the files to Mother’s showrunning engines as soon as I was done. Father’s book hardly needed any editing—his writing seemed to converge toward the end, as if his mind gained clarity as death approached.

There wasn’t enough time to complete Episode 5. Maybe one day, in prison or in that place Beyond, when I was dead. There, I would sit down and talk to Papa about it. My father’s lesson for Episode 5 was clear in my mind, but… well… it wasn’t the right time.

I imagined that conversation I’d have one day with Papa—he on one side of the heavenly gates, me on the other, taking a brief respite from my time in hell.

Those heavenly gates…

Where Janice was.

I slumped forward, pressing my hands over my eyes to stem the onslaught of tears. But they never came. My eyes stayed dry, and I considered myself a monster in that emptiness. Was I like my mother now?

Dear God, my sister. I’d done nothing for her. Not only that, but I had thrown her back into the world and doomed her to death. She might have lived longer if I’d kept her at the mansion.

My thoughts drifted back to the video feeds Mother had shown me. I hadn’t seen Janice enter that subway car, but I could imagine it vividly—too vividly.

If Janice were dead, I’d need to see her body.

But I wouldn’t see anything ever again. I couldn’t leave. I was trapped here.

Maybe it was the ground staff around the mansion, shedding their uniforms for combat vests and hauling up crates of ammunition from basements and garages scattered across her compound. They wore bandoleers of bullets, belts with long bowie knives, pistols, and other gadgets I didn’t know the purpose of. I felt myself duly unprepared for what was to come.

So many people were loyal to my mother, and for what? Money? That was it? No greater purpose other than to piggyback on her wealth? To own a share of her house of cards?

Two guards dressed as mall security pushed the compound gates shut. Others slid steel panels over the windows of the houses, leaving tiny slits for sight or gunfire. From the garages, men wheeled out trucks with camouflaged tripods mounted on top—huge cylinders that I quickly realized were guns.

As I crossed the compound, I passed an open grassy area filled with drones—at least three dozen. They looked like hijacked PNP models, spray painted black to cover up the colors, and outfitted with their spinning machine guns.

The full breadth of the Bernal Palace’s arsenal was on display today—all for a final swan song.

Everyone would die here—even me.

“Hoy,” said Ernesto, waving at me.

He had carved out a spot behind the car garage, a long expanse of lane of grass bordered by empty crates that once held weapons. At the end, on a fence, were three mannequins set up.

“Consider this a rite of passage,” Ernesto said. “Your old man would’ve wanted you to do this eventually.”

You know nothing about Papa, I thought. My mind circled with even more thoughts than this, but I calmed, forcing myself to forget about everything, even for just a moment.

Ernesto showed me the gun’s safety, how to load a magazine, and even how to disassemble the weapon for cleaning. It felt like too many lessons for the little time we had left.

Then, we got to the shooting, which was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The raw power of the gun kicked back in my fists, the bullets smacking into the targets when I aimed true—or missed.

At first, aiming the thing felt innocuous. I would only point and hope I hit. But my aim improved as I steadied my grip, controlled my breathing, and attempted—at least in part—to account for the wind.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

An hour must have elapsed on that makeshift range. I was in the middle of loading my next magazine when I looked over to Ernesto.

He was distracted with something, staring at the garage as my mother’s staff drove the vehicles out and arrayed them around the property, some acting as cover for the auto-turrets, others perhaps as hopeless getaway vehicles.

Hopeless. We all were. Why even try?

“Jayson…” Ernesto began. “What if I told you I could get you out?”

I fired my last shot as if in response to the question. It seemed like a joke.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Nope.” Ernesto wouldn’t take his eyes off the garage. “Let me show you something.” He looked back at me, seeing the look on my face. “Hay nako, Jayson. Take the gun if you want. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now. Same to you.”

He led me into the garage, empty of any vehicles. I felt a sense of regret not being able to drive all of them.

He walked over to the wall and opened a box that, I now saw, led to a panel on the floor. I had seen it before but didn’t think much of it.

At his click, the panel depressed slowly, and as it did, it revealed a large room underneath the garage at least twice as large.

It stopped moving, revealing the dark space underneath. Ernesto looked down and then at me. “You can jump.”

I didn’t move. What was he getting at? “Are you just going to trap me in a box?”

“Tsk. Okay, I’ll go first.” He gripped the edge of the hole and jumped down.

I still had the gun, and it didn’t look like Ernesto had any weapons, though my analysis probably wasn’t concrete.

I followed him anyway.

The room was filled with boxes, though none had been opened yet. Workbenches lined the walls, and bulbs hung from the ceiling. I nearly bumped into one.

Ernesto found one and flicked it on.

Then I saw it.

A PNP squad car sat on one side of the room, unpolished and worn, as if portraying a convincing amount of use. Ernesto walked over to it, popped the trunk, and gestured for me to look inside.

He pointed.

Four wrapped PNP uniforms—with boots and even hats—were wrapped in plastic. Beside them sat duffel bags, much like Mother had given me before—probably the same.

“We have enough for four people,” Ernesto said.

He didn’t wait for a response, instead showing me a remote control and pointing it toward the door opposite the car. He clicked it, and the door turned upwards, revealing a long lane of darkness underground.

“Holy crap,” I said. “A tunnel?”

Ernesto nodded, placing the remote down. “We’re not out of this yet, Jayson. Some people know about this. Most don’t. This is our ticket out.”

The possibility of getting out again shot me back to Uncle Nestor’s promise. He told me someone would come.

So, Ernesto was Uncle Nestor’s double agent this whole time?

“But you’re not going to like it,” Ernesto said, pacing with his arms folded as we both looked down at that expanse of darkness that seemed to carry uncertainty and freedom simultaneously. “We can get out, but we must get your mother out as well.”

“No way.” She deserved to die here or rot in a freaking jail.

“That’s not debatable,” Ernesto said. “She is coming.”

Uncle Nestor must have had plans for my mother. I had to trust him, shouldn’t I? Then again, I wasn’t even sure she wanted me to come along. What was to stop the two of them from dumping me on the side of the road once we got out? I could see them doing that to pay for my failures.

“Look,” Ernesto continued, “I know you don’t want that, but we need your mother to continue this empire. At least, in the interim.”

The interim. Was that the implication to Uncle Nestor? I wasn’t sure.

“After that,” Ernesto continued, “it’s off to Davao.”

Davao, in Mindanao. It was far from Manila, one of the furthest largest cities you could go from the city. I hadn’t been to Mindanao, but it was a different place—scenic but poorer.

And easier to hide in.

Easier to begin anew.

I thought then of my future, the paths I could take, and how to make my father and Janice proud.

My knees quivered at the image of my sister, me, and Papa, only weeks before, all together in our home. I wanted to go back to that, but I couldn’t. You could never go back.

You had to keep going forward.

On your own.