Mother had pulled out all the stops. This would indeed be a martyrdom, and she was prepared to see it through.

“I want a helicopter and safe passage,” she said into that vintage phone box connected to the mansion’s PA system. “Come after me 48 hours from now, but if I even hear a whisper before then… I’ll kill every innocent person here. Their blood will be on your hands. Can you live with that?”

The weight of my mother’s demand seemed lost on the men around her. Or maybe they understood and just chose not to react. Either way, her plan was obvious—they would stay behind while she and Ernesto escaped in the PNP squad car waiting in the garage. With me, if I chose to follow.

I crouched low behind a couch, surrounded by the unmoving bodies in their Black Fire trance, hoping it would somehow shield me from the firefight I knew was coming. The PNP could kill us all—me included.

I still carried the pistol, my mother not caring to take it away. The gun felt foreign. Too heavy. I still hadn’t shot it.

After the tenth time she had uttered the message, the PNP had enlisted a hostage negotiator. “You don’t even want to leave the country?” asked the man appointed to the deadly task.

“I told you what I want!” Mother threw down the receiver, the clang resonating throughout the compound.

She had worn a black dress for the occasion, knowing the tragic outcome set before her, understanding that she—and I—would not make it out of here alive. I realized then, with a cold certainty, that it would be better to be shot and killed here than to rot in a Philippine prison. At least death would be quick.

“Please reason with us,” urged the hostage negotiator.

To me, he was doing a terrible job. My mother seemed ready to kill everyone inside the room, including me.

“You think you can stop Black Fire?” she spat, her voice rising with each word. “This is more than just an attack—it’s martial law in disguise, pure corruption. You, all of you, are part of it. I am the only one fighting back.”

The hostage negotiator had nothing profound to say back to this. They were content to let Mother ramble on as if she had spent her whole life preparing this speech, bottling up the emotions only to let them out now.

The doors to the couch room were closed. Beyond them, I heard whirring.

“Es…” urged Ernesto. “They’re sending drones.”

Beside him, screens of camera feeds hanging from the wall shut off slowly, one by one.

I could hear the things moving beyond the door—heavy and mechanical. We hadn’t heard the front entrance come down, but I could feel it in the air that it would soon. The PNP were sending in their big guns.

Mother found Ernesto. “Really? They’re going to force my hand?” She rolled her eyes.

Ernesto, just beside the door, now held his phone up. An app with a big red button occupied the screen.

He clicked it.

The doors exploded, shards of wood flying like shrapnel. Couches toppled, bodies tossed aside like ragdolls. Smoke and dust choked the air, plaster and concrete raining down as the room filled with chaos.

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Mother, covered in dust, spoke into the PA system. “I told you to get out!”

“Esmeralda!” screamed the hostage negotiator. “Let these people go! They’re not hurting you!”

“You shouldn’t have done that!” Mother pointed at Ernesto, and the man pulled the closest tester forward, a woman in her thirties. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had children, too.

Ernesto kicked her forward in front of the door, and as the woman stumbled out of her trance, a dozen laser reticles focused on her but must have deemed her unarmed.

She collapsed to the floor, her body writhing in panic as the fog of the trance lifted. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted around the room, her muffled cries barely audible behind the gag.

Mother didn’t hesitate. She drew her pistol and fired, the gunshot echoing in the room. The woman crumpled, lifeless, before she even hit the ground.

“See!” Mother screamed into the PA. “Leave us alone!”

I crouched, pistol in hand, dumbfounded and shell-shocked from the explosion. My ears still rang.

This wasn’t my mother—it never had been. She was a monster, and I was dirt beneath her. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was stare at the thing that had brought me into this world, now trying to drag me down with it.

Mother stood with her back to me, screaming into the PA. Her words blurred into noise. She made demands, which now sounded to me like desperate pleas. She brandished the pistol like a wand she could carve her future with.

But this woman did not deserve a future. She didn’t deserve anything at all.

The truth hit me then, as clear as any choice I’d ever made. Life is a series of decisions, each leading to where you stand. And in that moment, I saw it—the future I wanted, the paths I had to take.

None of them involved my mother.

I charged at her before she could react, slamming my shoulder into her chest. She crumpled beneath me, falling onto the body of the tester she had just shot. She heaved, looking up at me as I stood over her, out of view of the targeting lasers that converged on her chest, her legs, and her head.

I watched, frozen, as they fired. Mother spasmed, jerking violently as the bullets tore through her. Our eyes met for a fleeting second—a flicker of pain, regret, maybe fear. Then it was gone, and she was just a hollow, lifeless shell.

Ernesto grabbed me. “Come on!” he yelled. “They’re waiting for us!”

My heart pounded, and my mind spun. But I didn’t hesitate.

We bolted down a side passage, heading for the garage’s basement. The echo of my mother’s final moments rang in my ears, but I pushed it away. Now wasn’t the time to think.

In the garage, we ran for the squad car. Ernesto slid into the passenger seat, scanning for any pursuers. I jumped behind the wheel.

“Drive!” Ernesto urged just as the garage door cleared.

I slammed the gas. The tires screeched as we sped out of the garage, the car fishtailing slightly before I steadied it. Dirt and gravel flew behind us as we burst into the sunlight.

Ernesto kept his eyes on the mirrors, his hand resting on the pistol in his lap. “Stay sharp. They'll come after us.”

I swallowed hard. My focus locked on the road as we weaved through narrow paths Ernesto seemed to know by heart. My vision blurred as I pushed the car faster, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I braced for the sound of helicopters or drones, but when I glanced back, the sky was clear. For the first time since this nightmare began, I allowed myself a sliver of hope.

“We made it!” I gasped, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “Holy shit. We made it.”

Ernesto smirked, nodding but saying nothing. He kept his hand on his pistol, eyes still darting from mirror to mirror, scanning for any sign of pursuit.

Just as I let my guard down—just as I began to believe we might escape—I saw it. A black car sped toward us from the opposite direction. Barreling straight for us.

“Jayson!” Ernesto shouted, gripping the dashboard as I swerved to avoid the oncoming car. My reflexes kicked in, and I jerked the wheel to the side.

The other car skidded to a halt, slid, and blocked the road. My heart raced as I slammed on the brakes, bringing the squad car to a jarring stop. Dust and dirt billowed around us.

Ernesto’s jaw clenched as he reached for his pistol. “Stay in the car,” he muttered, his voice low and tense.

Just as he opened the door and stepped out, the sound of gunfire erupted. Ernesto’s head jerked, blood splattering the windows in a crimson arc. My breath hitched. His body slumped lifeless beside the car, but I couldn't move.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Time seemed to slow. My hands shook.

Then, the voice came. Calm. Unfazed.

“A calm voice pierced the stillness. “Step out of the car, Jayson.”

I turned to see him—Officer Domingo Baccay, standing there with his pistol raised. His face was calm, almost serene like it was just another day on the job.

“It’s over, Jayson,” Baccay said, his voice low and steady. “Your uncle’s waiting.”