The humid Manila air clung to Adrian's skin like a second layer as he emerged from NAIA's arrivals gate, his duffel bag weighing heavy with the remnants of a life he barely remembered. The cacophony of honking jeepneys and shouting taxi drivers faded into white noise as two conflicting realities collided in his skull - the screech of truck tires on Sunset Boulevard, the sickening crunch of metal meeting flesh, and now this: 2015, Manila, and a body that shouldn't be his. "Oy! 'Dayan!" The familiar voice cut through his daze, and there was Joms, leaning against his battered Tamaraw FX with that same shit-eating grin Adrian remembered from childhood summers, waving a handmade sign that read 'Welcome Home, Idiot' in dripping glitter glue.
Adrian's fingers trembled as he threw his bag into the truck bed, the contents - three pairs of boxers, dog-eared acting textbooks, and a stolen hotel Bible - clinking ominously. "This death trap still runs?" he asked, his American accent curling awkwardly around the Tagalog words. Joms responded by cranking the stereo to full volume, flooding the cab with the tinny wail of a karaoke version of "My Way" as they merged into EDSA traffic. The scent of gasoline, stale fries, and Joms' cheap cologne mixed with the phantom memory of hospital disinfectant and burning rubber from his last moments in Los Angeles.
When his phone buzzed with a text from his father - "$5,000 wired. Don't spend it all on balut!" - Adrian nearly laughed at the absurdity. That money had represented three months' rent in his previous life; now it was barely enough for a decent camera. Joms peeked at the screen and whistled. "Rich kid," he teased, not knowing how close Adrian had come to dying over less than this amount in medical bills. "₱50 to $1, tanga," Joms added with a snort, and the reality of his new financial situation hit like a punch to the gut.
The condo was exactly as Adrian remembered from childhood visits - a so-called "two-story" that was really just a loft bed hovering precariously over a kitchenette, the walls stained with years of humidity and questionable life choices. Joms tossed him a Jollibee spaghetti pack that had been sitting on the counter since probably the Aquino administration. "Breakfast of champions," he declared, kicking aside a pile of laundry to reveal what might have been a couch or possibly a crime scene. Adrian's fingers itched to check Bitcoin prices, to start planning his comeback, but the weight of his failures - both remembered and inherited - pressed down on him like Manila's infamous smog.
When Joms mentioned the Star Magic auditions, Adrian's throat closed up with a memory that wasn't his - standing outside a casting room in Hollywood, listening to them laugh about his "ethnically ambiguous" look. "I'll think about it," he muttered, staring at the ceiling where a cockroach the size of a golf ball surveyed its domain with regal disdain. Joms gave him that look, the one that said he knew more than he let on, but mercifully changed the subject to the virtues of San Miguel over Red Horse.
As the night wore on and the sounds of off-key karaoke drifted through the thin walls, Adrian sat by the grimy window, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. Somewhere out there was his second chance, his redemption, but for tonight, he was just a man with two sets of memories and a growing suspicion that Sir Anthony Hopkins the cockroach was judging his life choices. The duffel bag sat unopened in the corner, its contents suddenly irrelevant - whatever plan he'd made in his previous life didn't matter here. Manila hummed with possibilities, and for the first time since waking up in that airplane bathroom, Adrian felt something dangerously close to hope.