Madrid, 1995
The scent of tobacco lingered in the air as Juan Cariño Hernández leaned against the wrought-iron balcony of his family's ancestral home in Salamanca. The sun was setting, casting golden light over the red rooftops and cobblestone streets of Madrid. In his hand was a finely rolled cigar—Cuban, expensive, but tasteless today. The letter from Manila trembled slightly in his fingers.
"Gabriel... muerto," it read.
No details. No explanation. Just cold ink and a familiar seal.
Gabriel Cariño Hernández, his younger brother, had been murdered. In Binondo. By unknown assailants suspected to be part of an underground Chinese-Filipino crime syndicate.
Juan's jaw tightened. His mind returned to memories of old Manila—the stories their mother used to tell. Of cobbled streets, of stone churches, of carriages passing through Spanish colonial archways. Of Escolta glowing with neon signs. Of the city once known as La Reina del Pacífico. The Queen City of the Pacific. The Venice of the East. La perla del oriente.
A city that, unlike Tokyo or Warsaw, had never fallen to war.
The Second World War never came to Manila's doorstep in this alternate history. The grand architecture of the Spanish and American colonial periods stood tall and untarnished. From the baroque facades of Intramuros to the neoclassical monuments along the Pasig, Manila remained a radiant jewel in the tropics—nostalgic, vibrant, and dangerous.
Juan took a long drag from the cigar. He exhaled the smoke like a silent vow.
He would return to Manila—not as the heir to a Spanish business empire, but as a man chasing ghosts.
Manila, 1995
The Philippine Airlines jet descended slowly through a sea of clouds. From his window seat, Juan gazed down at the city that shimmered like a forgotten dream. The bay glistened, pierced by the towers of a city caught between two centuries.
Jones Bridge came into view—its grand arches still standing tall over the Pasig River, bathed in the soft glow of golden streetlamps. At the top, presiding over the entire stretch like a watchful guardian, stood La Madre Filipina—arms wide open, her gaze solemn and proud. She embodied democracy, justice, gratitude, and progress—a silent mother watching over the nation's soul.
Below her, along the riverbanks and near the stone railings, other noble figures stood: La Justicia, blindfolded and holding her scales with unwavering poise; El Pueblo, strong and enduring, his hand raised as if calling the people to rise; and El Progreso, stepping forward with determination, a torch of hope in his hand, honoring the Filipino people.
At the foot of the bridge, flanking the entrance like divine sentinels, were stone lions and sculpted angels—symbols of protection, vigilance, and grace.
It was exactly how his mother described it—like Havana, only more ornate, more chaotic, more alive.
As the plane landed, Juan gripped the letter one more time and whispered beneath his breath:
"Gabriel... I'm here."
He stepped off the aircraft, into the thick tropical air of La Reina del Pacífico.
And the shadows of Intramuros were already watching.