Cabanatuan, along Maharlika Highway

  November 01, 2001

  Around 5:00 AM

  The morning air was crisp, the pavement cool, a lone jogger with her dog runs along the empty stretch of Maharlika Highway. The rhythmic thud of her footsteps, the steady panting of her golden retriever beside her… it was supposed to be just another run. Then her dog yanked hard on the leash. The sudden force nearly pulled her off balance.

  "Cosmo!" she hissed, tightening her grip, but the dog was relentless, dragging her toward something near the side of the road. And there it was, a green suitcase, just sitting there. Her breath came shorter, not from the run, but from something else. Something that sent a sharp, crawling sensation up her arms.

  Cosmo sniffed wildly at the bag, his body tense, tail stiff. His usual curiosity was different this time—urgent, frantic.

  “Cosmo, no… leave it,” she called, but her voice wavered. That’s when she saw it.

  Hair… Strands of dark hair clipped between the zipper.

  She stepped closer, her stomach twisting. The bag’s surface had smears, dark, dried, uneven. Her throat tightened. “Blood?” she asked herself.

  She stumbled back, her breathing shallow now, her heart pounding against her ribs. Cosmo whimpered beside her, circling the bag like he was waiting for something to move inside it. Her fingers fumbled as she pulled her phone from her pocket, hands slick with sweat, breath coming too fast. She pressed its keypad, nearly dropping it as she dialed. The dial tone buzzed in her ear, but it felt distant, muted against the roar inside her head.

  She forced herself to speak. “H-hello… police?”

  Her voice came out wrong. Thin. Fractured. She stepped back again, as if the suitcase might open on its own. As if whatever was inside might not be dead yet.

  The air hung thick with tension, the kind that crawled under the skin, burrowed deep in the bones. A heavy mist still clung to Maharlika Highway, curling around streetlights, as if trying to smother the horror waiting to be revealed. The usual stillness of dawn had been shattered, replaced with the low murmur of a restless, fearful crowd. The green suitcase sat at the roadside, motionless, yet somehow radiating something rotten.

  Barangay tanods struggled to keep the onlookers back, their voices sharp with authority. "Please step back!”

  But no one wanted to leave. They watched. They needed to see. When the first patrol car pulled in, its tires crunching against the gravel, the uniformed men inside barely made it out before the whispers started.

  “Was it already opened?”

  “They said there’s man inside...”

  A woman, her face lined with years, clutched a handkerchief so tight her knuckles had turned white. A young man beside her, his hand trembling as he reached for a cigarette, missed his pocket entirely. Fear had settled in.

  A police officer stepped out of the police vehicle, adjusting his vest as he surveyed the scene. His eyes landed on a woman standing near the tanods, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Beside her, a golden retriever whimpered low, as if the suitcase itself was something to fear.

  Alvarez approached her carefully. “Ma’am, SPO3 John Alvarez, Cabanatuan Police. Can you walk me through what happened?”

  The jogger’s breath trembled. “I—I was just running… my dog pulled me to the side of the road… he… he wouldn’t stop barking.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Then I saw it. The hair… the blood.”

  Alvarez followed her gaze back to the suitcase. Hair strands clung to the zipper, tangled, stiff with dried blood. The fabric had dark stains, seeping, spreading like something tried to get out.

  He swallowed hard. “You didn’t touch it?”

  She shook her head violently. “No. God, no.”

  “Okay ma’am, just calm down.” after that, he reached for his radio. "This is Patrol Unit 3. We need SOCO at Maharlika Highway immediately."

  A white SOCO van pulled up exactly thirty minutes later. Its hazard lights flickered weakly against the grey dawn, the mist still refusing to lift. The officers stepped out in a formation, five of them, carrying forensic kits, each moving with calculated efficiency.

  Last to exit was a middle-aged woman. She was tall, dark-haired, her uniform crisp and pressed. She has an almond shaped eyes and brown complexion. Her eyes are serious and observing every details. As she pulled on her gloves, she caught Alvarez’s eye and nodded once. “Good morning, officer. SPO4 Julia Morales, SOCO.”

  Alvarez nodded back, stepping aside. He watched as her gaze fell to the suitcase, the way her lips pressed together slightly at the sight of it. Even without opening it, she knew. Something was inside. Something that shouldn’t be. Her team moved like clockwork. The forensic photographer crouched low, snapping images from multiple angles. The sketch artist mapped out the distances, the faint indentations in the dirt that hinted at something being dragged. The evidence specialist swept the area, searching for fibers, footprints—anything.

  Morales crouched next to the suitcase, inhaling lightly. No immediate stench of rot. That meant whatever was inside hadn’t been here long, unless it was placed on a fridge.

  “Mark,” she called over her shoulder. “Keep shooting. I want every detail.”

  One of the officers examined the bag without touching it, his head tilting as he observed the seams. “No visible tags, ma’am.”

  “Check the handle for prints,” Morales ordered. "Bag’s made of fabric so forget checking for fingerprints there.”

  Gloved hands dusted the handle. Nothing. Morales exhaled, straightening slightly. "Wiped clean," she murmured. Finally, she gave the signal. "Alright. Open it. Slowly."

  The whispers in the crowd died down. The tanods stood straighter. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. A gloved hand gripped the zipper, pulling it back an inch. And then—the stench hit them. Not bloated, putrid decay. Not the overpowering stench of something long dead. But unmistakable. The stink of blood.

  Rivera stiffened. "Shit."

  Morales didn’t react. She had smelled this before. She knew what they were about to find.

  "Ma’am, confirmed," Rivera whispered. "It’s a body, sealed inside a trashbag."

  Morales let out a slow breath. "Open it fully. Mark, don’t stop shooting." The zipper slid further. They untangled the bag, which is quite hard since some strands of her hair were also tangled on it. Few more minutes, there she was. A girl. No older than sixteen, dismembered. Her arms severed at the shoulders, her lower body cut from the thighs. The limbs folded beside her torso, as though she had been stuffed in carelessly, like discarded trash. But her head was still intact. Her mouth was swollen, bruised. Her eyes half-open, frozen in a silent scream. Mark’s camera shutter clicked. The sound was deafening.

  One of the younger officers turned away, swallowing down bile. Another made the sign of the cross, his lips moving in silent prayer. Alvarez dragged a hand down his face, breath shaky. “Fucking hell.”

  A woman in the crowd gasped audibly. Someone let out a muffled sob. A man whispered, “My God… Who did this?”

  Another muttered, “Not here. Not in Cabanatuan.”

  The crowd didn’t scatter. They just stood there. Frozen.

  Something gnawed at the back of Alvarez’s mind. He turned away from the scene, rubbing at his temple. But the thought wouldn’t let go. Something about the girl… her face.

  Even with the bruises, even with the swelling… His stomach dropped. He had seen her before. His legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him to the patrol car. He yanked the door open, tearing through the stack of paperwork on the dashboard until he found it. A photo… A missing girl. Sent to him yesterday by San Miguel Police.

  Then he ran back. His fingers trembled as he held it up, eyes darting between the image and the body in the suitcase. The resemblance was too close.

  Too damn close.

  His throat went dry. "Tang…ina," he whispered.

  Velasco, his partner, took a cautious step forward. "Sir?"

  The SOCO team lifted the suitcase carefully, treating it like something fragile, or something cursed. Blood had seeped through the fabric, leaving dark stains against the gloved hands that carried it. They moved in silence, their faces serious, as though the weight of what they had just uncovered had settled into their bones.

  Meanwhile, the crowd watched as the suitcase was loaded into the forensic vehicle, the metallic clunk of the doors shutting making a few flinch. No one spoke, no one dared to. And yet, no one left.

  They lingered, waiting, watching, as if they were still expecting something to move from inside the bag. A morbid hope, a terrible curiosity. Someone crossed themselves, muttering prayers under their breath. A young boy, barely past his teens, looked like he wanted to vomit. His lips moved, but no words came. And then, one by one, the crowd finally broke. Not with loud voices, not with chaos, but with a slow, hollow retreat. They walked away in silence, their expressions grim, their backs hunched as if something had been placed on them that they would never shake off. No one wanted to go home carrying the image of what they had just seen. But they all would.

  At Cabanatuan Police Precinct, it took just under an hour for the forensic team to confirm what Alvarez already knew in his gut.

  Given Mallari. Age: 13. Missing from San Miguel. Found in pieces wrapped in black trash bag inside a suitcase.

  The call went through to San Miguel Police. Within ten minutes, Julius was there. Three San Miguel officers followed behind him. Dante was the last to step in.

  Inside the stale, dim precinct, Cabanatuan Police Major Renz Sarmiento stood near his desk, a single manila folder in front of him. He barely looked up when Julius entered, only exhaling deeply, rubbing his eyes before finally meeting his gaze.

  His voice was hollow. "It's positive." The words were heavy, final.

  Julius stopped in place. His breath paused. He had been expecting it, but somehow hearing it out loud made it ten times worse. From behind him, Dante took a step back. The old man swayed slightly, his breathing turning shallow. His hands trembled as he stared at the desk, at the papers… at the undeniable truth waiting inside that folder.

  "No..." The sound barely left his lips, more breath than voice, more prayer than denial.

  Julius moved fast, catching him by the arm before he collapsed.

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  “Dan,” he said, steadying him, guiding him toward the nearest chair.

  Dante did not resist. He let himself be lowered down, hands gripping his knees, his back hunched like a man waiting to be crushed. Sarmiento sighed, pushing the folder toward Julius. Julius didn’t touch it. He couldn’t. Sarmiento’s eyes flickered toward the frail man now sitting in his station, his face curiously staring at Dante. He turned slightly, speaking low to one of Julius’ officers.

  "Who’s he?"

  The officer hesitated, glancing at Dante before answering, "Sir, that’s Mang Dan. The grandfather of the victim."

  A pause, Sarmiento sighed. He had been doing this job for too long, had seen too many bodies, but not a case like this. The man in front of him had just lost his granddaughter. Not to an accident. Not to sickness. She had been taken, ripped apart. He exhaled, long and slow.

  “Oh…” It was the only thing he could say. Julius didn’t have the strength to be angry at how insufficient it was. Because what else could anyone say?

  After half an hour, Sarah and Gerald arrived at the morgue. Dante sat quietly outside, his hands folded, his expression unreadable. Sarah didn’t spare him a glance, walking past him as if he were nothing but air. Gerald, however, nodded stiffly in acknowledgment before guiding Sarah forward, his firm grip the only thing keeping her from collapsing. Her knees felt like jelly, the weight of grief bearing down on her shoulders.

  Sarah’s eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them raw from endless tears shed on the drive here. Her breath stops with every step. Gerald, trying desperately to be her pillar, held back his own sobs, his face tense with restraint. He had to be strong for her. He couldn’t afford to break. Not now.

  Julius and Renz led them inside. The cold, sterile air of the morgue clawed at Sarah’s skin. It smelled of antiseptic and death. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the walls themselves were trying to swallow her whole. Julius reached out, his fingers trembling as he slowly pulled back the white sheet covering Given’s face. Sarah let out a strangled gasp.

  Given’s face was pale, lifeless, marred with bruises that should never have been there. The lips she used to kiss, the eyes that once sparkled with mischief and love, were now dull and unmoving. The child she carried in her womb, the baby she nursed, the little girl she watched grow, now gone.

  A primal scream tore from her throat before her body gave out. Her legs gave up beneath her, and before she could hit the ground, Gerald, Julius, and Renz caught her. She was nothing but dead weight in their arms, the grief consuming her so completely that her body simply shut down.

  Gerald clenched his fists as he felt the warm sting of tears running down his cheeks. He tried so hard to be strong, but seeing Given like this…like this… made him want to shatter. She had only gone to San Leonardo for her semestral break. She was supposed to come home, complain about school, laugh about some dumb thing she and her friends did. None of this was supposed to happen.

  Sarah stirred minutes later, consciousness pulling her back into a world she no longer wanted to exist in. Her eyes fluttered open, and the moment she saw Given’s body, her breath caught. A choked sob escaped her lips as she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around what was left of her daughter.

  “Given… my baby!!” she wailed, her voice thick with agony. Her hands gripped what was left of Given… her body, her cold, mutilated body. No arms. No legs. Just a torso wrapped in a thin, sterile sheet.

  It was too much.

  She sobbed until her lungs burned, until her throat was raw and broken. She rocked back and forth, whispering her daughter’s name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea to any god who would listen.

  Gerald, eyes also filled with tears, gently pulled her away. She fought against him, thrashing like a wounded animal.

  “Sarah… enough,” Gerald murmured, his voice barely steady.

  “No!” she sobbed. “No, I can’t… please, just a little longer. Just a little longer…”

  But he didn’t let go. His arms tightened around her, grounding her, keeping her from crumbling into dust. And then they walked out. Dante was standing now, waiting for them, his face lined with an expression neither of them could quite name. His eyes, dull and weary, met Sarah’s.

  The moment she saw him, something inside her snapped. Her body moved before her mind could even catch up, and in one swift motion, she slapped him. Hard. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway. Dante didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He simply took it, letting his face absorb the force of her fury.

  “This is your fault!” Sarah seethed, her voice trembling with rage. “This is all your fault!”

  Gerald and Julius rushed to stop her, but she shoved them off, her body vibrating with rage, adrenaline pumping through her veins like fire.

  “You killed my daughter!” she shrieked. “You killed Given!”

  Dante stood still, his breathing slow and heavy. Tears slipped from his eyes… silent, almost unnoticeable, but Sarah saw them. And for a brief, fleeting moment, it made her hesitate. Then she laughed. A cold, bitter, broken laugh.

  “Tears?” she scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s right. Cry. You should feel guilty. You should suffer. Because you…” her voice cracked, her entire body trembling, “you let my daughter die!”

  Dante swallowed hard, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came.

  Sarah’s breath hitched, and her vision blurred with fresh tears. Her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms, but she barely felt the pain.

  “You’ve always been like this,” she whispered, her voice laced with venom, with years of resentment spilling to the surface. “YOU NEGLECTFUL OLD MAN! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THI! This is who you are, isn’t it?!" Her voice broke again. “Everything you touch breaks!”

  Dante said nothing. He just stood there, letting her grief rip him apart piece by piece.

  “Sarah, please stop,” Gerald pleaded, his voice raw, cracking under the weight of his own grief. His eyes, already red and swollen from barely contained tears, shimmered with unshed sorrow. But despite the unbearable pain gnawing at his chest, he forced himself to stay strong. Sarah however was inconsolable. Her body trembled as sobs wracked her frame, her face contorted in an agony so deep it threatened to consume her whole. Then, suddenly, her knees buckled.

  "Sarah!" Gerald barely caught her as she collapsed, her body limp in his arms.

  “Sarah?” he called, shaking her lightly, but she was unresponsive.

  “Damn it,” Julius muttered. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

  Without wasting another second, Gerald lifted his wife into his arms, his own strength fueled purely by desperation. Renz cleared the way, leading them out of the morgue.

  Dante didn’t move. He remained there, standing in the dim light of the morgue’s corridor, his head bowed. His face, worn and hollow, was unreadable. But his silence spoke volumes.

  Even as his daughter was carried away. broken, grieving, inconsolable… he said nothing. He simply stood there, drowning in the weight of his own guilt.

  “Police Major Julius.”

  A firm but familiar voice broke the heavy silence. Julius turned to see a woman in her 30’s approaching. Her eyes, sharp and observant, immediately flickered to the fading figures of Sarah and Gerald disappearing down the hall.

  “Oh, Julia,” Julius greeted, his voice rougher than usual.

  “I take it that was the girl’s parents?” Julia asked, her gaze lingering on the door they had just passed through.

  Julius let out a long, exhausted sigh. “Yeah.”

  Julia crossed her arms, a shadow passing over her features. “I hate these kinds of crimes.”

  Julius, removing his cap and running a hand through his disheveled hair said “Yeah, well… me too,” he muttered.

  He looked away for a moment, his grip tightening on his cap. “Seeing a young, energetic girl like her get her life cut short like this.”

  Julia studied his face for a moment, then frowned. “You knew her?”

  Julius hesitated. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Yes,” he finally admitted, his voice quieter now. “Her grandfather is an old friend. And her mother…” He exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I was a godfather at her wedding.”

  Julia’s expression softened. “Oh,” she murmured. “So this one’s personal.”

  Julius didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, he glanced back toward the morgue, the place where Given’s lifeless body lay. The place where an old man stood, drowning in the weight of his daughter’s hatred.

  “I know, I won’t let emotions cloud my judgement. Besides, Cabanatuan has the case.” He said knowing what Julia would say next.

  Julia noticed Dante staring blankly. She became intrigued with the old man and asked Julius about him. “Who is he?” she asked, intrigued.

  Julius followed her stare. He exhaled slowly before answering. “Given’s grandfather.”

  Julia’s. Her eyes softened, filled with sympathy for the grieving man who sat motionless, his shoulders slumped, his head low. He looked like a man who had lost everything.

  A few minutes passed before Dante stood and walked toward them. There was something haunting about the way he moved… slow, deliberate, as if his body were carrying a weight no one else could see.

  “Julius…” Dante's voice was hollow. Lifeless. “I need a favor.”

  Julius held his gaze. Then, he nodded. “Tell me what you need.”

  Dante spoke. Julius listened. And as the old man finished, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Julius finally said.

  Dante gave a slow nod before stepping back. He lowered himself onto a chair again, hands clasped together, his eyes staring at something only he could see. He remembered the last hug he had given Given. He could still feel her warmth, still hear her voice calling him Lolo. But no… now, she was gone.

  Then, like floodgates bursting open, memories from twenty years ago came crashing down. The twisted, broken body of his wife. His daughter’s wailing cries every night. A tremor ran through his hand. He clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening, his teeth grinding together as he breathed heavily.

  It was happening again.

  Meanwhile, Julius was talking to Julia about Dante’s request. After a few more minutes, Julia gazed at Dante with pure awe and curiosity. Julius broke Dante’s trance, “Dan, I talked to SPO4 Julia...”

  Dante faced him hoping to hear something good. “At first, she disagrees, but upon knowing who you are... well... I’m sorry, I needed to tell her who you really are... It’s the only way she’ll agree.”

  Dante got up and Thanked Julius, saying that it didn’t matter. He proceeds to approach Julia. “Si – sir...” Julia uttered,

  “I – it’s an honor...” She then saluted Dante.

  “Please don’t do that...” Dante said,

  “I’m no longer a soldier.”

  “Sir, you’re not just a sol – .”

  “Please, Ma’am.” Dante’s voice is calm yet stern.

  “A – alright sir.” Julia agrees. Dante took the files with steady hands, his face unreadable as he flipped through them.

  The coroner was reluctant at first, but after Julia intervened, he gave in.

  Dante took the files with steady hands, his face unreadable as he flipped through them. Then, he saw them. The bruises. He traced the photos of Given’s wrists with a slow, analytical eye. The marks, all upward.

  "At least three men."

  His hand trembled slightly as he noted it down. He turned the page.

  Her first and second premolars were missing.

  "They weren’t found at the crime scene."

  He clenched his jaw.

  "She was killed somewhere else."

  And then—

  Dante’s body stiffened.

  "28 ml of semen found inside her."

  His fingers dug into the edge of the paper. He read it again.

  “28 ml.”

  The average man could secrete between 2 to 5 ml per ejaculation. That meant one thing, Given was sexually abused by More than one man. Dante’s grip on the report tightened until the paper crumpled in his fist. A faint crack echoed through the room. The pen in his hand had snapped. Julius, who had been watching silently, felt something crawl up his spine. He saw it… the shift.

  Dante’s shoulders squared. His back straightened. His breathing slowed. His face, his once sorrowful, defeated face was gone. Now, he was something else entirely. The demon whom he’s fighting against earlier is about to be unleashed once again. Julius had seen this before.

  Julius saw Dante’s eyes. Immediately, he felt shivers allover his body. His throat failed to swallow, as he realized what is happening. Whoever did this to given will suffer faith more terrifying than death. They made the mistake of taking Given, much more killing and desecrating her body in this way.

  Dante stood up, his movements eerily calm. He walked toward the evidence table, scanning Given’s chart.

  Given Grace M. Sanggalang

  Born: July 02, 1988

  Died: October 31, 2001

  Cause of Death: Asphyxia by strangulation

  “Note: The cuts from her torso and limbs are jagged and uneven.”

  Dante exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Was there any more evidence found on her?”

  The forensic examiner hesitated. “Sir, we’re sorry, but—”

  “None, the trash bag also has no fingerprints on it.” Julia cut in, handing him a ziplock bag. “Except for this.”

  Dante took the bag. Inside was a fragment of a what seems to be a coagulated blood and a torn off skin.

  “May I?” he asked, his voice calm.

  Julia hesitated, then handed him a pair of gloves. Dante wore them and carefully examined the sample. He turned it over in his palm.

  “Where was this found?”

  “Under her fingernails,” Julia said.

  A muscle twitched in Dante’s jaw.

  “She fought,” he muttered. His voice was so quiet, yet it carried a weight that made the air feel heavier.

  “She scratched her murderer…”

  Julius shifted uncomfortably. Julia glanced at him, confused.

  Dante turned to her. “Can I have some of this?” His voice was sharp, carrying the authority of a man who did not ask twice.

  Julia stiffened. “Sir, I— I’m afraid not. We have protocols. I already bent the rules today.”

  She looked into his eyes. And then, she faltered. It was like staring into an abyss—something deep, dark, and endless.

  She knew, in that moment, that no rule, no protocol, no law could stop Dante from doing what he wanted to do. She swallowed hard.

  “…But you won’t agree, will you?” she whispered.

  “Right,” Dante said smoothly.

  Julia sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. “Fine,” she muttered. “I don’t want this morgue to turn into a bloodbath. Just… not all of it.”

  Dante smiled. It was small, barely there, but it carried something chilling.

  “Of course,” he said.

  He took what he needed, then walked toward Given’s body one last time. He brushed her hair back gently, leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead. His lips lingered.

  He then whispered on her ears, "Rest now, apo… Lolo will make sure they will suffer fate worse than what you experienced." And with that, he turned and walked out.

  Julius followed him. “Where are you going?” Dante didn’t stop walking. His steps were steady, purposeful.

  “To visit an old friend.”

  Dante walked kilometers away from the precinct, his mind silent. When he reached the road, he didn’t hesitate. He stepped in front of a moving car. Tires screeched. The car came to a violent halt inches from his knees.

  The driver rolled down his window, furious. “What the hell, old man—”

  Dante moved faster than the driver could react. A pen was pressed against his throat. The driver’s breath hitched. His body froze.

  “Open the backseat,” Dante ordered.

  The driver’s hands shook as he unlocked the door. Dante slid in, his presence suffocating. The driver swallowed thickly.

  “Wh—where to, s-sir?” he stammered.

  Dante leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Rodriguez, Rizal.”