September 4, 1981

  Somewhere in Rodriguez, Rizal

  The moon was full, and alongside it was the hurried but limping steps of this fucking bastard. Tsk, son of a bitch. Did he really think I wouldn’t be able to follow him just because he ran into his office? I walked toward him slowly, savoring every moment every goddamn sob, every gasp, every fucking scream.

  He tripped, his toes slamming against the edge of his office desk. Desperately, he scrambled on the floor, eyes wide and overflowing with tears, his whole face a mess.

  “P-please… have mercy… don’t— I-I have kids!” he wailed. “Please! I’ll do anything… I’m sorry!”

  He dropped to his knees in front of me… wait no, not quite. He was crawling, crawling and groveling. Like a little child begging not to be punished.

  Honestly, this was the part I hated the most. How can these fucking bastards always had the audacity to beg for mercy when death was already breathing down their necks. After everything they did? Do they really thought they deserved to be spared?! Especially this piece of shit.

  To be fair, tonight was no different from the other nights, back when I was still active in the service. But this… this one was personal. This wasn’t about my job. This wasn’t about duty. This bastard took something from me… something I could never replace, no matter how much time passed.

  “Please…” he cried again. “I don’t want to die!!”

  I could only grin in pure, seething rage. Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ring, slipping it onto my finger. I clenched my fist, then drove it straight into his face. This bastard deserves every pain, every punch.

  One.

  Two…

  Three… On the third punch, I hit him square on the mouth. Blood splattered, and two of his teeth flew out.

  “P-pl…” He tried to speak, but his words drowned in the blood choking in his throat.

  But I wasn’t done.

  I leaned down, whispering into his ear, “We’re just getting started.”

  Then, I kept going. My fists slammed into his face, over and over. I poured everything into each hit—anger, hatred, grief—all of it. Every impact sent a sickening crack through the room. His face caved little by little, blood pooling at his chin and cheeks, his blood mingles with mine while splattering against my forearm.

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  Then I heard it. A snap. A grotesque, sharp pop.

  I laughed. Hahahaha. This bastard’s jaw was hanging loose, swinging like a broken door barely clinging to its hinges. His tongue lolled to the side, drowning in a mess of blood and saliva. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a wet gurgle.

  “Ah… that won’t do.”

  I grabbed his jaw, feeling the bone shift under my fingers. He whimpered, eyes rolling back.

  I whispered, “Let’s fix that, shall we?”

  I pulled my fist back and drove it into his jaw, hard. The bone gave way with a nauseating crunch. His entire lower jaw shattered beneath my knuckles, his teeth scattering across the floor like dice thrown on a gambler’s table. I gazed at my own wounded knuckle. I exhaled and savor the moment.

  Thirty minutes had passed, his face was unrecognizable. An awful mess of swollen flesh, torn lips, and shattered bone. His eyes, barely visible through the swelling, flickered with something between agony and the faintest, pathetic hope that I would stop.

  I wouldn’t.

  I pulled out my panabas (machete), pressing its sharp edge lightly against his left cheek. The only sign that he was still alive was the occasional groan and whimper he let out whenever my fist connected. I grabbed him and dragged him outside his mansion.

  With slow, deliberate movements, I sliced through his swollen eyelids. Just enough for him to see what was coming next.

  And then, I set his mansion on fire.

  Along with all his men. Along with all his wealth. The fortune he spent his whole life building, it would be nothing but ashes in just a few minutes.

  Screams erupted from inside. I made sure not to kill his men right away earlier. I wanted them to beg. I wanted to hear them cry out for help as the flames swallowed them whole. I closed my eyes, stretched my neck, and let out a sigh. I waved my hand like a conductor on the orchestra. Their wailings are like melody in this orchestra. Then I looked back at him.

  Truth be told, I wanted to shove my machete down this bastard’s throat. I wanted to crack his skull and split his body in half. But no… that would be too easy. I wanted him alive. I wanted him to live every day knowing that death was just a step behind him. I wanted him to feel it—that his own shadow had become the reaper.

  I smirked, staring down at his barely open, swollen eyes.

  “We’ll meet again. When you least expect it, when you think you’re finally safe, when you finally let your guard down… I’ll come back to finish what I started.”

  That was twenty years ago.

  I was only forty-two at the time. And to be honest, that was the dirtiest job I had ever done.

  “Tay… Tatay…” My son, Jun, called out to me. “Here you go.” He handed me a bowl.

  I cracked two eggs into it.

  “Hehehe, your grandkids are gonna love this.”

  “Haha, of course,” I replied.

  Semestral break was coming up, which meant my grandkids would be visiting again soon. It had become a tradition, every vacation, they would stay with me for a week.

  And I couldn’t wait.

  I tied the strings of my green apron—a Christmas gift from my youngest child. My eyes flickered toward the mirror.

  A huge part of my life had been lost. But somehow, three little pieces had come along, piecing me back together without me even realizing it.

  I smiled, touching the ring on my finger.