On the 5th of August, the calm silence of 4:00 AM was fragile. It wasn't broken by the digital chirp of an alarm clock, but by a high-pitched scream.
"Jiro! Jiro! What a freak? Wake up!"
The shouting was immediately followed by a sharp, stinging slap on the soles of his feet—the universal, non-negotiable wake-up call of Filipino mothers everywhere.
"Just wake up! Look what time it is! You're late now!"
Jiro jolted upright. His dream universe shattered instantly. Man, welcome back to the real world.
He sat there, blinking, his brain wading through a thick fog. He felt less like a student and more like a zombie rising from the grave, a doomed soul facing the apocalypse. But it wasn't the apocalypse. It was just Monday. The first official day of college. But his class will start at 10 AM.
He tried to stand from the bed, but his legs felt like lead. Gravity won the first round (Uh, oh!), and he slumped back onto the mattress.
No adrenaline. No spark. Just... dawn energy. He felt... empty.
"Crap. Fine, I'll just... eh, stand now. Geez," Jiro muttered to himself.
He sat up from the bed, groaning like a... grrr... a giant, drunk titan? (Do not worry, he was not that loud!)
He groaned as he finally forced himself vertical—or at least, a shaky eighty-five degrees. "Luckily, she didn't beat me with the flip-flops. But her hand... stronger than a mosquito bite. I will—"
SLAM.
The heavy kitchen door banged close, followed by the terrifying sound of rushing footsteps. Thud-thud-thud. It sounded like a racehorse—just kidding, but three times faster, the noise echoing off the dull red tiles of the hallway. The doorknob twisted violently, and his mother marched in, shoving a plastic bowl into his lap.
"Jiro, wake up now! Oi!" she barked. "This is your food. Eat now! There are many people who will use the C.R. Faster!"
She didn't wait for a response. She spun around and marched back out to manage the morning chaos, slamming the door behind her like a nuclear detonation.
BA-BOOM!
Jiro stared down at the bowl. It was steaming—aggressively. Inside lay a mountain of fried rice and a sad, pale omelette.
He took a spoon and shoveled a bite into his mouth.
Mistake.
"Ahh!!!"
The rice was hotter than the surface of the sun. It seared his tongue instantly. And the taste? He chewed slowly, wincing. It tasted like water and egg—blandness mixed with heat. But then came the surprise texture: shards of rock salt and whole peppercorns that crunched between his teeth like gravel.
Bleugh.
He gagged slightly, forcing himself to swallow the spicy, salty, bland mega mess omelette.
I'm being tortured before 5:00 AM, he thought, covering his mouth. Welcome to the college diet.
He shoveled the last few spoonfuls into his mouth, ignoring the protests of his burnt tongue. He didn't chew. He just swallowed. Survival mode. He dropped the spoon back into the bowl, leaving a significant amount of leftovers.
"Done. Crap, my throat hates me."
He grabbed the blue plastic water pitcher to wash down the heat. Gulp.
Suddenly, he heard it. A creak from the other room.
Footsteps.
The Bathroom Competition was awake.
Jiro dropped the pitcher—Dunk!—splashing water onto the concrete floor.
"Crap! The C.R.!"
He scrambled off the bed, grabbing his towel, underwear, toothbrush, and the bathroom basket. He sprinted out of the room like his shorts were on fire, reaching the bathroom door just milliseconds before a cousin's door opened down the hall.
Victory.
He slid inside, locking the thin steel door.
Bang! Click. Safety.
The bathroom was tight, damp, and smelled of antibacterial soap and cold cement. Jiro hung his towel, clothes, and underwear on the bar and placed his basket on the sink's edge. It was packed with his survival gear: shampoo sachets, soap, razor, and deodorant powder. A complete grooming kit for a bath that would last under six minutes.
But the real enemy waited in the corner. The timba (pail or bucket).
The bucket was full to the brim. The surface was perfectly still, like a predator waiting to strike. Since it was 4:20 AM, that water had been marinating in the dark all night.
Jiro stripped down, shivering before the water even touched him. He grabbed the tabo (dipper). It felt heavy.
He didn't stand. Instead, he dropped into a squat—knees up, feet flat on the wet tiles, hunched over. He looked like L (Lawliet) from Death Note, solving a case in the shower. Standing required leg strength and dignity, neither of which he possessed right now.
"Ah, not again," he whispered, staring at the clear liquid from his low vantage point. "Do not scream. You are a titan. Just act like... an icy hot dragon."
He closed his eyes. "One. Two... Sheesh, let's go!"
SPLASH.
"GAH!!!"
The scream was silent, trapped in his throat. The water hit him like liquid nitrogen mixed with needles. It wasn't just cold; it was disrespectful. It shocked his lungs, forcing a sharp exhale through his nose.
Snort.
He stayed in his squat, scrubbing furiously. Shampoo on. Soap on. Rinse. Toothbrush. He looked like a gargoyle taking a bath.
Six minutes later, the ritual was done.
He grabbed his towel, the metal bar rattling against the vibrating steel door. Whirrr... He dried off, dusted powder on his armpits, and pulled his underwear and shorts back on. He unlocked the door and stepped out, a lost, wet rabbit scuttling back to his room.
Thud-thud-thud.
Inside the bedroom, the air was buzzing. Not from tension, but from the electric fan. His mom was lying on the bed, holding his open lunch container directly in front of the spinning blades, cooling the nuclear-hot rice.
Jiro ignored it and began the Denim Struggle.
Since his legs were still tacky from the humidity and the shower, pulling up the stiff jeans felt like wrestling a python. Jump. Wiggle. Jump. Zip. He slapped his belt on. Then, he grabbed his white polo shirt.
Was that wrong?Maybe.
"Eh, Jiro," his mom whispered loudly, narrowing her eyes. "I always told you... put your socks on first! The shirt is the last step! My God."
She gestured aggressively at his feet. She had this theory that bending down to put on socks while wearing the uniform would wrinkle the shirt. Or maybe it was superstition. Jiro didn't know. Jiro didn't care.
"Mmm," Jiro grunted, ignoring the logic as he sat on the bed.
He pulled on his socks and shoved his feet into his newly bought high-cut, old-school shoes. They were pristine white. For now, he thought. Let's see what the jeepney floor does to them.
He stood up and checked his inventory.
Heavy blue-green backpack? Check. One notebook? Check. Blue clipboard with COR? Check. Blue pencil case with three new black pens? Check. Umbrella? Check. Will to live? Loading...
Finally, his mom snapped the lid onto the heavy glass Tupperware.
Click-clack.
She slipped it into an eco-bag along with a spoon and fork.
"O, Jiro," she said, handing him the bag. It weighed a ton. "Here is your lunch. That's Asado. Don't swing the bag, the sauce might spill."
She reached into her purse. "And also... here is your fare and baon." She pressed the bills into his hand. "That is 250 pesos. That is good for three days."
Jiro took the cash. He didn't put it in his wallet. He didn't put it in his pocket. Instead, he unzipped his red earphonepouch and folded the money inside.
Logic? None. Jiro Logic? 100%.
He already carried his separate 40 pesos fare for the Taytay-to-Morong route in one hand, clutching the coins like a grenade ready to be thrown. That 250 pesos in the pouch was the strategic reserve.
He shoved the red pouch deep inside his bag. Then, the final tech ritual: He turned off the WiFi on his phone (Battery is life). Then, he wrapped the phone carefully in a blue towel. Impact protection? Sweat rag? Who knows. It was safe.
Next came the heavy artillery. He loaded the eco-bag lunch and a heavy 22oz insulated tumbler inside his backpack. And a fully filled mini alcohol spray dangling from his backpack zipper like a tactical charm.
Ziip.
He hoisted the bag onto his shoulders and groaned. It felt like he was carrying the Hulk on his back.
"Aight, I will go now, Mom," he mumbled, struggling against the gravity of his own supplies.
"Stay safe and turn off the lights," his mom called out, her voice already drifting back to sleep.
Jiro nudged the wall switch with his elbow, since his hands were full of bag straps and fare money.
Ckleck.
The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the ghost of the early morning sun to guide him out.
He stepped into the hallway, pulling the wooden bedroom door shut behind him.
Thump... Click.
Then, he walked to the main entrance door, stepped out into the world, and he closed the door.
He slipped past the gate. 6:20 AM.
The air wasn't cold—it rarely was. It was a standard 26°C, heavy with a sticky tropical humidity that threatened to ruin his fresh white shirt before the day had even begun.
Jiro began the 105-meter walk to the main road. Stray dogs trotted lazily along the street, paying him no mind, while tricycles buzzed past, their engines popping rhythmically against the morning quiet.
Then, the smell hit him—yeast, sugar, and oven heat. Pandesal.
He passed the local bakery, eyeing the small queue of people waiting for their brown paper bags of hot bread. It was the scent of comfort, but he didn't have time for comfort today.
He reached the main road and stepped straight into chaos.
He crossed toward the elementary school, navigating a metal obstacle course of haphazardly parked tricycles. Swarms of students buzzed around him, their backpacks looking almost big enough to swallow them whole.
Eh? Traffic... as usual, Jiro noted, watching the brake lights pile up. Monday strikes again.
It was barely 6:30, yet the road was already bleeding red, drowning in a chaotic festival of horns.
Jiro stood on the curb, clutching his coins. He had the forty pesos for the long haul ready, but for this first leg, he only needed eleven.
He watched the sea of vehicles. His destination, the New Public Market of Taytay, was just an 800-meter hop away. Under normal circumstances, he would have walked it. But with the "Hulk" bag weighing him down, walking was a suicide mission.
A jeepney slowed. He hopped in.
Minutes later, he dropped off at the market. He bypassed the chaotic tricycle terminals, dodging through the morning crowd to reach the roadside stop where the long-haul jeepneys bound for Tanay and Morong gathered.
Luck was actually on his side today. He secured a seat immediately.
At 6:40 AM, the engine roared to life.
The journey started with a deceptive smoothness. The morning air rushed through the open windows, slapping Jiro's face like a persistent alarm clock.
Nice wind... but it would be traffic again, he thought, brushing hair out of his eyes while a bit annoyed. Free hairstyle.
But as they wandered onto the Manila East Road, the reality of rush hour kicked in. The jeepney didn't drive; it crawled.
It gasped through Binangonan, choked by the sheer volume of students flooding into the elementary schools at Tayuman and Bilibiran. They flooded the streets like ants attacking a sugar cube.
Further down in Pantok and Darangan, road works reduced the flow to a sluggish, painful pace. Great. Bleeding red lights everywhere. Just what the Monday morning needed.
Fix the road, they said. It will be fast, they said. Liars.
Passing Darangan, the traffic eased slightly. Victory?
Nope.
As they passed Lusod Cardona, the brake lights flared red again. Another elementary school.
Why are there so many schools!? Jiro screamed internally. Do we really need one on every corner?
While they idled in the congested downtown of Cardona, Jiro decided to settle his debt. He passed his forty pesos to the person sitting beside him.
"Oh, here is my fare. Give that to the driver." he mumbled.
The coins were passed hand-to-hand up to the front.
"Ah, where is this?" the driver shouted back, glancing at the rearview mirror.
"That is Morong." Jiro called out. "From Taytay. Student."
Finally, the road opened up. As the jeepney crossed the boundary into Morong, the concrete jungle gave way to wide, green rice fields.
The driver, sensing the freedom of the open road, slammed on the gas like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Rizal Drift.
Jiro was sitting at the very end of the bench—the estribo—clinging to the overhead rail like his life depended on it. Because it did. The road here was a patchwork of asphalt and bad decisions.
THUD.
The jeep hit a massive pothole. Jiro continued to travel upward while the jeep traveled downward. His head bounced off the low metal ceiling.
"Crap!" he hissed, rubbing the spot.
He winced but said nothing to the driver. It was just part of the morning struggle. Brain damage included in the fare.
The vehicle slowed as it loomed over the town center. Jiro disembarked at 7:50 AM in front of the familiar hospital.
He crossed the main road, passing the barangay hall, and began the five-minute trek to the university. He didn't bother with music yet; the morning was loud enough with the sound of aggressive tricycle engines and student chatter.
The campus gate was a sea of white. Freshmen in their civilian polos milled about, mixing with the upperclassmen in their distinct blue uniforms.
Jiro slipped through the crowd like a ninja. He flashed his printed COR—clamped firmly in his nerdy hard blue plastic clipboard—to the campus guard and signed the logbook.
Scribble. Scribble.
8:12 AM.
Yes! Finally. Welcome to... school, I guess?
END OF THE FIGHTING GROUND