On the 5th of August at 8:12 AM, as Jiro entered the campus gate, he walked straight to the Industrial Technology buildings, situated right across from the Registrar's Office. The area was buzzing.
Students occupied every available bench, and the CIT Techno Park—a small covered area serving as a hangout for tech students—was packed like sardines.
Jiro stood in the shade of the Main IT building, feeling a sudden disconnect. He pulled out his phone, desperate to load some data to find his room assignment.
Loading... Loading...
No Signal.
WHAT A CRAP!? You have got to be kidding me.
He raised the phone, walking in small circles like a confused Sim character.
Nothing. He was digitally stranded.
Big campus, no signal. Nice.
"Sheesh," he sighed, reaching for his red earphone pouch inside his bag. "If I can't connect to the internet, I'll connect to the void... no, just music."
He blasted rock tracks to drown out the anxiety and began to wander. He walked aimlessly, the guitar riffs in his ears clashing with the visual confusion.
He checked the bulletin board, his finger tracing down the lists until he found his name, but the room number meant nothing to him without a map.
Damn, a complete set of names but no maps, just room numbers? Are you kidding me?
He felt like a lost ant in a very large colony.
He entered the Main IT Building until he reached the very end and stopped cold.
What the hell?
It didn't look like a school. It looked like a factory. Or a dungeon?
The space was cavernous, filled with the smell of grease, dust, and wet cement. Massive machinery loomed over him. Steel bars were stacked in corners, scattered piled plywood, and bags of cement were piled high like sandbags in a war zone.
It was a warehouse of industry, intimidating and raw.
Am I on the right server? Nah. This is not fantasy.
Confused, he doubled back and climbed the stairs near the entrance, and found an office marked "Dean's Office - College of Industrial Technology" He hesitated but pushed the door open, holding up his clipboard like a shield. He unplugged his earphones first upon entering—his music universe paused.
He showed his COR to a staff member. The staff muttered a room number and pointed vaguely. Jiro strained to hear, but between the noise and his own nerves, he didn't catch a single word.
"Ahh, thank you," Jiro lied, nodding politely. He left the office knowing less than he did when he entered. Genius move, Jiro. Just pretend it.
He returned downstairs to the building's entrance. Feeling small, he approached another staff member standing nearby. "Uhh, sir. May I ask? Where is this section 3? Which room?"
The staff member gave him a look—the kind you give to a lost puppy. He pointed just a few feet away. "Oh, section 3? That is Construction Tech. The building... well... it's just right there. Just that building."
Jiro froze. He looked to his right. The building was barely ten meters away. Crap. I was standing next to it the whole time. Jiro felt the heat rise to his cheeks.
He muttered a quick thanks and hurried off, embarrassed by his own blindness.
8:50 AM.
He plugged the earphones back in. Music on. World off.
He walked toward the Construction Technology area, past large tools and heavy equipment that seemed to judge his lack of muscles.
Finally, he spotted a man standing outside the faculty room, chatting with other faculty and students. It was his adviser.
Jiro stepped inside his classroom. It was startlingly small—a cramped, square box. Long tables and monobloc chairs filled the space, facing a whiteboard and a mounted TV.
Directly opposite their room was a long row of lockers for their gear and materials. To the side, piles of construction materials—tubes, plywood, hollow blocks, steel bars—sat ready for use.
He put his bag on his chair and stepped out of the room to inspect the area. The amenities outside the room caught his eye. There was a kitchen sink, table, gas stove and even a refrigerator.
What is this? he thought. It feels less like a classroom and more like a clubhouse in a shōnen anime.
It was like a secret base where a team lived and trained together before saving the world. Or destroying it.
He stepped back to the room as his classmates started to enter. The class settled in. There were fifty-two of them total. Jiro looked around, doing a quick headcount.
Forty women, he noted internally, eyes widening. And only twelve of us men.
Harem anime protagonist? No. Just outnumbered.
The adviser clapped his hands to get their attention. He had a comedic energy, cracking jokes immediately to break the ice.
Man, I did not expect this. He was too good for his age. Jiro thought, cracking a smile. Sheesh, I actually laughed.
Jiro leaned back in his chair. The "False Foundation" of his anxiety began to crack, replaced by a strange sense of comfort.
He realized that this strange, industrial, cramped world—with its grease smells and clubhouse vibes—was now his home.
Once the laughter subsided, the atmosphere shifted. It was time for the roll call—not just of names, but of origins.
"Let's see who suffered the most to get here," the adviser grinned.
"Raise your hands if you're from Morong."
Half the class raised their hands. Locals. Lucky bastards.
"Cardona?" A decent number. "Pililla? Tanay? Baras?" Scattered hands. "Binangonan?" Just one hand rose. "Angono?" Silence.
"And finally," the adviser paused, squinting as he recalled the farthest towns. He mumbled to himself for a second before asking, "Uh... Taytay? Is there anyone here from Taytay?"
Sitting right in the front row, mere feet from the teacher's desk, Jiro raised his hand. Slowly.
It felt like a spotlight had been turned on him. He felt the heavy gaze of fifty-one other people drilling into his back.
"Taytay?" the adviser repeated, looking at Jiro like he was an alien species. "Woah, that's far, son. What time do you wake up to survive the traffic?"
Jiro froze for a beat, shrinking slightly in his seat.
"I wake up at 4:00 AM, sir. I leave the house by 6:00." he answered.
His voice was faint—ant-sized, really. It was a bit unclear, but just audible enough for the adviser and the students nearby to catch.
"Damn," a girl behind him whispered loud enough for him to hear.
The adviser shook his head, half-impressed, half-pitying. "A warrior. Good luck keeping that up. Taytay is often congested."
The class looked at him with a mix of respect and horror.
Yeah, look at me, Jiro thought, sinking into his chair. I am the main character of the commute. Please stop looking.
The introductions moved on. The adviser, a man who carried himself with a stiff military posture but spoke with a comedian's timing, formally introduced the course.
"Bachelor of Industrial Technology, Major in Construction Technology—though we call it Civil Technology now," he announced. "This is a four-year formal degree. Unlike Civil Engineering, you won't have a board exam. But don't mistake that for ease."
He paced the room, making eye contact.
"While CE focuses on the design and paperwork, CT is on the ground. You are the foremen. You are the ones who make the blueprints reality. You are the ones getting your hands dirty on the construction sites."
A hand shot up from the middle of the room. It was a female classmate, looking bold.
"Sir, uhm... real talk," she started, giggling nervously. "How much is the... salary? Hahaha."
The class rippled with laughter. It was the question everyone wanted to ask but was too afraid to.
The adviser glanced at her and grinned. "Oh, the salary? It's not small. You're looking at forty thousand pesos and up, depending on your position and experience." He paused for effect. "Sure, a Civil Engineer's salary might be bigger, but for us? That is still way above average."
"Ahh, not bad," a classmate muttered from the side, nodding in approval.
Not bad at all, Jiro thought. Survival seems possible.
The adviser shifted his attention to the room's amenities, gesturing toward the hallway behind them.
"Take a look at the back," he said. "You see those lockers just outside the door?"
The class turned to look at the long rows of square-shaped metal cabinets facing their room.
"There are forty-eight units there," the adviser continued. "But here's the catch: half of them belong to the second years. So, you can't go solo. You need to buddy up. Find a partner, grab a key, and get a lock."
Jiro felt a subtle wave of amusement. Lockers? It felt surprisingly legit. He had never studied in a school that actually provided personal lockers before. It felt like an upgrade—a sign that college was a different league.
Finally, he thought. Somewhere to dump the heavy gear.
But the universe has a funny sense of humor. Because a week later? That locker would be dead to him. He wouldn't even touch it.
Next, the adviser gestured to the side, pointing toward the makeshift domestic corner Jiro had spotted earlier.
"Now, look to your right," the adviser said. "That's our kitchenette."
He leaned over the desk, gesturing toward the sink and appliances with his hand.
"You are allowed to use it. Feel free to wash your dishes, store your drinks in the refrigerator, or even cook your lunch. There is a stove provided..." He paused, scratching his head. "Although, I can't promise there's any gas left in the tank. Use at your own risk."
The class chuckled.
"Also," he added, pointing to the solitary door nearby. "That is the restroom. There is only one, so if you really need to go... practice your patience. The queue gets long."
The adviser moved on to the curriculum. He listed the subjects: Mathematics in the Modern World (MMW), Science, Technology, and Society (STS), and the National Service Training Program (NSTP).
"Speaking of NSTP," the adviser's voice dropped an octave, his military background bleeding through. "I recommend ROTC. It builds discipline. I've been through the training; it shapes you." He waved a hand dismissively. "Don't bother with LTS (Literacy Training Service), that's for the educators. For you? It's ROTC or CWTS (Civic Welfare Training Service)."
He described CWTS as community service—cleaning, painting, assisting the barangay.
The class, perhaps terrified by the thought of marching under the sun in full uniform, collectively leaned toward CWTS. The vibe in the room shifted to: We choose the broom, sir. Not the gun.
"Fine, fine," the adviser chuckled, sensing the rejection. "I only teach MMW anyway. Now, meet your guardians."
He gestured to the door.
A group of students in blue uniform stepped in—the sophomores. They looked taller, cooler, and infinitely more tired than the freshmen.
"These are your senpais—second-year CT officers," the adviser announced. "While I'm not here, they are in charge. Respect them."
By the time the orientation wrapped up, it was 11:10 AM. "Lunch break!" the adviser announced. "Don't be late coming back. I lock doors."
The spell of the classroom broke. Students began to cluster immediately, forming instant alliances based on nothing more than proximity.
Jiro sat still for a beat, hesitating. No alliance here.
He hoisted his backpack—that heavy, dark blue-green fortress of supplies—onto his shoulders and grabbed the handle of his humble eco-bag. He drifted out of the room, just a piece of driftwood following the stream of students.
Outside, the sun was high, but the sky was suffocated by gloom. Jiro walked alone, his eyes tracing the sharp, unforgiving angles of the campus architecture.
"So much concrete," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper against the noise of the crowd. "Everything here is just... brutalist depression. Plain brutalist."
Ahh, judging buildings are safer than judging people.
"Hey." A voice cut through. Jiro looked up. A girl from the group ahead had turned around. She had sharp eyes but a friendly face. "What did you say? And who are you talking to?"
Jiro froze. Blood rushed to his cheeks. "Oh. Uh, no one. Just... the buildings." He paused a bit.
They are so plain and old as freak, he thought.
He continued while muttering, "talking to the... walls." Nice one, Jiro. Talking to walls.
The girl, Janna, tilted her head, then smirked. "Okay, weirdo. You're alone, right? Do you want to join us? Unless you prefer talking to concrete."
Jiro blinked. "Join you?" "Yeah. Let's eat. I'm starving."
Jiro nodded, shyly falling into step behind them. They settled into a small, open-air carinderia across the street. The air smelled of garlic, soy sauce, and exhaust fumes. The table was sticky.
The girls ordered lunch and bottles of soft drinks. Jiro unpacked his glass tupperware.
"Do you want a soft drink?" Janna asked.
Jiro shook his head quickly. "No, thank you. Didn't the adviser say earlier that soft drinks are poison?" He cracked a small, awkward smile. "Plus... honestly, I can't burp. The gas kills me. I'll just inflate like a balloon."
The girls burst into laughter. It wasn't polite laughter; it was genuine, loud cackling. "Oh my god," Janna wheezed. "You can't burp? That's your excuse?" "What the hell!" Jessa, her twin, laughed.
As they ate, Jessa leaned in, sniffing the air. "Hoy, what is that?" she pointed at Jiro's container. "That smells like... actual love? Just kidding... Not this carinderia grease."
"It's Asado," Jiro said, opening the lid. "My mom prepared it."
"Damn," Jessa whispered. "Pahingi (Give me some). Just a tax for letting you sit with us." She was joking, but Jiro pushed the heavy glass container toward them. "Go ahead." They took small bites, their eyes widening. "Okay," Mina, the girl sitting across from him, chewed thoughtfully. "Your mom can cook. You're officially invited to lunch every day."
Between mouthfuls, the conversation turned to their history. The "False Foundation" of their current reality began to show.
Jiro hoisted a mini-interview contest... just a silly conversation. "So, guys, what was your strand last Senior High and your course?" Jiro asked the three girls while eating.
"I was STEM in Senior High," Janna admitted, stabbing her hotdog. "I wanted Civil Engineering. But... slots ran out. System error. Life error."
"Same," Mina sighed, looking tired. "I wanted Architecture. But my grades... well, here I am. In the warehouse."
They looked at Jiro. "What about you, Mr. Taytay?"
"I was supposed to take CE too," Jiro admitted, poking at his rice. "But I failed the entrance exam. Flat out failed. So... Construction Tech."
There was a collective nod of understanding. They were all on Plan B. They were the refugees of the engineering department.
"Wait," Jessa asked, her fork pausing. "Did you have honors in Senior High?" Jiro hesitated, then nodded. "High Honors. My average was 94.5."
The table went silent. The girls stopped eating. Janna looked at Jiro. Mina looked at Jessa. "Whoa," Janna breathed out. "94.5? wait, you're actually smart? Like, smart smart?"
"Why are you here with us dummies?" Mina joked, but she looked impressed. "Okay, we found our group leader for math. You're not allowed to leave us now."
Mina pulled out her phone. "Jiro, are you in the section GC?"
"Oh, wait, we already have a GC?" Jiro was confused.
"Yeah." Mina scrolled through her phone, her brow furrowing. "Wait... you're not here. There are 44 people in the chat."
She looked up at him, appearing genuinely offended on his behalf.
Those idiots forgot me? They forgot me? Jiro thought. Eh... well that is normal for me.
"I am invisible," Jiro muttered with a dry and somehow suffocated smile. "It's my superpower."
"Not anymore," Mina said firmly. "Give me your Facebook. I'm adding you. You're part of the Circle now. No escaping."
Jiro felt a strange warmth. The Circle. It sounded like a cult, but at least it was a friendly cult.
As they finished eating, the gray sky finally gave way. Rain lashed down on the carinderia's tin roof with a deafening roar.
RUMBLE.
"Oh, crap!" Mina cried out, looking at the sheet of water. "Lah, we don't even have umbrellas... Jiro, do you have one?"
Jiro calmly unzipped his heavy backpack. He pulled out his folding umbrella. He looked at the sky. He looked at the umbrella.
Click.
As if on cue, the moment the umbrella snapped open, the rain stopped. Instantly. The downpour vanished, leaving only the gloomy, mocking gray skies. Heh, you cannot beat me.
The girls stared at him. Then at the sky. Then back at him.
"Are you serious?" Janna asked, deadpan. "Did you just turn off the rain?"
"God just pranked you," Jessa laughed.
Jiro just shook his head and closed the umbrella. "Let's go before the sky changes its mind. I hate this place."
They hurried back to the campus. Jiro went straight to the kitchenette to wash his tupperware. Future Jiro will thank me, he thought. One less chore for Mom.
Back in the classroom, the vibe changed.
1:20 PM.
The Adviser returned, carrying two books in his hands. They weren't massive academic tomes; they were modest, fair-sized volumes, comparable to standard comic books.
"These cover the essentials of construction," he announced, holding them up for the class to see. "You will need these starting next week. Borrow them, buy them, find a copy—just make sure you will bring these."
Jiro stood up, taking the initiative. He approached the teacher's desk, pulled out his phone, and snapped a clear picture of the covers.
Reference material acquired.
He sat back down just as the atmosphere shifted. The Adviser's "Fun Uncle" persona vanished.
"Meet your professor for DRAW 1," he said simply.
A man stepped in. He looked young, soft-spoken, almost gentle. But his eyes were dead.
"Good afternoon," the professor said softly.
The room went deafening silent, echoing his voice.
In the doorway, the second-year officers snickered, watching the freshmen with the amused look of people watching... another professor.
"I am strict," he whispered.
It was more terrifying than a shout.
"But I am fair. I gave the current second-year officers a 3.0 grade." He turned his head slowly toward the doorway, his glasses glinting. "Right, second years?"
He let that sink in.
3.0. The passing grade. The edge of the cliff.
"That is the baseline if you are not careful. I do not accept 'sorry.' I do not accept 'I forgot.' You will have complete materials. If you don't... don't bother submitting."
He left as quickly as he arrived, leaving a cold chill in the room.
Then, the Adviser took the floor again. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. The "Foreman" was out.
"Can I see a show of hands," he asked, his voice losing all humor.
"Who here actually enrolled in this course as their first choice?" Only a handful of hands went up. Maybe fifteen.
"I thought so," the Adviser nodded grimly. "Who here enrolled in Civil Engineering or Architecture but failed, and ended up here?"
More than half the room raised their hands. Jiro raised his. They were a room full of rejects. Is this a disposable course??? Ah, it is not our fault.
"Listen closely," the Adviser said, walking slowly between the rows. "I know you want to shift. I know you want to leave. But you cannot shift unless you pass this course. You need high grades. Then, you take a Qualifying Exam."
He stopped right in front of Jiro's row. "If you fail that exam, you are out. Not just out of the course, but out of the University. You will be kicked out. Gone."
Jiro swallowed hard. This wasn't a safety net. It was a death match. Ha, you picked this course, Jiro? Really?
"And do not think this is just sitting in air-conditioning," the Adviser continued, pointing to the window.
He smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who enjoyed hard labor. "See those steel bars? See that cement bags and mixer? You will need to mix cement to pass this semester. You will carry those bags. You will bend steel until your hands blister. If you are afraid of dirt, drop out now."
The room went silent. Jiro stared at the adviser, doomed inside.
I signed up for a degree, he thought, panic rising. Not a construction crew.
The class was dismissed at 4:40 PM.
Jiro walked out with his new friends, but the group fractured.
"Bye, Jiro! Don't die on the way home!" Janna waved as she and Jessa crossed the street. That left Jiro and Mina. They stood side-by-side on the curb, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
The rush hour traffic was a living beast. Jeepneys passed by, packed to the brim with people hanging off the back.
Mina checked her phone. "This is hell," she muttered. "I just want to go home."
"Same," Jiro whispered.
It took nearly an hour of inhaling exhaust fumes and listening to the noise of vehicles before an empty jeepney bound for Taytay finally stopped. It was 5:30 PM.
Jiro's mind was a bit tired. He reached into his bag, took out his phone, and retrieved his trusty red earphone pouch. He uncoiled the wires, plugged them in, and hit play on his playlist. The music flooded in, blocking the useless noise of the road.
The jeepney crawled through the traffic, inching through the towns.
When they reached Macamot, Binangonan, Mina stood up. She tapped the roof to signal the driver.
"Be careful! Bye!," she mouthed, giving him a small, tired wave as she hopped off.
Jiro raised a heavy hand in response. Then, the jeepney roared away, and he was alone again.
The jeepney crawled through the traffic. He didn't step off at the New Public Market until 7:10 PM. The sky was pitch black.
By the time Jiro walked through his front door at 7:30 PM, his bones felt heavy. He dropped his backpack and collapsed onto the bed.
This is too hard, he told himself.
The cement mixing. The 3.0 grade threat. The realization that he was a "reject" student.
But the worst part?
I have to wake up in... he checked the time.
I need to leave at 5:00 AM tomorrow.
Which means I wake up at 3:00 AM.
He closed his eyes, feeling the False Foundation cracking beneath him.
I don't think I can do this. Maybe I will shift this week?
END OF THE FALSE FOUNDATION