It has been two days since the Ferrer family's press conference. A calculated display of grief and power that rippled across the nation. The murder of Laurente Ferrer wasn't just a tragedy anymore, it became a national spectacle. Two days of relentless headlines, unanswered questions and pressure that grew heavier in each passing day. Reporters hounding the station like wolves, people speculate wildly on television and online. Everyone had their opinion and theories but no one had the facts. And somewhere at the center of the storm stood Isagani, who was expected to solve the case and deliver clarity when all he had were fragments.
Isagani woke up to gray light passing through the curtains of his apartment, the sound of morning traffic noise faintly resonating from a distance.
He reached for his phone on the coffee table, the screen lighting up as he checked the time.
6:47 a.m.
He hadn't made it to bed. He was still on the sofa, half-covered by a crumpled blanket, His neck ached from the awkward position, his mind still fogged by sleep or maybe the remnants of too many sleepless hours. He had passed out sometime after midnight.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly.
Glancing at the files and folders surrounding him.
For the first time in years, he broke his own rule: no work at home.
He drew a line to protect what little peace he had.
He never let the job creep into his home.
The apartment is his safe space, his sanctuary. A place where the chaos and troubles of the outside world couldn't reach him. No uniform, No blood-stained reports, no grieving family echoing his thoughts. Just silence and occasional calls from his family.
That line he drew between home and work ? This case had already crossed it.
His body felt heavy, as the weight of the case had followed him home and settled in.
He stared at his living room for a moment.
His apartment floor was cluttered with crime scene photos, old reports, and case files from both Laurente Ferrer's murder and a cold case from twenty years ago. Documents that He and Hidalgo retrieved from the Records Department.
He sighed deeply , closing his eyes momentarily.
Flashing his badge and arguing past the protocol didn't make the cut.
Some excuses about classification and access level.
And not to mention the Bureaucracy.
Then, he showed up. PC/INSP. David Salazar. The man whose distaste for Isagani is apparent but not explicitly stated, his condescension always served with an ingratiating smile. Strolling through the Records Office like he owned the place.
There was a tension—always
Salazar looked at him from head to toe with a glint of amusement flickering in his gaze.Sarcastically asking him if he was in the right department and not in Traffic Enforcement. Which earned a few snickers from the clerks nearby.
"Captain, now are we?" He said with thick sarcasm in his voice.
"Didn't get the memo, though."
Isagani stood his ground and said nothing, not giving him the satisfaction.
He knew that men like Salazar thrived on reactions.
He knew better than to trade jabs with someone like him.
Hidalgo, who is beside him, is tense but stays quiet too.
Salazar took the files that they needed and leisurely flipped through the papers with disdain, as if he purposely reminded everyone whose hands held the power. Eventually, he handed over the folder to Isagani with reluctant permission wrapped in mockery.
"Don't let the paperwork give you a headache, Captain."
Before Isagani and Hidalgo turned to leave, Salazar's parting shot came low and sharp.
"Agawid ka man lang idiay ayan mo.Dita ka met la unay, Kapitan"
("You should just go back to where you came from. You don't belong here anyway, Captain.")
Isagani didn't flinch, he remained calm and composed.
Turned his back and walked away.
No amount of condescension would slow him down.
But now, in the still morning of his quiet apartment, the same files lying on his table felt like a curse.
So many questions, so little answers.
Isagani got up and began to tidy his living room, clearing the scattered files and notes just enough to breathe. He headed to the shower, letting the cold water run longer than usual, hoping it would ease the tension lodged deep in his shoulders. After dressing up, he made a simple breakfast in the dining area; butter toast and black coffee.
For a moment, Isagani simply sat at his small dining table.The silence of his apartment that was once a comfort, now only amplified the noise in his head. The pieces of the case that refused to fit, the names that led to nowhere, the faces from twenty years ago began to hunt the present.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the files aside. Two days of chasing fragments, connecting names, pouring over timelines. And still, the image of Laurente's lifeless eyes haunt him.
He glanced at the wall clock.
Nearly 9:00 AM.
He downed the rest of his now cold coffee. No uniform today. Just a black shirt, plain pants,boots and the thin badge clipped discreetly to his belt. Being in plain clothes made moving around less conspicuous. He stood up, reached for his keys, took the files and grabbed his coat.
The morning drive to District 34 was quiet aside from the usual traffic noise. Almost too quiet, as if the city itself was holding its breath for what the day might bring.
By the time he reached the station, the stillness gave way to a familiar hum of weekly chaos.Phones rang incessantly,officers moved with purpose in and out of corridors and clipped footsteps echoed off concrete floors. Murmured conversations bled from half-closed doors, each one another thread in the city's tapestry of untold stories.
He made his way through the bustle with quiet focus, Lt. Hidalgo keeping pace beside him, a folder in one hand, his other adjusting the strap of his sling bag. The weight of what they had uncovered over the past two days seemed heavier in the air between them.
Neither of them spoke as they passed their colleagues, but their looks followed them. Some are curious, others wary. Words had already spread at the station that the Ferrer case was spiraling into something deeper than a typical murder case.
Without slowing down, the two men headed straight for the end of the hallway to Chief Martinez' office. Isagani knocked once. A gruff "Come in" answered back almost immediately.
They stepped inside, ready to deliver what they had uncovered for the past two days and face whatever came next.
Chief Martinez sat behind his desk, His eyes flicked up as the two men entered his office. He was expecting them.
"Let's hear it," the Chief said flatly, gesturing toward the two vacant seats across from him.
"We've been digging into Ferrer's case." Isagani began. "And it led us into something we didn't expect."
"Starting with the car." Hidalgo set the folders down on the desk, opened a file and slid a document across the table. "The vehicle that Laurente Ferrer was driving when he was murdered, 2003 Lexus SC430 convertible. It is registered to Emilio Asuncion."
Chief Martinez took the document from his table, brows furrowed as he read the file.
"According to the incident report, it was seized three years ago," Hidalgo continued. "As part of the listed assets gathered during the aftermath of the buy bust operation in Parañaque that ended in his death. "
"It should have been logged and impounded." Isagani added, stepping in. "But somehow it wasn't. Yet, that very same car ended up in the possession of Laurente Ferrer,the son of Parañaque City Mayor."
Chief Martinez didn't respond immediately, eyes narrowing as he flipped through the latest report handed over by Hidalgo.
The silence echoed in the room.
"You're saying the Mayor's son was driving a vehicle that should've been in police custody?" The Chief's gaze lifted from the page slowly, disbelief flashing through his eyes.
"Yes. That's exactly what we're saying," He replied.
"Was it really seized?" Isagani asked."Or was it quietly handed off, lost in the shuffle and claimed by someone who knew what they were taking?"
"And it gets worse from there."
"What do you mean?" Chief Martinez asked, confused.
"Emilio Asuncion was one of the suspects from a cold case twenty years ago."
Hidalgo reached into a folder on the desk and pulled out an old file of documents; worn edges, flagged pages, scribbled notes on yellowing margins and crime scene photos that have faded and probably forgotten in time or rather tucked away in the back of a filing cabinet for twenty years. He laid the pages out on the Chief's desk like cards in a rigged deck.
"Ma. Feliciana Villaflor, 18. Education Student of University of Santa Catalina. She was raped and murdered and her body was found near Santa Catalina, same area where Laurente was found. Same day as well, exactly twenty years apart."
"We started cross-referencing everything," Isagani continued. "Emilio Asunción. Alejandro Santillan. Julian Mercado. Pietro Rodriguez. All named as persons of interest in that case."
"And yet not a single conviction happened at that time. No coverage. No noise. Only silence."
Chief Martinez sat unmoving, his eyes narrowed, a single finger tapping slowly on the wood of his desk.
"But there's one more name, Sir. It's not printed like the others. It's redacted. By Order. Not just once. It appears in every crucial part of the case file. Timeline. Witness logs. Testimonies. And each time, it's scrubbed out. Intentionally. Officially."
Chief Martinez stared at the names, hand hovering over the old report. As he hesitantly picked it up.
"What caught our attention was the date," Hidalgo began carefully. "Ma. Feliciana Villaflor, murdered on November 18. Twenty years ago."
Chief Martinez gave a slight nod, his gaze flicking to the name on the top of the faded cold case file.
"Then Laurente Ferrer," Isagani followed. "Found dead on the exact same day.Twenty years apart, to the date."
Chief Martinez looked up, wariness tightening around his eyes.
"It's not just them," Isagani said, voice low and deliberate. "All the other suspects from the Villaflor case? They're dead too. Every single one."
"What?" Martinez asked, his voice flat, eyes narrowing.
Isagani placed a marked page on the desk of a neatly typed list.
1. Emilio Asuncion
Death: Killed in a Buy-Bust Operation - Shot Execution-Style (3 years ago)
Allegedly killed in a drug bust, but the coroner's report revealed he was executed; hands zip-tied, shot in the chest and head, with no gunpowder residue and no witnesses, suggesting an intended cover-up.
2. Alejandro Santillian
Death: Found Dead in a Burnt Car - Throat Slit (7 years ago)
The body was found burned inside his luxury car on a remote Cavite road, but autopsy revealed his throat had been expertly slit before the fire, suggesting the blaze was staged to cover up a brutal, intentional killing.
3. Julian Mercado
Death: Blunt Force Trauma - Body Dumped in a resort in Batangas (10 years ago)
Found dead three days after being reported missing, his skull crushed by repeated, calculated blows from a blunt object, with defensive wounds and broken fingernails indicating he fought back before being brutally murdered.
4. Pietro Rodriguez
Death: Drug Overdose - But Too Clean to Be Accidental (15 years ago)
Found dead from a lethal overdose in his Makati condo, but signs of restraint, hidden injection marks, and the absence of drug paraphernalia suggest he was purposely and expertly killed by someone with medical knowledge.
"And all of them," Hidalgo added, "died on November 18. Different years. Same day."
"All under violent, precise circumstances. No arrests. No witnesses. No follow-ups."
"Villaflor died on November 18. And now, Laurente Ferrer the same day."
Chief Martinez traced the dates written in red ink beside each name.
"And this is the lead you're talking about, De Luna?" Chief Martinez asked.
"Yes, Sir," Isagani replied. "Laurente's death isn't just random. It's connected to this cold case."
Chief Martinez skimmed over the timeline laid out before him, red ink circling the same date across multiple years. His eyes flicked from the old case file to the current report, then to Isagani and Hidalgo.
"You're basing this on a hunch and coincidence." Chief Martinez said, voice low and sharp.
"No, sir," Isagani replied, calm but unyielding. "We're basing this on pattern and intention."
"You have no suspects. No clear motive. No weapon. Just two murders, decades apart, and a trail of names that happen to share the same death date."
"It's not a coincidence after all," Isagani said, stepping forward. "These deaths weren't random. They were methodical. One by one. each suspect from the Villaflor case taken out on the anniversary of her murder. We're looking at a clean-up."
"Do you understand what you're implying?"
"Yes, Sir." Hidalgo said, backing up his superior. "And every death was violent. Almost staged to look like accidents or isolated incidents. But the timeline doesn't lie."
"You both know that these people are from powerful families, right? I've been in this job long enough to know how fast perception can bury a career." Chief Martinez said, like he wanted to throw the report across the room but couldn't let go of it.
"You know what'll happen if this breaks out? If the media learns we overlooked a serial pattern? You'll burn this entire department to the ground."
"Just focus on Laurente's case, De Luna." The Chief exhaled, weary.
"Sir—" Isagani began, voice restrained but persistent.
"This is a dangerous path you're heading down," Chief Martinez cut him off. "You're dragging in a twenty-year-old case with no surviving suspects, no witnesses, and no solid evidence. Just theories. You're just chasing shadows."
"With all due respect, Sir," Isagani said firmly. "You asked me to dig deeper. This is what we found." He tapped the folder on the Chief Martinez' desk. "This is the lead. "
"We need to follow it." Isagani pressed.
"Four suspects from the Villaflor case have all died in the last Fifteen years. Violent deaths. And now Laurente Ferrer, found dead on the exact same date as Villaflor's murder,Twenty years apart driving a car once owned by one of the suspects. That isn't a ghost story. That's a pattern."
Chief Martinez looked down at the file again, fingers resting near the names like they might leap off the page.
"It's a stretch." Chief Martinez glared at him. "Until you bring me hard evidence,names, motives and proof to pin the suspect. I don't want to hear about this circus and I don't want this to reach the press. "
"The press won't hear a word from me," Isagani replied. "But that doesn't mean we'll stop following the truth."
"You don't understand what you're stirring up, De Luna. These families built walls around their sins. You poke too hard, you bring the whole thing down on your head." Chief Martinez leaned back on his chair, slamming the papers on his desk.
"We're not here to tear down walls, Sir. We're here to solve Laurente Ferrer's murder."
There was a long pause. The silence weighed heavily in the room.
"So what are you suggesting now?" Chief Martinez asked, voice turned cold.
"I don't know yet," Isagani admitted, then looked him dead in the eye. "Unless you do, perhaps you've seen that redacted name before, Sir?"
Isagani's question landed like a slap. Sharp, unexpected, and echoing with implications too heavy to ignore.
The words didn't just hang in the air,they hit.
Hidalgo's head snapped up at the tone, the insinuation behind it. His brows furrowed as he glanced between Chief Martinez and Isagani, lips parting slightly as if to intervene.But no words came. His hand twitched at his side, instinctively wanting to cut through the tension, to pull Isagani back.
Chief Martinez didn't answer immediately. His face remained unreadable, but his body betrayed the shift.His jaw tensed, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing just slightly. A man caught between duty and something unspoken.
The question shifted everything in the room. There was an uneasy void between command and confrontation. Even the walls seemed to lean in, waiting.
"I'm just asking if there's anything we should know, Sir." Isagani's words were measured, but the weight behind them was undeniable.
He wasn't backing down.
"Anything you haven't told us?"
"I suggest you watch your words carefully, De Luna," the Chief said, tone calm and chilling . "I won't tolerate this nonsense." Each syllable enunciated with quiet authority. His gaze locked on Isagani like a drawn weapon. Unmoving, direct and loaded with the kind of weight only a superior officer could wield. His eyes burned with something sharper: insult, challenge and perhaps, fear.
Then suddenly the office phone rang, a sudden shrill of sound burst into the room breaking the tension.
"Hello—" The Chief said when he picked up the line. " This is Martinez."
A beat. Then another.
He listened intently, nodding once, his expression shifting just slightly. enough for Isagani to notice the crease in his brow, the way his fingers tightened around the phone's base.
"I see," Chief Martinez said. "And the re-examination?"
Isagani and Hidalgo subtly exchanged a look, eyebrows drawing in faint confusion.
Re-examination?
They hadn't been informed of any follow-up autopsy, nor of any personnel from outside the department being brought in.
Another pause.
"Done? Good. Who's with him now?"
He glanced at the clock on the wall, then at Isagani. Not with the usual command, but with something more calculated.
"I'll send both of them." the Chief said, then hung up without another word.
"We brought in a consultant," he finally said, eyes flicking between Isagani and Hidalgo.
"The Ferrer family requested a more thorough examination before they claim the body and proceed with funeral arrangements."
He paused for a moment, gauging their reactions.
"This wasn't for show. It was done under strict confidentiality. We needed someone with no ties to the department. No bias. Just facts."
Isagani and Hidalgo exchanged a brief glance.
"You're saying the family pushed for this?" Isagani asked, a faint edge in his voice.
"Mayor Ferrer wanted answers," Martinez said, careful with every word. "We couldn't risk incomplete findings, especially not with the media breathing down our necks and political pressure mounting by the hour."
"But you didn't think to inform the ones handling the actual case?" Isagani said quietly, his tone even but laced with disapproval.
Chief Martinez didn't flinch.
"The fewer people who knew, the better. I need clean eyes on this. Unclouded. And the consultant is already finished. He's waiting for you at the morgue." He didn't look up as he spoke, he began to scan the folders on his desk, leisurely flipping through pages.Trying to push them out the door without saying it outright.
Isagani's thoughts raced. A consultant? An external re-exam of Laurente's body?
Are they hiding something?
No one calls in a second opinion for a case they're sure about.
Not unless the truth was something they didn't want to be found.
Hidalgo was the first to move, turning toward the door without a word. The tension clung to him like static, but he didn't look back.
Isagani followed,but before he could cross the threshold, Chief Martinez spoke again. This time his voice was lower, heavier, almost cautious.
"I hope you do find something real."
A pause.
"But keep your head, De Luna. Don't let this case turn you against your own people."
Isagani froze for a moment, hand on the edge of the doorframe. He didn't turn around. He didn't respond.
Just a subtle shift in his stance. An acknowledgment without agreement. Then he stepped out and followed Hidalgo,leaving the silence behind him like a door gently closing on something that had already cracked.
As the door of the Chief's office shut behind them, the sound echoed down the corridor like the final punctuation to a confrontation neither of them had anticipated. Isagani and Hidalgo moved through the narrow halls of District 34 in silence, the hum of overhead lights and the distant ring of phones are the only noise between them.
It wasn't until they descended the concrete stairwell toward the basement that Hidalgo finally spoke.
"I didn't think you'd actually ask him that," Hidalgo muttered. "You do realize he could pull us off the case or worse out of the Department."
"I didn't think I would either," Isagani admitted
"I—it just came out, like an instinct.
"Instinct could cost us our badges, Sir." Hidalgo sighed as he kept pace beside him.
"I know." Isagani said, his tone was apologetic. He stopped briefly at the bottom of the stairs, before continuing down the corridor that led to the morgue.
"But you remember the first time I went to Chief Martinez with this case? I have nothing. No lead, No evidence, no witnesses nor suspect. I told him maybe it was a rival hit. Maybe even a serial killer."
"And he dismissed it," Hidalgo recalled.
"Exactly. He said there was nothing solid. No leads. No suspect. I couldn't give him anything but a theory. But now—" Isagani's voice darkened. "Now that we actually have a thread,this car, the cold case, the dates, the redacted name. He wants me to ignore it again. Like none of it matters."
Hidalgo frowned. "You think he's hiding something?"
"I think he's protecting someone," Isagani replied flatly. "Or at least trying to keep this quiet until it's safe for the department or the Mayor's office. But we've been handed something real this time. We just need more proof."
They turned to a corner. The air grew colder, the scent of antiseptic and metal creeping into their nostrils. The morgue, buried deep in the belly of District 34, was isolated and sterile. Far from the bustle of the upper floors. The lights buzzed faintly above as they approached the double doors. Isagani pushed them open.
Inside,the cold air hit instantly. The tiled room was dimly lit and immaculate, the walls lined with steel cabinets and autopsy equipment. And there, standing beside the examination table, was a man in a clean lab coat, surgical gloves still on, quietly jotting notes on a clipboard beside Laurente Ferrer's body.
His face was partially obscured by a surgical mask, but the way he moved is deliberate, confident for someone used to stand alone in quiet rooms with the dead. The man looked up as soon as they entered. He set down his pen, pulled off his gloves, and removed the mask with a single smooth motion.
Suddenly something subtly shifted in Isagani. The way his breath hitched and his body tensed. It was an involuntary reaction that came from somewhere deeper than thought.
Hidalgo noticed it. But he said nothing.
"You two must be the lead investigators." He said, smiling as he approached them. His voice is calm and even, with a faint husk like the last echo of a smoke.
"I'm Dr. Markus Macaraig." He extended his right hand. "You can call me Dr. Maca or just Maca whatever works."
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Maca." Isagani reached out his hand with practiced formality, a gesture shaped more by protocol and professionalism rather than warmth. "I'm Capt. Isagani De Luna and this is my partner Lt. Hidalgo Ruiz."
But Maca just stepped closer and the Captain felt somewhat uneasy. The gap between them narrowed closer than necessary, closer than polite. Isagani instinctively tensed, almost drawing back.
But Maca just stepped closer, not with the casual ease of a man greeting someone. But with the conscious proximity of someone studying. The movement was smooth, unhurried, but to Isagani, it felt like a trap quietly snapping shut. The gap between them narrowed far beyond what was polite. Too close for comfort. Too close for no reason.
Isagani instinctively tensed, one shoulder tightening as though bracing for impact. His breath caught barely, but enough. He didn't step back, but every muscle in him pulled taut, like wire wound tight beneath the surface.
Maca's eyes swept over his face. Sharp. Calculating. Not searching for recognition but for markers. As if he's cataloging something.
Then the doctor tilted his head ever so slightly and leaned in. The motion was subtle, quiet but not intimate in a way that bypassed decorum entirely.
A brief intake of breath.
He was smelling him.
Hidalgo who is just beside them, is just watching politely detached and keeping himself to the background as his superior makes introductions. But that small, strange moment cut through his passive stance like a blade. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Hidalgo knew body language. He knew tension and uneasiness when he saw it and what he saw on Isagani's face wasn't just unease. It was a flash of something old.
Then Maca straightened, fluidly, as if nothing had happened, and turned toward Hidalgo with that same smile, calm, unbothered, eerily warm.
"Lt. Ruiz," he said, extending his hand again. "A pleasure."
Hidalgo hesitated not enough to be rude, just enough to process what he'd seen. Then he stepped forward and shook the doctor's hand.
Maca's approach this time was more reserved. More composed. He didn't lean in the same way, didn't close the distance quite as much. But there was still a faint moment, the faintest shift of his head. Another brief breath.
Another subtle intake.
He did it again.
Hidalgo blinked. Something in his gut turned cold.
He said nothing and let it pass. But the dissonance lingered. Why did Maca draw so near to Isagani but keep a fraction more distance from him?
It wasn't just strange. It was calculated.
Hidalgo's gaze slid sideways to his captain. Isagani was standing rigid, eyes fixed on the doctor, but his expression was unreadable. A blank mask worn too well. And Maca, smiling as though he hadn't just invaded someone's personal space with scientific detachment, turned smoothly away and reached for the clipboard beside the examination table.
"You'll have to forgive me," Maca said, his voice dropping a little lower.
"I have prosopagnosia."
He flexed his fingers once before slipping on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, the subtle snap of latex punctuating the silence.
"I tend to get close because it's difficult for me to recognize and remember people by their faces." Maca continued, adjusting the fit around his wrist.
"So, mostly I rely on other cues like expressions, posture, movement patterns especially scents. Those are easier for me to catalog than facial features." He lightly tapped his temple,as if to emphasize the internal wiring that failed him.
"I know it's strange—" He added, offering a faint, self-deprecating smile as he stepped back, giving them room now. "But it helps me do the job. In my line of work, it's ironic, really. It's easier to recognize the dead than the living. The dead don't change. And they stay still."
Neither Isagani nor Hidalgo responded. The air in the morgue was cold and sterile, but something about Maca's manner left a different kind of chill subtle, clinical, detached.
Isagani's silence lingered, eyes unmoving, his face unreadable. Still processing. Still calculating. Still watching.
"I feel like we've met before," Maca said thoughtfully, squinting as if trying to pull something out of a fog.
"But I can't quite place it."
Isagani gave nothing away. Only a faint smile, polite and brief, paired with a small nod.
Maca didn't press further, didn't linger in that moment of uncertainty.
And Isagani didn't correct him.
Some things were better left unspoken,for now.
Beside him, Hidalgo stood a step behind, arms loosely crossed, his eyes flicking between the two men. He'd been quiet during the exchange, but not passive. He observed Maca's behavior with cautious interest. The way the Doctor had leaned in closer than necessary, how he had examined them with more than just his eyes. Hidalgo hadn't missed it. Especially the way Maca had approached Isagani differently not just methodically, but almost instinctively, like his body remembered something his mind couldn't place.
Still, Maca didn't linger in that moment of uncertainty.
With a smooth pivot, he moved to a nearby tray and picked up a clipboard, his tone shifting into clinical focus.
"Now," He began, leading them toward the examination table at the center of the room, "about the results of the re-examination—."
The fluorescent lights cast a pale sheen over Laurente Ferrer's still body, now partially covered with a sterile sheet. The table gleamed beneath him;cold, metallic, precise.The click of the clipboard, the shuffle of gloved fingers against paper, Every sound felt sharper in the silence.
Hidalgo followed beside Isagani, his posture attentive but stiff. He wasn't sure what disturbed him more, the brutal crime that brought them here or the feeling that his captain already knew something the rest of them didn't. Something about this morgue. About this man.
And as Maca began to speak, Hidalgo couldn't help but glance sideways at Isagani again.
Trying to read the flickers beneath his composed expression.
Something had followed them into that room.
Something buried deeper than any autopsy could reveal.