Gold, silence, and a name that complicates things.

  November 11, 2035

  Amy grips the wheel like it’s the last anchor holding her inside her body. Quezon City outside is a restless organism, coughing diesel and sweating humidity, pressing its grime against the tinted glass of her parents’ car. The dashboard hums with weak air-conditioning, fighting a war it cannot win. In the cupholder, her milk tea, bought two pawnshops ago, has drowned in its own melted ice, a thin ghost of sugar and oat milk clinging to the bottom like a bad memory.

  They roll to a stop at a red light. The city halts with them, only to immediately disobey the pause: jeepneys inch forward anyway, motorcycles slither between lanes, and a swarm of street kids cuts across the asphalt, barefoot commanders of the intersection. They laugh, chase, tag each other in games no adult remembers the rules to. Their voices echo against the windshield, half music, half alarm.

  Amy watches them too long. The thought creeps in like mold under wallpaper: how much does this car scream outsider here? A glossy metal intruder, too polished, too intact. It’s the same thought she’s been gnawing on since pawnshop number two: maybe the neighborhood can smell her, her accent, her clothes, the invisible cushioning of her family’s money. Maybe that’s why the pawnbrokers keep giving her nothing but shrugs and dead ends.

  “You ok?”

  The voice yanks her back into the car. Miguel’s hand waves in front of her face, his boyish grin already anticipating her annoyance. She blinks, caught, and his laughter bursts out easy, warm, careless.

  “I’m fine,” she says, sharper than she intended. Then softer: “What made you think I wasn’t?”

  “You had a look,” Miguel says. “Troubled maybe.”

  Amy exhales, not a laugh, not a sigh. “I’m just tired. We’ve been to what? Six pawnshops? And still zero leads.”

  Miguel stretches in his seat, sneakers propped dangerously close to the glove compartment. “We could call it a day. There’s a new bar in Timog I think that’s making the rounds.”

  “No.” The word comes fast, hard. She softens it with a glance at him, then back at the traffic light bleeding red onto the wet asphalt. “We only have three more on the list. I can’t rule anything out until I see them myself.”

  He raises his hands in mock surrender, but there’s real concern in his eyes, hiding behind the grin. “Alright. Just saying, it’s okay to take a break sometimes.”

  Amy’s lips twitch. She lets the car crawl forward as the light flicks green. “Thanks for the concern. But this next one isn’t part of a chain. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

  Miguel leans back, humming, unconvinced.

  The car spits them out into the street’s chaos like a swallowed pill coughed back up. Quezon takes no notice. The navigation system’s polite synthetic voice insists: destination 200 meters ahead, as though it were talking about something clean and rational. Amy squints, trying to read through the chokehold of tarpaulins, mismatched billboards, and weather-worn signage flapping like dying fish in the heat. Every surface screams for attention, and she catches herself thinking: nothing here wants to be seen, everything here wants to outshout.

  Miguel spots it first. He jabs a finger toward a battered wooden house, the only one of its kind left on a block that has surrendered to concrete. A sign swings crookedly in front of it: hand-painted letters peeling but stubborn. Maria’s Pawnshop.

  “That?” Amy asks, incredulous.

  “That,” Miguel nods, smug. “GPS agrees. So does the sign.”

  No space to park in front. Amy squeezes the car further down the street, next to a bakery leaking the warm smell of sugar and yeast into the air. She shuts off the engine. The milk-tea ghost sloshes in its cupholder grave.

  They walk back, weaving through tricycles, vendors, stray dogs half-asleep on the curb. The small metal gate in front of the house is ajar, like a mouth too tired to close. They step through. A covered garden greets them, unexpected, curated, out of sync with the street. There’s an aquarium where fat goldfish circle like coins trapped forever in circulation, and a fountain trickling a sound too delicate for this neighborhood.

  Miguel finds the door, pushes it open without ceremony. Amy follows, her gut already tightening.

  Inside: a riot. A maximalist’s hallucination. Fabrics fighting with patterns, furniture scavenged from parallel dimensions: the couch shouts a loud floral scream, the loveseat a sterile modern square, the ottoman is shaggy and vulgar. Cabinets that don’t agree with each other standing shoulder to shoulder, forced comrades in some surreal war. Every object says notice me. Together, they cancel each other out.

  In the corner: a counter. Equally chaotic, equally deliberate. Behind it, a young woman, chin propped in one hand, thumb flicking her phone. She looks up, startled, not the good kind of startled. Amy feels the prickle: Shit. Are we trespassing? Is this a house, not a shop?

  But then the woman straightens, masks her surprise with hospitality. “Good afternoon po. Do you have a reservation?”

  Amy freezes. Her chest tightens like it always does when she realizes she’s missed an obvious detail. A reservation? At a pawnshop? She didn’t even think to check.

  Her mind scrambles. Words come out brittle but fast. “No… we don’t have a reservation. But.. uh… we were referred by another pawnshop. They said this was the only place that could… properly appraise our item.”

  They did have an item, but the referral was a lie. Amy doesn’t even know if pawnshops referred to each other on these matters. The lie hung between them, fragile as spun glass.

  The woman’s voice had that rehearsed politeness that trembles at the edges when pressure seeps in. “I’m very sorry, but we only entertain people with reservations. My employer is very strict about it.”

  Her eyes darted between them, like she was checking if they were the kind of trouble that could get her fired.

  Miguel slipped into the gap with his easy grin, voice oiled with a kind of casual sincerity. “We totally understand. But the thing is, there’s been a family emergency. We really need this item appraised. It’s a Spanish-era necklace, very old, very delicate. If your shop can’t take us, maybe you know other places? Other collectors?”

  The woman shook her head instantly, like the thought itself was forbidden. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know. My boss handles all that.”

  Miguel pressed on, still soft, still charming. “Then maybe… you could call her? Just to point us in the right direction?”

  That struck something in her. A clear no. Her tone was polite, but final. “We can’t do that sir. My boss only speaks to people with reservations.”

  Silence, but not empty. The kind that builds like pressure behind a wall. Then…

  “Joyce! What’s going on there?”

  A woman’s voice, deeper, coming from somewhere further inside the house. The kind of voice that did not ask so much as expect.

  Joyce flinched. Her eyes widened in apology, in warning. She called back, softer than the command had been: “Sorry miss, it’s just some walk-ins. They’re asking about a Spanish necklace.”

  No reply.

  The room thickened with waiting. Amy could hear the old clock’s pending swinging, the trickle of the fountain outside, the pulse of her own anxiety pounding against her ribs. Seconds stretched like they were trying to suffocate her.

  Finally, a door opened.

  Out stepped a middle-aged woman, silk blouse gleaming faintly in the low light, cream pants cut sharp, her hair pulled back in a way that declared time was not to be wasted. She walked into the living-room-chaos with the calm authority of someone who belonged in any room she entered, no matter how absurd.

  Her eyes swept over Amy and Miguel once, quick, appraising, like a scanner checking for flaws.

  Her smile is a blade with velvet on it, sharp beneath the softness. Amy knows that kind of smile well: the socialite’s smile, the yes darling of course mask. It grates against her nerves the way silk sticks to sweaty skin.

  “Hello there, I’m Maria Ocampo,” the woman says, voice smooth, clipped, designed for introductions whose memorability is yet to be determined. Her gaze flicks to the counter. “Now, what is this about a Spanish necklace?”

  Without skipping a heartbeat, Miguel pulls from his sleek shoulder bag a small wooden box. He sets it down with an oddly careful grace, clicks it open. Inside, red velvet cradles gold: an ornate necklace, its links braided with impossible delicacy, each curve singing with the notes of old-world craftsmanship, ending in a large tambourine pendant studded with fading gems that once must have been fire.

  Maria’s eyes sharpen, their light no longer performative. She leans forward, hand outstretched, but pauses mid-air. Miguel grants permission with a slight nod.

  She lifts it from the box the way one would lift a fragile insect, firm enough to keep it from slipping, soft enough to not break its wings. Her fingers, manicured, pale, turn the necklace so that it catches the dim light, flashing fragments of its past onto the walls. She grabs a magnifier on the counter and scans it over the necklace.

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  Her voice lowers into a murmur, a language of appraisal, the world seemed to have vanished around her:

  “See the tooling on these links? Not 19th century. Too fine. Too deliberate.”

  “The gold is… high purity. This is craftsmanship typically reserved for the aristocracy.”

  “This tambourine style… was very popular among ilustrado women. But this design…”

  She flips the pendant with her thumb, studying its back. Her eyes narrow, and her smile, for once, is real.

  “Eighteenth century,” she declares. “Late Spanish colonial, pre-reform era.”

  She tilts the tambourine under the light again, tracing the engraving along its rim. Small, almost erased by time, but still legible.

  “Ah. Yes. This belonged to the Escueta family. Cavite?os. One of the earliest mestizo de sangley clans to earn recognition from the Crown. Their daughters were known to parade necklaces like this at fiestas in the late 1700s. A signifier of wealth, loyalty, and Catholic devotion.”

  Her eyes don’t leave the gold as she speaks. She is somewhere else, another century, another Manila where the rich danced under chandeliers while the poor sweated outside the windows.

  Finally, she looks back at Amy and Miguel, the smile creeping back to its performance mode, though the hunger in her gaze betrays her.

  “You’ve brought me quite a piece of history.”

  Amy steadies her breath, trying to match Maria’s composure. “We’ve had a family emergency,” she says, her voice flatter than intended. “We just need to know how much it’s worth.”

  Maria rests the necklace across her palms one last time before lowering it back into its velvet bed. She closes the lid with a careful finality, like putting history back in its coffin. “I can’t give you a formal appraisal without time,” she says, almost regretful, “but offhand? I’d say eight hundred, maybe nine hundred thousand pesos. More if you put it up for bidding. I know a few collectors who’d pay well over a million. Spanish-era jewelry draws them like flies to a lantern.”

  She slides the box gently toward Miguel, though her eyes remain on Amy. A hesitation flickers in her movements, like a small stutter in the current. Then, softly, she asks:

  “I’m curious, how did you come by this? People with necklaces like this don’t walk into my shop. Not unless something… unusual has happened. Normally they pass hands quietly, between families, or through private collectors.”

  Amy’s throat tightens. It’s the obvious question. The most obvious in hindsight. Yet she and Miguel hadn’t prepared for it. They’d gone through scenarios: price haggling, counterfeit accusations, historical disputes. But this, this simple why, cuts deeper.

  Her mind fumbles for an answer. The silence blooms too wide.

  Then Maria tilts her head, sharp eyes narrowing with sudden recognition. “Are you friends of Joseph?”

  The name drops like a live grenade into the room. Amy feels the jolt crack through her chest. Joseph. It could be the thread they’ve been starving for. A name. A connection.

  But her body betrays her. Her tongue slips, tangling sounds into incoherent babble, useless syllables spilling into the humid air. And somehow, by grace or by folly, Maria interprets it as a “yes.”

  “Good,” Maria says, almost indulgent. She waves her hand, dismissing Joyce with a nod. Joyce bows her head quickly, like a soldier excused, and slips out of the room.

  Maria turns back to them, now smiling in a way that carries less performance, more conspiratorial warmth. “You seem new. That’s fine. Just remember next time, tell Joyce you have a private appointment with me directly. Saves us all the trouble.”

  Her words are calm, but Amy feels the walls of the room shift. What was a maximalist mess of furniture a moment ago now feels like a stage set, enclosing them in velvet and gilt. And Maria, Maria has decided they belong in the play.

  Maria folds her arms lightly, as if weighing the necklace’s weight still in her hands. “Alright. Antiques like these are too distinctive to be paraded through public auctions. Too much history and identifiable information attached. Too many eyes that might recognize them. The collectors I know, many of them might even have known the original owners. So I have to ask, whose house was this necklace from?”

  Amy’s pulse skips. Her mouth stays closed, her thoughts snarled into knots. But Miguel, quicker, steadier, slides in without missing a beat.

  “The Abadias,” he says smoothly. “Specifically from Eduardo Abadia’s place in Valle Verde. If that info matters.”

  Amy recognizes the name, Miguel’s neighbor who was burglarized a few weeks ago, they surmised that it was the same group who burglarized Amy’s home.

  Maria repeats the name, tasting the syllables like wine. “Eduardo Abadia. Hmmmm. They’re a very well-connected family. That narrows the pool, making things… trickier.” She leans forward against the counter, tapping her nails once, twice. “Still… Cristobal Montejo would be unrelated to them. He could easily put down millions for this necklace. But he has a habit of showcasing his acquisitions in his gallery. If that happens, it risks exposure. And I can’t just tell him not to showcase it, he’s too curious for that”

  Her eyes flicker with calculation. “Another option: international. Collectors from Spain, from Mexico. Old money with nostalgia for the colonies. They can cough up millions without hesitation like Montejo. But I’d need time to ask around and gather names. That market can be quite secretive, and Eduardo Abadia still has some ties to Spain if my chika is correct.”

  Amy’s mind catches on the word, international. It glimmers like a crack in a locked door. Maybe through it, she could pry at the shape of Joseph and the circle he inhabits. “And if it’s international,” she asks, feigning casual curiosity, “how would the money transfer work?”

  Maria doesn’t hesitate. Her answer is as plain as discussing laundry. “Cash is off the table for those deals. So I’ll handle the banking transactions. I make sure it all looks good on the books and bank statements, seamless. If you want, I can arrange the deposits directly as donations to your usual charities.” A tiny smile. “But if you’d rather have it in cash, I can deposit it directly to Joseph’s account as usual, that’s your call.”

  Amy nods slowly, the words clicking into place in her head. Donations. Usual charities. Direct confirmation of a Robin Hood operation perhaps? Amy finally has her big break.

  Miguel chimes in with that same casual tone he’s been coasting on all afternoon, like they weren’t already knee-deep in shadows. “Alright, I’ll talk to Joseph about the necklace later. But while we’re here, could you also take a look at something more modern?”

  Maria arches an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Of course.”

  Miguel slips his wrist free of its usual adornment: a watch Amy has seen him wear in all the times they’ve met, with the same ease as slipping on a T-shirt. He sets it down on the counter. “I liked the design, so I wore it for a while. Didn’t think much of it.”

  Maria’s gaze sharpens instantly. Recognition strikes her like an old memory. She lifts the watch delicately, angling it to the light, her lips curving faintly. “A vintage Jaeger-LeCoultre Polaris Memovox,” she says, almost reverent. “Beautiful piece. No personalized markings either, unclaimed, unbranded by personal history. Should be easy to move. I could offer a million for it today, though you’d fetch more with dedicated watch collectors. They’re always hungry for rare timekeepers.”

  Miguel lets out a whistle, low and impressed. “Damn. Didn’t know watches could get that expensive.”

  Maria smiles knowingly. “Watches are men’s jewelry. And men are more competitive than women when it comes to jewelry. You’d be surprised how wild it gets.”

  Then Miguel tilts the conversation sideways. “Could you buy it now? Transfer the money straight to Joseph’s account? He asked me to make sure it goes there. I just need a copy of the receipt for him.”

  Amy’s pulse stutters. She swallows the urge to snap her head at him. One million pesos. His own watch. For Joseph? She forces her face into stillness, clamps down every flicker of surprise.

  Maria doesn’t blink at the request. “Yes, I could.”

  Miguel nods, smooth, effortless. “Good. Joseph said to use his usual account.”

  Maria pulls her phone from her pocket, scrolls with practiced swipes, then lifts it to her ear. She turns away, her silk blouse catching the light, voice softening into professional cadence as she speaks to someone, likely her accountant.

  Amy stares at Miguel, the weight of her eyes heavy enough to burn holes. Her face says it plain: What the fuck are you doing?

  Miguel meets her glare with calm insolence, expression steady, boyish grin nowhere in sight. His eyes tell her only: Trust me.

  Maria ended the call, slid into the chair behind the counter, and woke the aging PC with a tap of the mouse. She swiftly typed some things on the keyboard, then the printer whirred awake, spitting out three crisp copies of a form. She gathered them neatly and set them down for Miguel to sign.

  Amy leaned closer, scanning the header, Third Party Payment Authorization. Her eyes flicked down the page: Joseph Makiling. Full name, bank account, all neatly filled in. Whoever Joseph was, the paperwork was already squared away.

  As Miguel signed the stack, he chuckled.

  “Bet Joseph’s bank account has some wild transaction history.”

  Maria, eyes still on the computer, replied almost absently:

  “Considering his family background? The bank won’t even blink at transfers like this.”

  Miguel let out a short laugh. “Yeah, figures.”

  Once his signature was done, Maria slipped the watch into a padded box, taped it shut with practiced efficiency, and handed Miguel a copy of the authorization along with an official receipt.

  “The transfer should clear before the day’s over,” she said smoothly. “Just let me know once you decide what to do with the necklace.”

  Miguel gave her a warm smile, thanked her, and Amy echoed him. Moments later, the door chimed as the two stepped back out into the street.

  Amy waited until they were back inside the car, door shut, the hum of traffic muting the outside world. She let out a long sigh, then dropped the mask.

  “What the fuck was that, Miguel?” she burst out. “What were you thinking?”

  Miguel stayed calm, almost smug. “Look, we’ve got his name, his bank, and even his account number. That’s a massive success.”

  Amy shook her head in disbelief. “We could’ve gotten that without you exposing yourself to this Joseph guy. None of the burglaries have turned violent so far, sure, but we don’t know what he’s capable of once he realizes someone’s onto him.”

  “Relax,” Miguel said. “I gave Maria a fake name. Only thing real was my phone number, and it’s not even my main number.”

  Amy’s voice rose again. “And what about the watch? You just… let go of a million-peso watch like it’s nothing?”

  Miguel leaned back, unconcerned. “Maria confirmed they’re running a Robin Hood operation. At least I know the money’s going to a good cause.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And where the hell did you even get that watch?”

  “It was a birthday gift. From my ninong.”

  Amy groaned, rubbing her forehead. “You didn’t have to do that for me, Miguel.”

  “But I did,” he said softly. “And I wanted to. I know how much this case means to you. If it takes letting go of a watch, then so be it.”

  For a moment, silence. Amy leaned back against the headrest, exhaling. When she turned her head, Miguel was watching her, steady, unflinching. He was practically glowing, satisfaction radiating off him. Despite herself, Amy smiled.

  She leaned closer. Their lips met, brief but full of meaning.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, with no reservations this time.

  “Anytime.” Miguel answers as he leans back.

  Amy started the engine, pulling them onto the road. With one hand on the wheel, she tapped the console and dialed Anton through the car’s loudspeaker.

  No answer.

  She tried again. The line clicked after the third ring.

  “Amy, I’m in a meeting,” Anton’s voice came clipped, impatient. “This better be important.”

  Amy’s lips curled into a triumphant smile. “I found what might be the ringleader of the Robin Hood gang.”

  A beat of silence, then Anton’s tone shifted, suddenly sharp with interest. “Wait, really?”

  “Full name and even his full bank account details,” Amy said, savoring it. “His name is Joseph Makiling. Miguel pulled it off.”

  Anton let out a low breath, like his reservations had melted away in an instant. “That’s excellent. Send me the details, I’ll have the analysts dig him up. I need to get back to this meeting, but good work, Amy. Really.”

  The call clicked off.

  Amy’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, but her voice softened. “So. What do you want for dinner? We need to celebrate.”

  Silence. No answer. She glanced at Miguel, his head was bowed over his phone, brow furrowed.

  “Hey,” she nudged, “what’s up?”

  Miguel didn’t look up. “I’m not sure yet. I searched Joseph Makiling online. Nothing solid, no social media, no news, nothing. But I looked into it even more and used different keyword combinations, then I found something interesting…” He turned the screen so Amy could glance between traffic lights. “There is this gossip forum that talks about celebrities and politicians. One of the posts is an old thread about Congressman Eddie Hernandez. Apparently he had a mistress, someone called Gloria. A different commenter said her surname was Makiling. It was some real messy stuff. And supposedly… he has a bastard son with her.”

  Amy frowned. “Okay… and?”

  Miguel scrolled further, his thumb pausing over a buried comment with no reactions nor replies to it. He read it aloud.

  Kawawa naman si Joseph.

  (Poor Joseph.)

  The car went quiet, the weight of the implication settling between them.