Three weeks in Cebu. Face healing slow, skills sharp. Midday sun hammered everything white-hot. I woke up in a small apartment I rented yesterday night. Mom's urn at the table. No shadows to hide in. My face still swollen, ribs aching every breath. Streets busy, jeepneys honking, vendors shouting, kids darting between legs.

  I fixed myself a coffee and inhaled the balcony air. It's not fresh.

  I spotted the Honda Wave 125 parked crooked outside a half-open sari-sari store. No chain, no lock. Just keys dangling in the ignition like a dare.

  I go downstairs, grabbing my jacket, and walked up. Glanced once. Mounted. Turned the key. Engine coughed alive. I twisted the throttle. Rode off slow, then hard.

  The store owner saw me. He sure yelled loud. "Hey! Thief! Son of a Bitch!"

  I sure am.

  He ran after, waving a broom. Two more guys appeared. His guys from the store joined. Grabbed a passing motorcycle taxi and shoved the rider off. They took the bike. Three on two wheels chasing one.

  I leaned forward. The streets turned like an obstacle course. Tricycles, pedestrians, potholes full of water from last night's rain. They gained fast. One pulled alongside, reached to grab my collar.

  I swerved sharp right, cut across the oncoming lane, tires screeching on a hot asphalt. The motorcycle taxi guy clipped a jeepney fender, sparks flew, he fishtailed into a pile of fruit crates, bananas exploding yellow.

  I hit a speed bump hard, front wheel up, popped a wheelie clean, balanced on the rear tire for five seconds, then accelerated through a narrow gap between two parked vans. Rear tire smoked, fishtailed, but held. They couldn't follow, too wide.

  Narrow alley ahead. I dropped low, knee almost scraping the wall, I leaned the bike horizontal to thread between two tricycles. Metal scraped a brick, sparks bright in daylight. One chaser tried the same, bike wedged, rider ate the pavement, face-first into a gutter.

  The last guy still on me. Close. I spotted a short concrete ramp, an old loading dock. No hesitation. Front wheel up high, full throttle, bike airborned over a low chain barrier. I landed hard, the suspension bottomed, pain shot through my ribs. He tried jumping and his bike flipped, rider tumbled, helmet cracked on the curb.

  I powerslid 180 at the alley exit, shot onto the main road. Engine screamed. They didn't follow.

  I rode straight for blocks. No look back. Face blank under the sun. Blood dried on my cheek. Ribs burned with every bump.

  Pulled into a shaded alley near the terminal. Sat on the bike, breathing steady, bloodied face numb.

  Alley dead end. Sun high, baking the concrete. Bike idling under me. Three guys from the chase circled. They had me boxed. Ready to drag me off the seat and stomp till I stopped moving.

  I sat still. Face blank.

  One guy stepped forward. "You think you can steal and do those stunts like some action star? We're gonna break every bone—"

  Another voice cut him. Low, calm. From the side alley mouth.

  "Hold up."

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  Guy stepped out, mid-30s, lean, faded tattoo on his neck, cap low. Looked like he'd seen worse than this. Watched the whole chase from somewhere. Eyes on me, not them.

  One of the bike guys turned. "This ain't your business, pal."

  "It is now." Guy nodded at me. "I saw him ride. Wheeling through the gap, knee-drag lean, stair drop, powerslide. The kid's insane." His face lightened.

  The store owner laughed wet. "He's a thief."

  "We have thieves here in this City. Riders like him? Rare."

  The store guy gripped a pipe. "We beat him first."

  Guy pulled a short Glock from waistband. Not pointed. Just held low. "Try." He grinned.

  They froze. Looked at each other. Pipe guy spat blood. "Fuck this. Not worth dying over a bike."

  They backed off slow. Muttered curses. Limped away.

  Guy holstered. Walked up. Looked at the Honda. Then at me.

  "You ride like you don't care if you die."

  I shrugged. Voice flat. "I don't."

  He nodded slow. "Good. That's useful. We move product, small batches. Squatters as drop zones. We need a rider who can thread alleys, jump curbs, lose tails. You in?"

  I looked at him. Then at the bike. Then back.

  "Pay?"

  "Daily cash. 2k start. You get more if you're clean. No questions. No cops."

  I didn't blink. "Fine."

  He smirked faint. "Name's Marco. Follow me."

  I kicked the bike alive. Followed him through back streets. Sun beats down. Sweat stung the cuts on my face.

  We hit a squatters area, tin roofs, laundry lines, kids playing in mud. Narrow paths. He parked at a concrete shack with a metal door. He knocked twice. The door opened.

  Inside was dim. Table with baggies, scale, burner phones. Two guys counting cash.

  Marco pointed me to a corner mat. "Sit and rest. First drop will be tomorrow night. You drive and we load. Then you move."

  I sat. Lit a cig from my pocket. Inhaled deep.

  They glanced at my face, swollen, cut, blood crusted.

  No one asked what happened.

  They didn't care.

  I didn't either.

  Night hits Cebu with drunks. I walked back to the same 7/11 when I first arrived. Bought Malboro and a Red Horse tallboy

  I stepped out, and she was there. The same corner bench outside. Hoodie up, bangs falling over her eyes, hairpin glinting under the light. Uniform wrinkled, ramen cup empty beside her. Knees pulled up. Crying quietly shoulders shaking just enough to notice.

  I stopped. Lit a cig. Watched her for a second.

  She looked up. Eyes red, wet. Recognition flickered.

  I sat on the bench end. Not close. Just there. Took a drag. Exhaled slow.

  "Rough night again," I said. Low and flat.

  She wiped her face with his hands. Sniffed. "Yeah. You too."

  I nodded once.

  Silence sat heavy.

  "Althea," I said low. "Such a bright name. Your miserable face doesn't match."

  She looked up fast. Eyes wet, surprised. "How'd you—"

  "Name tag. Still on your uniform."

  She glanced down at the crooked tag like she forgot it was there. Laughed small, bitter. "Yeah. Althea. Mom named me after some flower. Thought it'd make life pretty. Joke's on her."

  I didn't smile. Just watched.

  She kept going. Voice cracking now. "Tuition's two months late. School's threatening to kick me out. Mom's meds ran out last week. Hypertension and diabetes shit. Dad left again. I'm pulling graveyard shifts at a call center, but it's barely covering rent and food. Ramen's all I got most nights. It feels like I'm drowning slow. Every day is heavier."

  She wiped her face with sleeve. "I come here to cry because inside it's too bright. Too many people. Outside... at least no one pretends to care."

  I nodded once. Flicked ash. "I get it."

  She looked at me. "You do?"

  "Yeah." I took another drag.

  "I used to sit in places like this. Same ramen. Same broke."

  She glanced at me. "What changed?"

  "Got work. Cash. Something to do." Pause. "Though, I still feel like shit most days."

  She nodded slow. Eyes down.

  Silence again.

  Then: "I got work tomorrow night. Easy. I drive. You ride pillion. Spot cops, hand off stash. 1k cash at the same night."

  She stared. "What stash?"

  "Doesn't matter what. You hand. I ride. That's it."

  She swallowed. Eyes down again.

  "I don't know..."

  "You do know," I said. "You're already drowning. Might as well swim with someone who knows the current."

  She looked up. Held my stare long.

  Then nodded once. Small.

  "Tomorrow night. Here. 10PM."

  I stood. Dropped the cig. Crushed it under my boot.

  "See you then, Althea."