Onyx's POV
"Wait!"
The word tore out of me before I even realized I had stood up.
"Onyx..." my father said quietly.
He looked at me the way he used to when I was a child about to do something reckless—equal parts warning and plea. Then he shook his head, subtle but firm, as if telling me without words: "Don't."
But I could not.
How was I supposed to stand there and watch two strangers manhandle my father in his own house? In the house where we were supposed to be having breakfast?
The smell of garlic fried rice still lingered in the air. The tea on the table had gone untouched. Morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, bright and ordinary—mocking the humiliation unfolding in front of us.
I had money. Not enough to erase everything. Not enough to wipe the shame clean.
But enough to buy him time.
I inhaled sharply, ready to speak again—
And then, quietly, Jace stood up.
He did not slam the table. He did not shout. He simply just walked toward the door where the two men stood blocking the exit like vultures who had overstayed their welcome.
"How much is the debt?" Jace asked evenly. "I'll pay for it."
My father stiffened. "No, Jace. This is not your problem."
I moved quickly toward them, my pulse thundering in my ears.
"I have some money," I said. "I can pay seventy-five percent of it. Please. Just let my father go. We promise we'll pay the rest next month."
"No," my father said firmly. "That's your savings, Onyx. Don't use it."
"I was saving it for this," I said, my voice turning sharp despite myself. "For the debt."
His jaw clenched. The silence that followed was heavier than the threat in the room.
"This is taking too long," Jace muttered suddenly. His tone changed—no longer polite. "We're having breakfast here and you're ruining it. How much is the debt?"
"Jace, don't," I hissed under my breath.
"No. I will. Let's finish this." He looked irritated now.
I scratched the back of my head in frustration.
"Five hundred thousand pesos," one of the men answered flatly.
The number landed like a brick.
Jace did not flinch.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
I frowned at him, shaking my head desperately. "Don't. Please don't." I mouthed the words.
He ignored me and called someone.
"Hello," he said into the phone. "Where's Dad?"
A pause.
"Whatever. Transfer five hundred thousand to my account. I want it now."
My stomach dropped.
He sounded like he was asking someone to send him lunch money.
"Great. Tell him I won't be home until Monday. Bye."
He ended the call.
Just like that.
He turned back to the men.
"Okay. I'll transfer the money. Give me the account number."
One of them handed him a card, but there was skepticism in his eyes—like he expected Jace to crumble or bluff.
Jace took the card abruptly.
Tapped on his phone.
Scrolled.
Typed.
Within seconds, he turned his screen toward them.
"Here. Fully paid. Can you leave now?" he said casually. "You're ruining my morning."
The two men glanced at each other.
For a second, I thought they would laugh.
Instead, they released my father.
One of them dialed someone. "Boss, did you receive the payment?"
A nod.
"We're leaving. The boss got the money."
And just like that—
They walked out.
No apology. No backward glance. Just gone.
The door closed.
Silence swallowed the room.
My father stood there breathing heavily, eyes wide, the weight of humiliation still clinging to him like smoke.
"Food's waiting, I guess?" Jace said lightly, as if he hadn't just wired half a million pesos before finishing his food.
My father looked at him, embarrassed. "Jace... I'm sorry you had to do that."
"It's fine," Jace said. "I figured they were loan sharks. Why would you borrow from them? They lend easily, sure—but the interest is brutal. What happened?"
My father sighed.
He couldn't answer.
So Jace looked at me.
And I was already frowning.
"You shouldn't have done that," I said calmly. But my voice betrayed me. It trembled at the edges. "That's our problem. Not yours. We don't want to use your money."
Jace met my gaze.
There was something infuriatingly steady about him.
"Hey," he said, his tone turning authoritative. "I didn't do it for free. You'll still have to pay me."
I swallowed as the realization settled into place, precise and undeniable. It was still debt—just redirected. No longer owed to sharks, but to him.
I exhaled slowly. "Okay. We'll pay you. How do you want it? Monthly? Weekly? Fortnightly? One-time?"
He tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling as if contemplating something utterly ridiculous.
"Hm. I'm not in a rush," he said. "Whenever you can pay, I'm fine with that."
"Is it okay if we pay monthly?" my father said suddenly. "It will be me paying. I won't let Onyx shoulder this."
I turned to him sharply.
"Pa, I'm helping you. I don't want you carrying this alone."
"No, Onyx," he said. "This is my fault. I will take responsibility for this fiasco."
Fiasco.
The word felt too small.
"What really happened?" Jace asked quietly. Then, just as quickly, he grinned. "But before that, can we go back to breakfast? I'm not done eating."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile the shift.
How did he move so easily—from savior to something almost casual, as if none of it had weight?
I gave a single nod and followed him back to the table.
Jace picked up his spoon without hesitation and began eating, unbothered—like nothing monumental had just occurred. Like five hundred thousand pesos meant nothing to him. Like humiliation hadn't just walked through our front door and taken a seat with us.
Across from him, my father kept his gaze lowered.
The rice on his plate had already gone cold. The tea beside it no longer carried steam.
And I sat there beside Jace, quiet, still—aware of something I didn't want to name.
Debt.
Gratitude.
Power.
Or maybe it was the way Jace had looked at me when he said, "You'll still have to pay me."
It shouldn't have sounded like that.
And it shouldn't have stayed with me—settling somewhere in my chest, lingering longer than it should have.
"I used up all of our savings at the casino," my father said quietly, as if the words themselves were fragile. He smiled while he said it—but it was the kind of smile people wear to funerals. Polite. Practiced. Breaking underneath. "I sold my car. The house. The other properties. I thought I could win it back. I thought if I just tried one more time, I could fix everything."
He let out a small breath through his nose.
"In the end, I failed. So I borrowed from loan sharks. I told myself it was just to save what little I had left. And what was left..." He looked at me for a second. "Was Onyx."
The air shifted.
The morning sunlight that had been warm minutes ago now felt like interrogation lighting.
Across the table, Jace had been mid-bite. He slowly lowered his spoon.
"Casino..." he said, almost to himself.
My father nodded. "Do not play in casinos, Jace. You might end up like me. We had a stable life before. A bigger house than this. We sat properly at a dining table, not like this." He tapped the worn wooden surface gently. "We had a car. We had comfort. All of it gone."
He smiled again.
"Luckily, I still have my job."
The word luckily hung in the air like it was barely holding the ceiling up.
And then—
Jace looked at me.
Not casually.
Not politely.
His eyes narrowed just slightly.
"You said you had enough savings to pay at least seventy-five percent of the debt," he said calmly. "Where did that money come from?"
My heartbeat stumbled.
Be careful.
Be very careful.
Before I could answer, my father beat me to it.
"He works part-time as a student assistant," he said proudly.
Jace blinked.
"Student assistant?" he repeated.
This is bad.
Jace turned fully toward me now, his elbow resting on the table, chin slightly tilted.
"I did not know you were a student assistant," he said. "And even if you were... that would not be enough. Not even if you had been working for three years straight. Since freshman year."
The room felt smaller.
"I..." I started.
Think.
Think, Onyx.
"I still had some money saved in my account," I said quickly. "Before Pa became addicted to gambling. I never used it."
Jace pouted slightly, like he was testing the shape of the lie in his mouth.
For a second, he looked like he might accept it.
Then—
"Which professor are you assisting?" he asked lightly.
My blood ran cold.
He was not accusing me.
He was just... asking.
And that made it worse.
My eyes darted around the room like answers might be taped to the walls. The cracked paint. The small electric fan. The chipped plate in front of me.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing—
Then salvation arrived in the form of desperation.
I clutched my stomach.
"I think I need to use the bathroom," I said quickly, standing so fast. "My stomach suddenly hurts. Sorry."
I did not wait for permission.
I ran.
Inside the bathroom, I locked the door and faced the mirror.
I looked like I had just seen a ghost.
"What if he finds out?" I whispered to my reflection. "What if he realizes I was that guy? The one he used to message? The one he cursed at?"
The faucet screeched as I turned it on. Cold water rushed over my hands. I splashed my face once. Twice.
Calm down.
Jace cannot stay here long. The longer he stays, the faster he connects the dots. He will remember. He will recognize the pattern. And when he does—
I inhaled sharply.
He will not forgive me.
I turned off the tap and practiced my normal expression. Neutral. Indifferent. Untouched.
By the time I walked back to the table, they were talking again.
My father's voice carried gratitude.
I caught fragments.
"...thank you again..."
"...really helped us..."
"...good heart..."
And Jace—he wasn't arrogant. Not smug. Not even remotely proud of what he had done.
He was calm. Polite. Friendly.
He even smiled at my father like he meant it.
That was what made it unbearable.
I lowered myself into my seat, slow and deliberate, placing both hands flat against the table—just to steady the quiet shift happening inside me.
Then—
"Jace," I said.
They both stopped talking.
They both looked at me.
"You should leave now," I said. Quiet. Final.
Silence.
Jace blinked, confused, tilting his head slightly like a dog that just heard a strange noise.
"What are you saying, Onyx?" my father asked, irritation creeping into his tone. "Why are you suddenly telling him to leave?"
"Leave," I repeated quietly, staring only at my plate.
The outside noise from the street filtered through the thin walls. A passing motorcycle. A barking dog.
Inside, the air felt vacuum-sealed.
Jace stood up.
"Jace..." my father said, startled.
"Thank you for picking me up last night" Jace said evenly. "And for the wonderful breakfast, Pa. I will be leaving now."
He did not look at me.
Not once.
He walked straight to the door.
I opened my mouth to stop him—to tell him he had left his clothes in my room—but the sound never came out.
The door closed.
Just like that.
"Why did you do that, Onyx?" my father demanded.
"I just—"
"That is not how you treat your friend!" he snapped. "Especially after he helped us."
"Now you are siding with him because he paid the debt?" I shot back.
"That is not what I meant!" my father said, frustration rising. "He did nothing wrong. Did he do something to you?"
I could not look at him.
Because the truth was—
It was me.
I was the one who did something.
"You go and apologize to him," my father said firmly. "He might still be in his car. Go. Now."
"I am not apologizing," I said.
"Stop being stubborn, Onyx!" he snapped. "I do not know what came into your head to act like that. Go!"
I stood, heart heavy, and stepped outside.
Too late.
Jace's car was already gone.
The street looked normal.
Too normal.
"He already left," I muttered when I came back inside. "I did not get to say sorry."
"No more breakfast for you," my father said coldly.
He began clearing the table almost immediately, the plates clattering louder than they needed to.
I remained where I was, watching in silence.
There was no way I could tell him the real reason.
I couldn't let Jace stay any longer.
Because if he did, he would start to see it—to understand who I really was to him.
And once that happened, the version of Jace who smiled politely and thanked my father would disappear.
What would remain was the one who once wished I didn't exist.
And if he ever connected the dots—he might not forgive me.
He might not walk away next time.
He might choose to destroy me.
* * *
The weekend passed like a storm that never quite broke—heavy, charged, and suffocating.
My father barely spoke to me.
He was still angry about what I had done—about telling Jace to leave.
We ate at the same table, as we always did. Usually, he would talk endlessly about random things—news from the neighborhood, rising prices, memories from years ago—and I would sit there, listening, nodding, responding when necessary. That was our rhythm.
But this time, there was nothing.
Just the soft scrape of cutlery against porcelain.
The slow chewing.
The ticking of the clock.
Silence thick enough to choke on.
By Monday morning, I was already halfway out the door for university when his voice cut through.
"Onyx. Wait," he said.
I paused, my hand still on the doorknob. Slowly, I turned around.
Was he finally over it?
He was walking toward me, and I noticed he was holding a paper bag.
He stopped in front of me and held it out.
"Here," he said.
I took it, confused. The bag felt warm.
When I peeked inside, the aroma drifted upward immediately—fresh rice, sautéed vegetables, something fried. My stomach reacted before my pride did.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"One is for you. One is for Jace," he said calmly. "Give him the red lunch box. The blue one is yours."
I blinked at him.
"What?"
"Give that lunch to him," he repeated. "And tell him you're sorry."
"But, Pa—"
"No excuses," he said firmly. "You will give that to him. And you will apologize for what you did last time. And make sure to bring Jace here later. If you don't..." He paused. "You won't be able to enter this house."
I stared at him, stunned.
"Huh? What are you doing?" I demanded. "Are you worshipping him now because he paid the debt?"
"No," my father replied. "I'm doing this to return a favor. He's a good kid."
"He is not," I snapped. "You barely know him. You met him for less than a day. I've only known him for a week."
"Even so," he said. "Bring him here later. Or find somewhere else to sleep."
I let out a sharp breath.
"What, he's your son now?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
I shook my head slowly, staring down into the paper bag as if it might explain this madness.
"And what if he doesn't come to school?" I asked.
"Not my problem," he replied. "Go to his house and make up with him."
I clicked my tongue in frustration.
"Onyx," he added more softly this time, "you've never really had a friend. If you finally have one, at least treasure that friendship."
That hit somewhere I didn't like.
I sighed.
"Go. You'll be late," he said.
I nodded stiffly and stepped outside.
This was ridiculous.
Why did I have to be the one to make up with him?
It wasn't even necessary.
...Was it?
End of Chapter 13