More.
The blackout curtains of Unit 1418 sealed out the dawn. Gray half-light pooled on the hardwood floor. 33°C. Manila in April. The air conditioning hummed at a frequency that lived just beneath conscious notice.
Jae-min stood barefoot in the center of his living room. The black rift hovered beside him — patient, silent, a shadow made of nothing.
He had spent the last hour feeding it. A hardcover book. A throw pillow. His Glock 19 from the bedroom safe. All of it vanished into the cold, silent darkness. All of it floated in that pocket of nothing, waiting for him to pull it back.
He could feel the boundaries. Roughly four cubic meters. A walk-in closet. Barely enough.
"Not enough. I need a warehouse," Jae-min thought, a cold, analytical frustration calculating the variables
He focused. Pushed. Imagined the walls of the void stretching outward, the darkness expanding to accommodate more, more, more —
A sharp, blinding pain split his skull. Warmth dripped from his right nostril, trailing down his upper lip. The metallic tang of blood touched his tongue.
He stopped. Wiped the crimson smear away with the back of his hand. The void shuddered once inside his chest, then went still.
"Patience," Jae-min muttered, a grim acceptance settling behind his eyes
It would grow. It had to. But first — fuel.
The hot water from the shower beat against his shoulders, washing away the phantom sensation of teeth tearing into his flesh. He toweled off. Stepped into a crisp black suit. Knotted his tie with mechanical precision.
The bathroom mirror reflected a sharp jawline. Intense, unblinking dark eyes. A man who looked like a Korean-Filipino executive. A man who looked like money.
"Two days ago, those neighbors were eating you. Now you're picking out cufflinks. Focus," Jae-min thought, a bitter, anchoring disgust cutting through the luxury
He grabbed his keys. Walked to the basement parking of Shore Residence 3. The echo of his leather shoes bounced off the concrete walls. He pressed the fob. The pearl white GT-R Nismo beeped twice, her fierce LED headlights flashing under the fluorescent tubes.
He slid inside. The fuel gauge read half a tank. ₱4,000 in premium gasoline. This car drank fuel like a fish drinks water — endlessly, happily, without a single shred of financial remorse.
He turned the key. The twin-turbo V6 roared to life, a deep, guttural snarl that vibrated through the steering wheel and into his bones. He reversed out of the spot, the GT-R's exhaust barking twice as he whipped the wheel.
— • • • —
Blackbird Fine Dining. Makati. 31°C. The night air was thick with humidity and the distant thrum of rush-hour traffic bleeding into evening.
The maître d' greeted him with a practiced bow, his smile polished to a mirror shine.
"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?" the maître d' asked, a polished, rehearsed warmth
"No," Jae-min said, his voice flat, detached, a door slamming shut
A flicker of annoyance crossed the man's face — the kind of micro-expression that said here we go again. Then he looked at Jae-min's suit. The fit. The fabric. The Rolex on his wrist. The annoyance vanished like smoke.
"Right this way, sir. We have a lovely table by the window," the maître d' said, his entire demeanor rewriting itself in real time
Jae-min sat down. Plush velvet chair. Crisp white linen tablecloth pressed so sharp it could cut glass. A single candle flickered in a crystal holder, casting warm amber light across the silver cutlery. The menu was a single leather-bound card. No prices.
He opened it. And ordered everything.
"The full tasting menu. The wine pairing. Add the truffle risotto as a supplementary course. The wagyu. The lobster thermidor. The chocolate soufflé for dessert. A bottle of the 2018 Château Margaux to start. And an espresso. Cognac to finish. Actually — make it two bottles of the Margaux. I'm celebrating," Jae-min breathed, a controlled hunger that had nothing to do with food
"Celebrating, sir?" the waiter asked, blinking, his pen hovering over his notepad
"Life," Jae-min said, one word, carrying the weight of a dead timeline
The waiter blinked again. His pen hadn't moved.
"Also, send out a second wagyu. I wasn't kidding about the celebrating," Jae-min said, his voice calm and certain
The waiter's pen hovered. Trembled. Considered early retirement.
"Sir, that is a considerable amount of —" the waiter started, professional caution battling bewilderment
"My car costs more than your annual salary and it burns through a full tank in less than two hundred kilometers. Do I look like a man who counts calories?" Jae-min asked, his eyes narrowing, calculating
The waiter closed his mouth. Nodded. Disappeared.
He returned six minutes later with the first of three bread baskets Jae-min would completely demolish before the first course even arrived.
The first course landed twelve minutes later. Seared foie gras with fig compote and brioche, plated like a painting. Microgreens scattered across the plate like tiny emerald islands in a sea of reduction sauce.
Jae-min closed his eyes as the richness melted on his tongue. The fat, the salt, the sweet fig — it was obscene. Decadent. Perfect. He ate it in four bites. Wiped his mouth with the napkin. Looked at the empty plate like it had personally offended him.
More.
He took a long sip of the Château Margaux. The wine was velvet on his tongue. Dark fruit, tobacco, a whisper of cedar and spice. It rolled down his throat like warm silk and bloomed in his chest. He finished the first bottle before the second course arrived.
"Another," Jae-min said, holding up the empty bottle without looking at the waiter
The man scurried off like Jae-min had detonated a silent bomb under his apron.
The courses kept coming. One after another. Each more exquisite than the last. The truffle risotto arrived — a mountain of arborio rice drenched in black truffle shavings and aged parmesan. Jae-min inhaled deeply. The earthy, musky scent of the truffle filled his sinuses. He spooned a forkful into his mouth.
"This is what my ancestors died for," Jae-min declared, a reverent, almost religious awe
The wagyu came next. A5 grade. The marbling was so fine it looked like a pink cloud suspended over the plate. He cut into it — barely any resistance, the knife sliding through like the meat wasn't even there. He placed it on his tongue and it dissolved. He ordered a third.
In this world, he had the money, the time, and a serious grudge against the universe. He was going to eat like the world owed him a restaurant. Because it did.
The lobster thermidor. The chocolate soufflé, which collapsed under his fork in a cascade of warm, molten chocolate. The espresso, bitter and strong. The cognac, smooth as a whisper. He finished the second bottle of Château Margaux with the cognac.
The waiter had long since abandoned any pretense of professionalism and now stood at a respectful distance, watching Jae-min eat with the horrified fascination of a man witnessing a Great White shark work through a seal colony.
The bill arrived. Jae-min didn't look at it. He tucked a crisp ₱5,000 bill under the candle holder and stood. The waiter stared at the tip like it was a religious artifact.
Across the dining room, two women sat at a corner table near the bar.
Kiara Valdez leaned back in her chair, swirling a glass of Pinot Grigio with the lazy confidence of someone who owned every room she walked into. Her designer dress — a deep burgundy slip that hugged her curves — caught the candlelight. Orange hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders. Green eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the room with the practiced precision of someone who catalogued every useful detail. Flawless. Calculated. Expensive.
Beside her, Jennifer Avante was quieter. Icy-blue hair fell straight and long past her shoulders, catching the candlelight with a faint, almost metallic sheen. Blue eyes. A simple cream blouse and a navy skirt she'd probably picked out in five minutes that morning. No jewelry except small gold stud earrings. No makeup except lip balm. She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Look at him," Kiara muttered, her eyes fixed on Jae-min's table
"Since when does he eat here? He could afford it, sure — his family has money — but he never would. Jae-min was the guy who ate tapsilog at the carinderia across from the warehouse because he liked it. That was his fine dining," Kiara added, a possessive irritation sharpening her tone
Jennifer followed her gaze. And her chest tightened.
Jae-min sat alone by the window, the candlelight carving shadows beneath his cheekbones. His black suit fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. He lifted a glass of red wine to his lips, and Jennifer watched the way his fingers curled around the stem — long, deliberate, unhurried. The way the candlelight caught the edge of his jaw. The way his dark eyes, half-lidded, reflected nothing but the flame.
He looked devastating. He always had.
The company cafeteria. Years ago. Jennifer was on her lunch break, same as every day, picking at her tray in the far corner when he walked in. Back then, she and Kiara were still best friends — real best friends, the kind who shared secrets and snacks and Saturday mall trips, before Kiara learned that secrets were weapons and people were leverage. Jennifer worked customer service. Jae-min was the warehouse manager. Same building. Same floor. She saw him every single day — in the hallways, at the elevator banks, passing his office on the way to the break room. And every lunch break, she would sit with her tray in the cafeteria and watch him from across the room. He never sat near the windows. Always the same corner booth — back to the wall, face toward the entrance. She didn't know why. Back then, she just thought it was cute. She'd memorized everything. The way he folded his napkin into a perfect square before eating. The way he chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was rationing something precious. The way his dark eyes scanned the room between bites — not paranoid, just aware. The way he laughed when someone told a joke, a quiet, short sound that barely escaped his throat, like even his happiness had to be disciplined.
"I fell in love with him in that cafeteria. One lunch at a time. One stolen glance after another. Until the feeling was so deep inside me I couldn't tell where it started anymore. It was just always there," Jennifer thought, a desperate, suffocating longing aching in her chest
Kiara saw it eventually. Kiara always saw everything. Details were ammunition. And one day, with the surgical precision of someone who had identified a vulnerability and decided to exploit it, Kiara walked up to Jae-min and asked him out. Jennifer smiled. Congratulated her best friend. Went home that night and cried into her pillow for three hours.
"I never said a word. Not to him. Not to her. Not to anyone. I buried it and told myself it would fade. It didn't," Jennifer thought, a dull, permanent ache pressing against her ribs
Years of watching from the front row. Kiara's shoulder to cry on. The patient listener. The one who nodded and said he's an idiot when Kiara complained, and you'll be fine when Kiara cried, and I'm sure he still loves you when Kiara panicked. Every word was a small, private, self-inflicted wound dressed in bandages of loyalty.
"I would give anything to be the one sitting across from him. I would bear his children right now if he only asked. I would give him everything," Jennifer thought, a desperate, suffocating longing aching in her chest
Kiara's eyes narrowed as Jae-min took a bite of the wagyu, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. He closed his eyes. Slowly. Like he was savoring something more than just the food.
"Something's different about him. He's not… he's not the same. The way he moves. The way he looks at things. It's like he's somewhere else," Kiara murmured, a predatory calculation sharpening her focus
Jennifer watched too. And she saw what Kiara couldn't — not because Kiara wasn't observant, but because Kiara had never really looked at Jae-min. Not the way Jennifer had. Not with years of memorized details stacked behind her eyes.
The way he held his fork had changed. In the old days, he'd been casual. Relaxed. Now his grip was precise. Controlled. The way a soldier holds a weapon — familiar, automatic, ready.
His eyes. They'd always been warm. Even when he was quiet, there'd been a softness to them, a gentleness that leaked through no matter how hard he tried to look serious. That softness was gone. What remained was something flat and hard and impossibly dark. Like a door had been shut behind his eyes and locked from the inside.
And the way he ate. Slow. Reverent. Each bite treated like a ceremony. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of something he knew he'd never have again.
"He looks sad," Jennifer whispered, her voice trembling faintly
"He looks like he's trying to make me jealous," Kiara said, her voice sweet but her smile didn't reach her eyes
"He hasn't looked at you once, Kiara," Jennifer said, her voice barely above a whisper, her shoulders hunching slightly inward as if bracing for a blow
Silence. The words landed between them like a dropped glass.
Kiara's jaw tightened. She set her wine glass down with a sharp, deliberate click that made the candle flame shudder.
"He blocked my number. Did you know that?" Kiara seethed, the fake sweetness vanishing into pure, venomous spite
Jennifer flinched. She did know. Because Kiara had told her approximately forty-seven times in the past two weeks.
"H-He'll unblock you when he calms down," Jennifer whispered, shrinking back
The words tasted like ash. She didn't believe them. She didn't think Kiara believed them either. But it was the script, and they both knew their lines.
"I sent him a message from a different number. He blocked that one too. I tried calling from the office phone. He didn't pick up," Kiara continued, her voice tightening like a wire
"Maybe he needs space," Jennifer offered, her gaze firmly fixed on the tablecloth, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking
"I made one mistake, Jen. One. And he acts like I killed someone," Kiara hissed, the mask slipping, just for a second, revealing the cold, manipulative rage underneath
Jennifer's fingers tightened around her own wine glass. The cool glass pressed into her palm. Her silence trembled with everything she couldn't say. She never did.
Across the room, Jae-min set down his cognac glass. Stood. Tucked a ₱5,000 bill under the candle holder. Walked toward the back of the restaurant. Not toward the exit. Toward the kitchen.
Kiara's eyes tracked him like a predator watching prey leave cover.
"Where is he going?" Kiara hissed, quiet
"I-I don't know," Jennifer murmured, quiet
But she watched him walk until the swinging kitchen doors swallowed him whole. And something cold and heavy settled in her stomach —
The night her father left for Singapore and never came back. She'd been fourteen. She'd watched him pack his bag at the kitchen table. He'd kissed her forehead. Said I'll be back soon, anak. And she'd believed him because she was fourteen and fathers always came back. They didn't.
And now Jae-min walked the same way. Like a man who had already said goodbye to everything and was just going through the motions of pretending otherwise.
"Jen," Kiara said, her voice cutting through her thoughts
"Are you listening to me?" Kiara added, sharp
"Y-Yes," Jennifer stammered, something fragile underneath the composure
"I said I'm going to find out what he's doing in that kitchen," Kiara declared, tilting her head, cataloguing details
"Kiara, d-don't —" Jennifer started, her blue eyes darting nervously
But Kiara was already pulling out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen, her nails clicking against the glass like tiny gunshots.
Jae-min pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. The blast of humid, food-scented air hit him like a wall — sizzling butter, roasting garlic, the sharp tang of chopped onions. The kitchen was controlled chaos — line cooks shouting orders, flames leaping from pans, the rapid percussion of knives against cutting boards.
The head chef looked up from his plating. A man in a tailored black suit invading his domain.
"Who the hell are —" the chef started, swallowing hard, professional pride warring with confusion
Jae-min reached into his jacket and dropped a thick, heavy envelope on the stainless steel counter. It hit the metal with a dense, damp thwack. ₱500,000 in crisp, banded bills.
The kitchen went silent. Every line cook stopped. Every flame seemed to flicker in shock. A pan of garlic butter sizzled on its own, unattended, like even the food was holding its breath.
"I need packed meals. For a thousand men. Army ration portions. High calorie. Long shelf life," Jae-min breathed, a controlled urgency that made the words sound like a military briefing
The chef stared at the money. Then at Jae-min. Then at the money again. He picked up the envelope, opened it, and flipped through the bills with the slow reverence usually reserved for religious texts and winning lottery tickets.
"Sir… this is… a lot of money for… for what, exactly? Packed meals? Like, packed lunches? You want me to turn my kitchen into a Jollibee?" the chef asked, his professional identity suffering a full-scale existential crisis
"I want you to turn your kitchen into an army canteen. I need high-calorie meals. Rice. Meat. Dried fruit. Long shelf life. The kind of food that keeps a man alive when there's nothing else," Jae-min commanded, his voice cold, leaving no room for argument
The chef stared at him. A vein pulsed at his temple.
"Sir, this is a fine dining restaurant. We serve wagyu and truffle risotto. We don't serve… MREs to a fictional army," the chef said, his culinary training offering no protocol for this situation
"You served me two wagyus and a risotto tonight. They were delicious," Jae-min said, his gaze flat and assessing
"…Thank you, sir," the chef managed, completely adrift
"Now I need you to make food that people won't Instagram," Jae-min ordered, no room for hesitation
The chef blinked. A line cook in the back snorted into his sleeve and immediately pretended he was coughing.
"We… we can prep maybe two hundred meals with what we have in stock. If you want a thousand, I need to order supplies. It would take days," the chef said, his mind already running calculations
"How long?" Jae-min asked, already three steps ahead
"Three days. Minimum," the chef said, clutching the envelope like Jae-min might ask for it back
"Two hundred now. The rest in three days. I'll pay triple," Jae-min said, not looking up, already moving
The chef's eyes went wide. The whites showed. The line cook in the back who had been snorting stopped laughing entirely and started paying very close attention.
"Triple, sir?" the chef asked, wondering if he'd suffered a stroke
"You heard me," Jae-min said, his voice calm and certain
"Sir, triple of fine dining ingredients for army rations is… that's… that's more than some people's houses," the chef said, the mathematics breaking something inside him
"My car costs twelve million pesos and it gets eight kilometers to the liter. I stopped caring about money around the time I filled up the tank for the first time," Jae-min declared, controlled, the way a man holds a wound closed
The chef stared. A line cook whispered to another line cook. The whisper cascaded down the line like a very quiet, very confused game of telephone.
"Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Two hundred meals. High calorie. Long shelf life. Army rations," the chef barked, snapping back to reality
"Packed in thermal bags. Sturdy ones," Jae-min said, his voice calm and certain
"Of course, sir," the chef said, nodding mechanically
"Send everything to the back alley. Service entrance. I'll pick it up there," Jae-min said, his voice low, deliberate
The chef frowned, glancing at his confused line cooks.
"Sir, we don't usually —" the chef started, professional protocol warring with the half-million pesos in his hand
"Chef," Jae-min said, one word, carrying the absolute authority of a commanding officer
"…Yes, sir?" the chef asked, smaller now
"I just paid you half a million pesos and promised to triple the order. If I say I want it delivered to the moon, you should ask me if I prefer Apollo or Falcon Heavy," Jae-min said, something steady behind his eyes — not cold, but resolute
The chef opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded slowly.
"Back alley. One hour," the chef said, final
Jae-min turned on his heel.
"Sir — one more thing," the chef called, after him
Jae-min paused at the door.
"Make sure none of the line cooks taste the food," the chef said, a ghost of humor surfacing through the shock
"Why?" Jae-min asked, barely a whisper
"Because the portions are for soldiers, sir. If my staff eats from those batches, they won't fit into their uniforms by the end of the night," the chef said, the first genuine smile cracking through his professional mask
A line cook in the back burst out laughing. Someone threw a towel at him.
Jae-min almost smiled. Almost. He pushed through the doors and disappeared into the dining room.
As soon as he was gone, the kitchen exploded into chaos.
"Did that just happen?" a line cook whispered, his spatula frozen mid-flip
"He just bought two hundred army rations from a Michelin-starred kitchen," another cook breathed, quiet
"With cash," a third cook added, wide-eyed
"Half a million. In cash. Who carries that much cash?" a fourth cook asked, staring at the swinging doors
"He was wearing a Rolex that costs more than this entire kitchen," the sous chef murmured, staring at the swinging doors
"That suit alone could pay my rent for a year," a dishwasher said, from the corner
The chef stood at his station, the thick envelope still in his hands. Then he looked at his team — twelve people, all frozen, all staring at him with the same expression of bewildered awe.
He clapped his hands once. The sound cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot. Everyone jumped.
"MOVE!" the chef barked, the command cracking through the kitchen like a gunshot
The kitchen lurched back to life. Pans clattered. Knives resumed their rhythm. The saucier started barking orders at the prep cooks like a drill sergeant with a deadline.
Then the chef held up a hand. The kitchen stopped again. He set the envelope on the counter, counted out ten thousand-peso bills, and began distributing them to each staff member.
"Triple pay for the next three days. Anyone who talks about this outside this kitchen loses their bonus," the chef declared, the authority of a man who had just been handed a blank check
The line cooks stared at the bills in their hands.
"Is this a bribe or a bonus?" the sous chef asked, quiet
"Yes," the chef said, deadpan
The kitchen roared back to life with an energy that could have powered Makati's grid for a week.
Jae-min walked out through the dimly lit side exit and circled around the building. The back alley was narrow. Clogged with shadow. It smelled heavily of old grease, spilled beer, and rotting garbage from the nearby bins. A single yellow security light flickered overhead, buzzing like a dying wasp. 29°C. The night air clung to his skin, humid and close.
He waited. Twenty minutes. Thirty.
A heavy steel side door creaked open. A kitchen worker stepped out, blinking in the gloom. Then another. They carried heavy, canvas thermal bags. The fabric rustled as they stacked them on the damp, oil-stained pavement. One after another. Twenty bags. Thirty. Forty.
"Sir? Where's your vehicle? This is a lot of —" the worker asked, confused, slightly out of breath from the weight
"Inside. Bring them inside the door. Stack them," Jae-min commanded, pointing to the narrow corridor
The worker hesitated, shifting his grip.
"But —" the worker started, wiping sweat from his brow
"Tip you ₱5,000," Jae-min offered, his voice calm and certain
The worker moved fast. One by one, the thermal bags disappeared through the service door into a narrow, brick-walled corridor. Jae-min followed. The corridor was dim. No cameras. Perfect.
The worker stacked the last bag and left. The heavy door clicked shut. Jae-min was alone. The only sound was the muffled hum of the restaurant's industrial exhaust fans.
He reached out. His fingertips touched the rough canvas of the first thermal bag. It vanished. No sound. No flash of light. Just a faint, inky ripple in the air, like heat distortion rising off summer asphalt. Gone.
The void inside his chest drank greedily. He could feel the walls of the pocket dimension expanding. Slowly. Painfully. But expanding.
One bag. Five. Ten. Twenty. He moved like a machine. One touch. One vanish. One after another.
The pressure built behind his eyes. Dull. Throbbing. A low-grade migraine forming at the base of his skull from the strain.
The last bag vanished. He closed his eyes, counting the inventory in his mind. Two hundred meals. Enough to feed a platoon for weeks. Not bad for day two.
He pulled out his phone. The bright screen burned his eyes in the dark corridor.
[Jae-min]: Triple the order. Three days. Back alley. Same time. Don't be late.
Jae-min slipped out the side door and walked around to the front of the building. His GT-R was parked thirty meters away, the pearl white paint gleaming under the streetlights.
He didn't see Kiara standing at the restaurant's glass front doors. He didn't see her eyes track him as he crossed the sidewalk. He didn't see her pull out her phone and snap a photo of his car — the make, the plate, the Nismo badge on the rear.
"Jen. Get your bag," Kiara said, her voice flat, cold, the warmth gone
Jennifer appeared beside her, blinking, clutching her purse tightly to her chest.
"W-What? Why?" Jennifer asked, shrinking back slightly
"He just walked out of my restaurant after eating a ten-thousand-peso meal and then went into their kitchen for an hour. He came out the back alley looking like he'd just buried a body. I want to know what Jae-min Del Rosario is up to," Kiara hissed, her thumb scrolling through her phone, her eyes locked on Jae-min's retreating figure
"Kiara, m-maybe you should just —" Jennifer started, her voice barely above a whisper
"Get. Your. Bag," Kiara seethed, her nails drumming against the table
Jennifer swallowed hard. Grabbed her purse. Followed Kiara into the humid Manila night, her eyes lingering on the spot where Jae-min's car had been, a silent, agonizing prayer escaping her lips.
Jae-min stepped into the GT-R. Pulled the door shut, sealing out the city noise. Started the engine. The low, predatory rumble vibrated through the steering wheel. The void inside him hummed. Hungry for more.
He had food.
"Now I need guns," Jae-min thought, a cold, lethal resolve hardening his core
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.
As he rolled past the restaurant's dark back alley, his bright LED headlights swept across the dumpster like a spotlight. A stray, matted dog was picking at a pile of discarded meat scraps.
Jae-min hit the brakes. The tires squealed softly on the warm asphalt.
The dog wasn't eating the meat. It was eating a rock. A small, glowing red stone mixed in with the restaurant garbage.
The dog's jaws crunched down on the stone, and a faint, unnatural steam rolled off its mangy fur, sizzling in the night air.
Jae-min stared, his breath fogging the windshield slightly.
"What the fuck?" Jae-min thought, a cold, creeping dread icing his spine
He shook his head, breaking the trance. The dog dropped the glowing stone, let out a low whine, and scrambled into the darkness.