Philippines, October 2025
Alex slouched into the bus seat, crutches leaning beside him, his earbuds loosely hanging around his neck like unused accessories. Outside the grimy window, the world blurred past in glass towers, tangled electric cables, honking jeepneys, and puddles that reflected the city's confused sky. It was raining—hard—but the sun beamed like it was auditioning for a summer postcard. A rainbow lazily curled over the Pasig River, as if Mother Nature had opened Photoshop and gone wild with contrast and saturation.
Alex chuckled to himself. "Manila weather: where typhoons come with sunblock."
The bus's TV was showing the latest news. More strange weather, another tremor in Davao, ashfall from Tagaytay's Taal Volcano, and an eerie underwater sound picked up by Japanese scientists in the Pacific. One week earlier, Mayon had rumbled and hissed. Social media was on fire—rants, prayers, doomsday prophecies, and that one viral video of a goat standing upright during a thunderstorm.
"The end is near! " cried a street preacher as the bus slowed past a crosswalk. He held a sign that read "REPENT BEFORE HE RETURNS."
"Pfft," Alex muttered. "He better return with flood insurance."
A snort came from the seat beside him. A chubby man wearing a 'Team BTS' hoodie turned to him with a grin. "Bro, did you just talk to yourself? "
"Maybe," Alex replied. "Did you just eavesdrop on a one-man comedy show? "
"Can't help it. Your sarcasm's louder than this AC." He nodded toward the ceiling unit groaning above them like it was dying in slow motion. "First time seeing a guy still cool during the apocalypse."
Alex smiled. "I've already been through my personal end of the world, so this is just reruns for me."
Jerome raised a brow. "Heavy stuff, bro. You good? "
Alex shrugged. "Better than I should be."
There was a pause, then Jerome tapped his shoulder. "Hey, seriously. You're funny, man. I like that. Keeps the doom vibes away. The memes say, "Humor is humanity's last defense."
"That, and garlic cloves," Alex replied with a straight face.
They both burst into laughter, drawing a scowl from the driver.
As the bus turned onto EDSA Extension and began its crawl toward Pasay, Alex's grin faded just a little. The city faded too—glass and steel morphing into old apartments, pawnshops, ukay-ukay stalls, and endless lines of tricycles.
His phone buzzed with a notification about a new earthquake in Turkey. The world was shaking.
But not as much as he once had.
Back in college, Alex had it all.
He was a star—an all-around golden boy who lit up the campus with every stride. Varsity football captain, academic scholar, and even a part-time model for local sportswear brands, his posters were plastered across gyms and sports shops in Manila. With his towering 5'10" frame, chiseled jawline, and piercing eyes—sharp features passed down from a long-lost German father—he didn't just walk the hallways of his university… he owned them.
But beneath the easy smile and confident swagger was a story far humbler and far more painful than most knew.
Alex was the only son of a hardworking Filipina mother—a domestic helper who had spent over a decade in Germany, cleaning other people's homes, sacrificing everything to provide for the boy she left behind in the care of relatives in Cavite. Every balikbayan box she sent, every worn voice message from abroad, was filled with love, guilt, and fierce determination. She returned to the Philippines when Alex was in high school, sick of being apart from her son. With her savings, she opened a modest sari-sari store attached to the front of their rented apartment. She cooked breakfast at dawn, tended the store all day, and washed laundry at night.
Alex adored her. She was his North Star—his reason for fighting through the daily grind. He made a silent promise to make her proud. To build a better life. To be the man she had worked so hard to raise.
Then came the pneumonia. The doctor called it "complicated." It happened too fast. The hospital bills drowned them. She died in his arms on a rainy night in a charity ward, whispering apologies for leaving him behind again.
He was nineteen.
Football became his escape. His lifeline. On the field, there were no bills. No grief. Just adrenaline, glory, and the sound of cleats hitting turf. He played like a man possessed, and scouts started to notice. Offers trickled in. It looked like the future was finally catching up to his dreams.
Until that tackle.
He still remembered the sound—that awful, unnatural snap that echoed through the stadium louder than the crowd. Then silence. He tried to move but couldn't. The lights above blurred, and for a moment, it felt like the world had fallen away.
The diagnosis was devastating: a shattered lower spine.
He underwent surgery after surgery. Then months of rehab. Pain became his new roommate. Despair, his shadow. Eventually, he learned to walk again—barely. But the crutches were permanent, and so was the end of his sports career.
His scholarship vanished. So did his modeling contracts. And with them, most of the friends who once cheered his name.
The biology degree he once pursued with hopes of becoming a doctor—an unspoken tribute to the mother he had lost—fell by the wayside. Classes were missed. Tuition went unpaid. Survival became the only thing that mattered.
He drifted for a while. Then landed a job at a call center in Makati—graveyard shift, minimal benefits, soul-draining work. But it was something. Enough to afford a shoebox apartment, instant noodles, and cheap rent. Enough to stay alive.
His life narrowed to this: crowded buses, flickering neon lights, microwave dinners, and late-night online RPGs played on a second-hand laptop with a missing "A" key. It was in those digital worlds—where he was a powerful Druid, a warrior, a chosen one—that he felt, if only for a while, like the man he used to be.
When he finally arrived at his residential building, it was nearly seven. The sun was still shining. The rain was now a fine mist.
"Alex-boy!"
He turned to see Mang Rudy, his landlord-slash-building-guardian, lounging by the gate with his usual rolled cigarette.
"Good evening, Mang Rudy," Alex said.
"You're late! Eh, I thought the end of the world got you," the old man said, grinning through his three missing teeth.
"I escaped the apocalypse. But not EDSA traffic."
"Haha! You're good! Are you hungry? I have leftover adobo—less meat, more bones, good for the teeth."
"Pass. I only eat apocalyptic meals now. You know, canned tuna and existential bread."
Mang Rudy cackled. "Okay. Don't let the rain turn you into a mushroom."
Alex tapped his crutches like a drum. "Too late. I already grew spores at the bus stop."
They laughed again as Alex climbed the stairs to the second floor. His room was small, with a single bed, shelves of books, and a fan that rotated slower than a government line.
He dropped his bag, removed his jacket, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Then…
A hum.
A vibration in his chest.
Then a voice—not in his ears, but in his mind.
"This world you know… is only a shadow of what once was."
Alex froze. His eyes widened. He looked around, heart racing.
"Do not be afraid. I am the voice of the forgotten past. And I am here to tell you the truth."