[ ON GOING ] As the body count climbs on the concept of immoral justice. This chilling tale will explore the aftermath of betrayal and the eerie path of vengeance. Can true justice prevail once the ink dries, leaving only enigma in its wake?
Date St...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I never hated the bright and lively mood of the late morning in Malate, Manila. Yet, I must admit that I very much prefer the colorful lights of the passing stores that glimmer in my whole being every time I move during nighttime.
The sounds of vehicles passing by were mysteriously relaxing, outmatching the chimes of heavy footsteps of countless businessmen's heels throughout the day
You just want to go home and write.
I will not deny that.
When the diner— where I usually buy coffee an hour before I meet a client—came into sight, I immediately launched myself.
There are twelve workers present in total based on the employee chart nearby, wearing black and red stripes and an apron around their waists. Some who are serving the customers from the tables look younger than the ones who are serving behind the counter. I bet most of them are working students.
Is the jukebox broken? I eyed the jukebox as I sat on a stool near the counter.
"One Latte and one toasted sandwich— cheese and tomato."
When the barista nodded and took my order, I idled for a little while waiting.
The diner brings the 1940s feels with its aesthetic neon lights and a little jukebox. The floor is a polished black and white tile, and rectangular dining tables are scattered all over the place with doubled red and white booths surrounding them. The blinds of the large windows were up unevenly, giving the customers or travelers a good view of the outside.
Every day is a hellhole, but Manila never fails to give people hope to prosper. Gray, brown, and red schemes that are deeply rooted in colonialism. Humming contracts from left and right, city lights, loud streets...
Alive.
The smell of cocoa invaded my nose, making me frown. I despise sweet delicacies, desserts, or anything that contains too much sugar. My tongue was just not made for it.
Hyung, however, is a sucker for those kinds of food. Though I didn't quite get the appeal, it gave him genuine happiness whenever he treat himself a frappe as some kind of reward for doing good at his passion.
I remember him offering me a Latte from a friendly shop he happened to come across on one of his little travels. It took him 2 hours to convince me to take one sip, and when I did, I figured that it was not that bad.
I propped my knuckle under my chin, focusing on the shimmering cutlery in the half-exposed kitchen.
Nice knives.
I hid my little smirk behind my knuckle when I remembered one of my grossest dissections when I was seven.
"Mr. Lee."
And just like that, my little fun was over.
There are two women calling me Mr. Lee, and I am not on good terms with either of them currently.
