The sun rarely touched Rock Ubay.
It was the kind of place where time felt stuck, where people worked just to survive the day and went home to roofs patched with rusted tin and threadbare plastic. In the farthest corner of this place stood a small wooden house, nearly collapsing from age and storms.
Inside, a boy sat in silence beside a woman lying motionless on an old mat.
Sean.
Eighteen now, but his face looked much older—thin, pale, with dark eyes that seemed too sharp for his age. He wasn't like the other kids who roamed Rock Ubay barefoot, playing in the mud and shouting in the streets.
Sean was different.
He had always known.
When he was just five, he realized something strange about himself. He could remember everything. Every word spoken to him. Every detail of every face. Every sound, every scent, every flicker of movement. It wasn't just memory—it was like his brain could trap the world around him and replay it whenever he wanted.
At first, he thought everyone was like that. He thought it was normal.
But as he grew, he noticed how others easily forgot things—how they struggled with simple directions or names. And when he pointed it out, people looked at him strangely.
In school, it became worse.
He only reached Grade 3 before everything fell apart. The other children mocked him for being too quiet, too strange.
"Wa jud na siya mutingog, mura'g buang."
("He never talks, like he's crazy.")
"Bright kaayo, pero bati'g batasan."
("He's smart, but has a bad attitude.")
The teachers didn't know what to do with him either. He could answer everything, solve problems faster than anyone—but he hated the attention. Every time they praised him, it only brought more mocking from the others.
He learned to keep his mouth shut.
He learned it was safer not to be noticed.
And then, after his mother's health worsened, he stopped school entirely.
There was no time for lessons when there was rice to earn, water to fetch, and medicines to search for.
Still, he kept sharpening his mind in secret.
At night, while others slept, he would lie awake in the dark, replaying every conversation he had heard that day. He could mimic their voices perfectly, though no one knew.
And in those long nights, he heard every whisper from the neighbors.
"Luoy kaayo ang bata, gamay pa nagbaktas-baktas na."
("Poor kid, walking around at such a young age.")
"Basin mag-sundalo ni puhon, kusog kaayo manuko."
("Maybe he'll become a soldier someday, he's too quiet and sharp-eyed.")
They pitied him in daylight—but behind their closed doors, they spat poison.
"Walay pulos, mura'g hayop ug batasan."
("Useless, like an animal in behavior.")
"Basin sama ra na sa iyang amahan, palahubog pud unya."
("Maybe he'll turn out like his drunk father too.")
Sean heard it all.
He remembered every voice, every insult, every fake smile.
But he said nothing. He stored it away.
Now, he sat beside his mother for the last time.
Her breathing was thin, her skin cold and pale.
"Sean…" her voice cracked, so soft it was barely a breath.
He leaned in.
"Survive…" she whispered, eyes fixed beyond him.
That was all.
No goodbye. No apology. Just one word—Survive.
Her chest stilled.
Sean didn't cry.
He simply wiped her face clean and closed her eyes gently, as if putting her to sleep for the last time.
He buried her himself.
Behind their shack, under the crooked tree that had withstood every storm, he dug the grave. His small hands were blistered and bleeding by the time he finished.
The neighbors watched from their windows but no one offered help.
"Gahi'g ulo nga bata."
("Such a stubborn boy.")
"Wa man gani'y hilak."
("He didn't even cry.")
"Basig buang gyud ni."
("Maybe he's really crazy.")
He heard it all.
He remembered it all.
For the next ten years, Sean survived alone.
He fixed broken radios and fans for spare coins. He patched his clothes until they were more stitches than fabric. He ate only when he earned enough to buy rice or dried fish.
He didn't care about their looks anymore. He didn't need their pity.
He sharpened himself in the quiet.
He trained his ears to catch even the softest words behind closed doors. He memorized faces in passing shadows. He could repeat every word from memory, every tone, every inflection.
And slowly, without anyone knowing, he became something else.
Someone who could disappear in plain sight.
But every blade dulls eventually.
One night, lying on his thin mat, staring at the cracked ceiling, he felt the hunger gnawing worse than ever before.
There was nothing left here.
No reason to stay.
He packed two shirts, his torn jacket, and the old, half-broken phone his father had left behind—a useless thing that barely worked anymore.
He counted his money.
₱100.
That was all.
Still, it was enough.
He didn't know where he was going. He just wanted to leave Rock Ubay behind.
Without looking back, he walked out of that town at dawn.
No goodbyes. No second thoughts.
The city was overwhelming.
Lights everywhere. Cars rushing by like beasts. People shouting into phones, rushing past each other as if time was chasing them.
Sean stood still, staring.
It was terrifying—and thrilling.
But by nightfall, the city changed.
Shops closed. Streets emptied. Neon lights flickered and died. The cold wind howled through the alleys, and the shadows grew longer.
Sean wandered into a dark corner, his stomach empty, his body freezing under the thin jacket.
He had ₱45 left after spending most of it on the ride and a piece of bread.
He curled up on the ground, pretending to sleep.
Then—footsteps.
Rough voices.
"Bag-o ni diri, bay…"
("Fresh face here, bro…")
Sean kept his eyes closed, breathing slow, pretending to snore.
Suddenly, a kick slammed into his ribs.
Pain exploded through him.
Another man swung a bat—not hard enough to kill, but enough to make him curl tighter.
"Wa man ni'y gamit, pero kuhaon nato iyang kwarta ug cellphone."
("He's got nothing useful, but we'll take his cash and phone.")
They stripped him of everything—his last pesos, his jacket, and the useless phone.
As they walked away, one of the thugs stopped.
He looked back, his face oddly conflicted.
Then, he flicked a single ₱1 coin at Sean's feet and mouthed silently:
"Pasaylo-a ko."
("Forgive me.")
Sean didn't flinch.
Even in pain, even through his blurred vision, he memorized their faces—the scars, tattoos, voices—under the flickering streetlamp.
He never forgot.
From across the street, hidden in the shadows of an old building, a man in a black cloak had been watching the entire time.
He had been following Sean for days now, unseen by everyone else.
His eyes didn't leave Sean's battered body as the thugs disappeared into the night.
He let out a quiet, amused breath.
"It's time."