As Zane approached the nearby restaurant, the familiar aroma of Mr. Tan’s cooking wafted through the cold air as the tricycle stopped. Near the back, away from the chatter of other patrons, Andrea sat poised, her red crop top and fitted black skirt accentuating her confident air. Her red doll shoes tapped lightly against the tiled floor as she scanned the room.

“Mr. Nuñez!” she called out, her gaze locking on Zane, who was dressed in a blue checkered shirt and gray trousers. He smiled, his strides steady as he reached her table and took the seat across from her.

“Ms. Mercado,” he greeted. “I’m grateful you made time to join me. I hope I’m not pulling you away from anything important.”

“It’s no trouble,” Andrea replied with a thoughtful smile. “I actually owe you for leaving so abruptly last Sunday evening.”

Zane tilted his head slightly, curiosity and concern sparking in his eyes. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking? Of course, it’s alright if you’d rather not share.”

Andrea’s smile faltered, her shoulders drooping slightly as she sighed. “It was my mother,” she began. “She fell ill that evening, and I had to look after her. My siblings… well, they’ve all moved out and are busy with their own lives.”

“I see,” Zane replied, his voice softening. “I hope she’s doing better now.”

He glanced over his shoulder, raising a hand to catch the attention of a nearby waitress, who had just finished serving another table. The waitress nodded and approached briskly, ready to take their order.

“She’s better now, thankfully,” Andrea replied.

“That’s good to hear,” Zane said with a warm smile, taking the menu handed to him. “So, what will you have? My treat!”

“Yours? Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course. You treated me last time, so it’s only fair I repay your kindness,” he said, keeping his tone light despite the nagging thought of his dwindling savings. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman otherwise.”

Andrea chuckled. “You’re so sweet,” she said. “I’ll just have the carbonara.”

“Would you like some wine as well?” Zane asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Whatever you prefer,” Andrea replied, her smile never wavering.

Zane handed the menu back to the waitress, but as he glanced up, his gaze froze. The woman in the gray uniform, with her hair tied in a neat bun, bold red lipstick, and pink square glasses, struck a chord of familiarity. His eyes lingered on her a second too long, searching her face for answers. She caught his gaze, smiling awkwardly.

“Uhh…” Zane mumbled, quickly looking away and clearing his throat. “We’ll have a carbonara, tapsilog with rice, and a bottle of red wine.”

The woman smiled politely and made her way back to the counter. Zane's eyes lingered on her retreating figure, a flicker of curiosity playing across his face.

“You know her?” Andrea asked.

Zane’s eyes widened as if caught out, and he quickly bit his lower lip, shifting his focus back to Andrea. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I thought I did, but… you know what? Never mind.” He forced a smile, brushing off the moment.

“You say so,” Andrea remarked with a playful grin. “While we’re waiting, let me ask—how are you and Ms. De Verra getting on with your casework?”

Zane swallowed hard, a faint unease creeping into his posture. The discreet earpiece nestled in his ear reminded him that every word was being heard, and the thought nagged at him. For all he knew, someone within the restaurant might also be eavesdropping.

“It’s going well,” he replied, keeping his tone casual as he reached for his glass, hoping the answer would suffice without inviting more probing.

“Have you got any new leads on the… serial killer?” Andrea leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not— Not much,” Zane replied, stumbling slightly over his words.

“You know,” she began, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “it’s funny how people are calling this person Jack the Ripper. Did you know that here in our country, we’ve got our very own version of him? It’s even recorded in history.”

“Really? Who?” Zane pressed, his interest now fully captured.

Andrea leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a forbidden secret. “It all began with a string of strange murders in Pampanga, back in 1810,” she began. “One by one, bodies started surfacing in colonial-era Magalang. Spaniards and Filipinos alike were gripped by waves of curiosity, worry—and fear. No one could fathom why it was happening.”

Zane’s brows furrowed as she continued.

“In about a decade, nearly fifty deaths were recorded across the area, each stranger than the last. The guwardya sibil were baffled, unable to uncover a motive or find a clear connection between the murders. The victims came from all walks of life—farmers, merchants, even priests. But the brutality? That was the one constant.”

“You’re right,” Zane muttered, leaning closer. “It does sound eerily like Jack.”

“With no suspects or clues, the authorities declared the case unsolved,” Andrea went on. “What they didn’t realize—or couldn’t fathom—was that all these murders were linked to a single person. And not just anyone... a Filipino priest.”

Zane’s brows knitted in disbelief. “A priest? You’re serious?”

Andrea nodded. “Father Juan Severino Mallari,” she revealed.

“I’ve heard that name before,” Zane murmured, scratching his temple as if trying to summon a forgotten memory. “But... he’s a holy man. What could drive someone like him to commit such heinous acts?”

Before Andrea could answer, the waitress appeared at their table, balancing a tray with precision. “Here’s your order, Ma’am and Sir,” she announced, setting the plates and wine before them with practiced ease.

“Thank you,” Zane replied, glancing briefly at the waitress before returning his attention to Andrea. “Well?” he prompted as soon as the waitress walked away.

“He was a skilled artist and a devoted priest,” Andrea continued. “Some research suggests that his actions stemmed from a desperate attempt to save his mother, who was believed to have been bewitched—nakulam, as they say. He thought that by taking the lives of his practitioners, he could reverse the curse. Consumed by love and despair, he blurred the lines between righteousness and madness, setting forth on a killing spree.”

Zane's eyes widened, and he drew a sharp breath. His mind conjured the image of her own mother—her face vivid, then fading into the shadows of his memory. He sat back, his throat tight, before managing a quiet, “Oh.”

“Mallari is said to have claimed the lives of at least fifty-seven people while presiding over the Pampanga parish,” Andrea continued.

Zane leaned back in his chair, a frown forming on his brow. “Was it really black magic?”

Andrea shook her head slightly. “Some believe it was a matter of mental illness,” she replied.

“Psychosis?” Zane asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yes, severe psychosis. That’s the most widely accepted explanation,” Andrea replied. “Filipinos were deeply rooted in superstition and mythology at the time, which likely led them to perceive it differently. Eventually, the authorities caught up with him. He was imprisoned in Manila for fourteen years before being hanged in 1804.”

“How did it end, then?” he asked.

“The case ended with divided opinions on Mallari’s role,” Andrea replied. “To some, he was a heartless, cold-blooded killer who robbed people of their lives. To others, he was simply a confused, mentally ill son acting out of misguided love for his mother.” She paused before adding, “For me, it would’ve been easier to understand if he truly believed he was doing it for her.”

“We’d do anything for our parents, wouldn’t we?” Zane said, taking a measured sip of wine. Andrea followed suit, her goblet tipped to her lips as she drank deeply.

A sudden realization struck him: he had a mission to complete, and if he returned empty-handed, Raine might retreat into her usual coldness.

“You know, Andrea,” he said, voice faltering, “what do you reckon my shoe size is? Take a guess.” He blurted the question without thinking.

Andrea grinned and glanced at his white trainers. “I'm guessing 41?” she asked.

“I'll tell you after you let me guess yours,” he replied, also eyeing her shoes. “I'm guessing 38?”

“Well, you reveal yours first,” Andrea insisted.

“Mine’s actually 40,” Zane replied.

“So close!” Andrea said, taking another sip from the small amount in her goblet. “But I’m impressed you guessed mine right!”

“Um, more wine, Professor?” Zane asked.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Professor?” she teased, leaving Zane momentarily silent. “Oh, I’m only joking. Of course, I’ll have another.”

Zane took her glass and poured more wine. “Don’t worry, this one’s not strong,” he said, handing it to her. She twirled a bite of carbonara on her spork before eating.

“I’m not worried about getting drunk tonight. I’ll just take a taxi home, and besides, this isn’t my first time,” she said.

“You say so,” Zane replied.

“About earlier,” she continued, “I was really surprised you and Ms. De Verra approached Ms. Amara. I thought you didn’t know her.” She paused. “Actually, I was shocked to see how many people not from our village seemed more upset and mourning than those who were.”

“You were close to the deceased?” Zane asked.

“We had a collaboration. We were writing a book, but it was left unfinished after she suddenly lost motivation,” she answered, taking another sip of wine while Zane continued eating.

“Why lose motivation? I thought she was obsessed with her books?” Zane asked.

“Yes, she loved her books, but she had bad days, too. Writing takes a lot of dedication,” she answered. “It was all because of those strange things she kept mentioning—strange beasts of the night threatening her.”

“Do you have another friend who—”

“Amara didn’t treat anyone as her friend, even though I wanted her to be mine,” Andrea interrupted.

“Like Raine, then?” he jested.

“I… guess,” she replied. “Anyways, why the sudden interest in her and her connections? I thought you already knew her.”

Zane laughed, acknowledging Andrea’s sharpness, as if testing his intellect. “I was there out of respect, wanting to grieve with Raine’s friends when they went,” he said, then his expression turned serious. “And I might have a friend who’s seen that strange creature, too.”

They locked eyes for a long moment, and finally, Andrea sighed. She had clearly decided to share more than she intended, but before she could speak, a hand tapped her shoulder from behind. Both turned to see the young lady from the wake.

“Molly! What are you doing here?” Andrea asked.

“I can't believe I’d find you here, Ma'am,” Molly replied, wearing the same uniform as the waitstaff. “This is where I work on weekends.”

“Zane, this is Molly. She’s one of our university students and a history major, too,” Andrea introduced. “She found out about the collaboration and offered to help, but Amara declined.”

“I don’t want to think about that time again, Professor,” Molly said. “Besides, I can write my own story if I want to.”

Zane’s gaze shifted to her black shoes. “Let me guess, size 37, right?” he asked.

“Wow, how did you know?” Molly asked, surprised.

“Perhaps Professor Nuñez is just a really good observer,” Andrea said with a smile.

“Molly!” Mr. Tan, the owner, called from the counter.

“Oh, I’ve got to go now, ma'am and sir,” she said, then walked away.

“Want some more?” Zane asked, gesturing to the wine.

“Hit me,” Andrea replied, and Zane poured the wine for the second time. “I’m only saying this to you because you’re my friend, Mr. Nuñez.”

“Don’t worry, you can trust me,” he said.

Andrea leaned closer and whispered, “The strange creature she’s talking about can shapeshift into someone’s greatest nightmares. It could be witchcraft or something of that sort.”

“Like the ones in the movies?” Zane asked.

“I guess they’re a lot worse. They feed on the hearts of people, or so she told me. She said we should stop working on our book, or if we continued, doom would reign upon this city,” she replied, then took another sip of wine, followed by a bite of her carbonara.

“Hearts? Do you think they’re the ones who killed those people?” Zane asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. No one ever saw that thing except her,” she answered, taking the last bite of her food and one final sip of wine. “Maybe it was just her lack of sleep and obsession with researching mythology speaking at that time.”

It wasn’t long before they finished eating. They hailed a cab to take them to Ms. Mercado’s home in the province, the same village where Zane had come from earlier that day.

“Goodbye, Mr. Nuñez,” the slightly drunk Andrea said as she entered her home. Zane returned to the taxi, but after only a short distance, the engine cut out.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ll need to fix this first,” the cabbie said, heading to the trunk to retrieve his tools.

Seeing it might take a while, Zane quickly dashed over to Andrea, who was using her phone as a light, and helped her navigate the small hill leading to her house. “Thank you,” she said, finally opening the door to enter.

It was only then that he realized he needed to turn on his phone's flashlight, too. However, as he did, it shut down.

“What the f...?” he muttered under his breath, struggling to trace his way down the slope without slipping.

He narrowed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to clear the blur from his surroundings. As he scanned the area, a shadow seemed to flicker across the front yard some distance away. He lowered his head into his hand, rubbing his eyes for a few seconds, then raised it again, realizing how ominously quiet it had become.

But that silence didn’t last long. Something hissed to his left. He moved forward cautiously, glancing anxiously at the strange shadows encircling him. The hissing sound came again.

He continued walking until he finally reached the street, still a little distant from the taxi. Staring back at the hill in disbelief, a low, savage growl echoed in front of him. He squinted, but saw nothing.

He pulled out his phone again as he walked, but it wouldn’t turn on. “No,” he muttered.

When he reached the taxi, he sat inside again, finding the driver fixing something at the front. Zane tried to relax, leaning against the side of the driver’s seat. Suddenly, through the rearview mirror, he saw the image of a white lady standing outside the taxi. Her red eyes inched closer and closer toward him.

“Sir, are you done?” the driver asked, noticing Zane’s heavy breathing. “Come on now.”

The driver returned to his seat, leaving his things beside him, seemingly understanding what Zane was going through. The road stretched on until they finally arrived at Zane’s home. He dashed inside, collapsing onto his bed and snuggling into the warmth of his blanket.