Later that night, Santiago slipped away from the ballroom, making his way to the secluded gardens. He needed air, a moment to let his fury settle into cold calculation. The shadows of the grand estate stretched long under the moonlight, but he was not alone.

A voice emerged from the darkness.

Isabela: "Who are you really?"

Santiago turned to find her standing a few feet away, the moonlight accentuating the sharp glint in her eyes. She was no fool. Something about him had unsettled her.

Santiago: (smirking) "A businessman. A survivor. A man who understands the game."

She stepped closer, searching his face.

Isabela: "Your eyes… they remind me of someone I once knew. Someone I lost."

Santiago felt a pang in his chest but masked it with a chuckle.

Santiago: "Perhaps I am merely a ghost of the past, Señora."

Before she could respond, a sudden commotion erupted inside the estate. A gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of shouting and crashing glass. Santiago’s instincts flared as he reached for the dagger hidden in his coat.

From the balcony above, Don Rivera staggered forward, clutching his chest. Blood seeped through his fine clothes. He gasped, then fell forward, crashing onto the marble floor below.

Chaos descended upon the party. Guards stormed the estate as guests screamed and fled. Santiago’s mind raced—who dared assassinate Don Rivera so boldly?

His eyes darted to Capitán Morales and Rafael, both of whom looked equally stunned by the sudden turn of events. Was this their doing? Or was another player in the shadows?

Isabela grabbed his arm, her voice urgent.

Isabela: "We need to leave. Now."

Santiago hesitated. This was unexpected, but perhaps an opportunity. If the power vacuum was great enough, he could move in.

Santiago: (coldly) "No. I need to know who did this. And if it’s my enemies… then they will regret not striking me first."

The air in Don Rivera’s estate was thick with tension. The once-lavish ballroom was now in chaos—guests fleeing in terror, guards shouting orders, and blood pooling beneath Don Rivera’s lifeless body. Santiago de Varga stood motionless, his sharp eyes scanning the room, absorbing every detail.

Someone had dared to strike at one of Manila’s most powerful men in public. This was no random act—it was an execution. But by whom?

Isabela tugged at his sleeve, urgency in her voice.

Isabela: (whispering) "Santiago, we have to go. Now!"

Santiago’s jaw clenched. He was tempted to stay, to watch the reactions of his enemies, to see if Rafael or Capitán Morales flinched. But Isabela was right—staying would only invite suspicion or worse, capture.

With a final glance at Don Rivera’s corpse, he nodded.

Santiago: "There’s a back exit. Follow me."

They weaved through the panicked crowd, slipping past distracted guards and out into the darkened gardens. The night was alive with the sound of galloping hooves as carriages fled the scene, carrying nobles desperate to escape the bloodshed.

Santiago and Isabela moved swiftly toward a secluded side gate, but before they could reach it, a shadowy figure emerged from the hedges, a pistol aimed directly at Santiago’s chest.

Masked Assassin: "Señor de Varga. You move quickly for a man who claims to have no enemies."

Santiago’s eyes narrowed. The assassin’s voice was muffled beneath a black scarf, but his stance was that of a trained killer—steady hands, poised to fire at the slightest wrong move.

Santiago: (calmly) "And you kill quickly for a man who hasn’t thought this through. If you were sent to murder me, you’ve already failed."

The assassin tilted his head, considering him.

Masked Assassin: "Perhaps. But maybe my orders were to watch. To see if you are truly who you claim to be."

Isabela inched closer to Santiago, her breath quickened.

Isabela: "Who sent you?"

A smirk curled beneath the assassin’s scarf.

Masked Assassin: "That is a question for another night. Consider this a warning, Señor de Varga. You are playing a dangerous game, and someone is watching you. Closely."

Before Santiago could react, the assassin threw down a smoke bomb. A thick cloud engulfed them, and by the time it cleared, he was gone.

Santiago exhaled sharply.

Santiago: "This was no coincidence. Someone wanted Don Rivera dead… and they wanted me here to see it."

Isabela turned to him, her voice laced with suspicion.

Isabela: "Who are you really, Santiago? Because whoever you are, you are now in the center of something much bigger."

Santiago met her gaze, the weight of his past pressing heavily on him.

Santiago: "I am exactly who I need to be. And if someone thinks they can threaten me… they will regret it."

As dawn broke, Santiago rode through the quiet streets of Manila, his mind racing. He needed answers. Don Rivera’s death had left a power vacuum, and he had to move quickly before someone else filled it.

His first stop was the docks, where an old informant named Esteban ran a small but lucrative network of spies and thieves.

Esteban, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a permanent smirk, greeted him with feigned politeness.

Esteban: "Señor de Varga. To what do I owe this honor?"

Santiago didn’t waste time. He tossed a small pouch of gold onto the table.

Santiago: "Information. On whoever ordered Don Rivera’s death."

Esteban raised an eyebrow, weighing the pouch before slipping it into his coat.

Esteban: "The word on the streets is that this was no simple power grab. Someone is moving pieces behind the scenes. And if I were you, I’d be careful."

Santiago leaned in, his voice a whisper of steel.

Santiago: "I don’t plan to be careful. I plan to be first."

The game had begun, and Santiago would make sure he was the one pulling the strings.