Veins of Betrayal

Breaking Patterns

Chapter 3

Part 1



The air at Sarangani Bay had tasted of salt and new beginnings that morning. By the time Jersel arrived at Efren’s office on Pioneer Avenue, the heat had risen and the traffic roared like an impatient tide. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a loose shirt — no makeup, no jewelry except her small pendant. It felt like armor she could move in.

Efren glanced up from his desk as she came in. “Ready?”

She nodded. “More than yesterday.”

He motioned to a chair and slid a new folder toward her. “Nathan filed a quitclaim deed yesterday transferring one of your joint properties to his corporation. We intercepted it at the Registry of Deeds.”

Jersel stared at the document. “He’s moving fast.”

“He’s trying to drain everything before you’re fully awake,” Efren said. “But now he’s on our radar.”

“What happens to the property?”

“For now it’s frozen. We filed a notice of adverse claim. Any further transfer will flag the registry.”

“Will that stop him?”

Efren’s mouth tightened. “It slows him. Stopping comes next.”

An hour later, she was at Lito’s gym near the Fish Port Complex again. The smell of grilled tuna from nearby stalls drifted through the open windows, mixing with the sharp scent of mats and sweat. Today Lito added more drills: knee strikes, pivoting away from a grab, hammer-fist blows to an imaginary assailant’s temple.

“Make noise,” he barked. “Noise deters predators. It’s not polite; it’s survival.”

“Stop!” she shouted as she struck the pad. The sound startled even herself. Her fists ached but she pushed on, learning to tuck her thumb, to keep her stance balanced.

Efren stood near the door, as always, watching without interfering. His presence steadied her like a landmark.

After an hour, sweat streaked her back and her legs trembled. Lito tossed her a towel. “Good. Now you’re training your nervous system. Confidence will come later.”

She sipped water, looking at Efren. “Does this really make a difference?”

“Yes,” Efren said. “It gives you a reflex instead of a freeze.”

That evening, Efren spread a map of General Santos City across his desk. He pointed to colored pushpins: red for Nathan’s known haunts, blue for Natalia’s, yellow for potential “safe” zones for Jersel.

“You’ll change your routines,” he said. “If you go shopping, vary the time and location. Take cash, not cards. No predictable patterns.”

She nodded, tracing the map with her eyes. “Nathan always thought of me as predictable.”

“Good,” Efren said. “That was his first mistake.”

They planned her next week like a military operation: alternating gym sessions and legal prep, moving between safehouses and offices. Efren arranged a pro bono security consultant to review her home locks and install cameras.

“You’re not paranoid,” he said. “You’re targeted. We plan accordingly.”

Meanwhile, across town, Nathan and Natalia met in a sleek condo overlooking Pioneer Avenue. Natalia wore a silk robe, her hair damp from a shower, eyes lined dark. Nathan stood at the window, glass of whisky in hand.

“She’s changing,” Natalia said, watching his reflection. “She’s getting… harder.”

Nathan smirked. “She’s playing at being hard. She’ll break. They all do.”

“But the lawyer—”

“Bautista?” Nathan snorted. “He’s a small-town fixer. We’ll crush him too.”

He drained his glass and turned, his eyes bright with a hard light. “It’s time for the accident.”

Natalia’s hands tightened on the edge of the counter. “Nathan—”

He stepped closer, pressing a finger under her chin. “We’re in too deep to hesitate.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“Good.” He smiled without warmth. “Tomorrow.”

The next day, Jersel left Efren’s office after a morning of filing affidavits. She had a short list of errands: groceries at SM City GenSan, a stop at the bank to sign a new authorization, then home. Efren had insisted she text him each time she changed location.

She parked her car in the SM City open lot, under the shade of a giant tarpaulin advertising a tuna festival. The air smelled of asphalt and grilled squid from a nearby stall.

Inside the mall, she moved through the cool corridors, scanning faces automatically the way Lito had taught her: hands visible, eyes flicking, posture reading. She bought rice, vegetables, toiletries. At each shop, she paid cash.

She felt different. Not invisible, but present. For the first time in months, she wasn’t moving under a haze. She was watching.

At the supermarket exit, she adjusted her bags and headed for the parking lot. That was when she saw the van.

White, unmarked, parked diagonally across from her car. The engine running. Two men in caps sitting inside, faces turned forward but not quite blank. One held a phone to his ear without speaking.

She slowed her steps. Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “Need to talk about Nathan. Come closer.”

Her pulse spiked. She remembered Lito’s voice: If it feels wrong, it is.

She pivoted smoothly and walked back into the mall, heading straight for the guard station near the entrance. “Kuya, may van outside, two men, suspicious,” she said in Filipino, voice steady. “Can you check?”

The guard straightened. “Sige, Ma’am.” He spoke into his radio.

She ducked into a coffee shop and sat at a corner table, phone out but eyes on the window. Through the glass she saw the van pull out slowly and merge into traffic.

Her hands trembled as she typed to Efren: “Van. Two men. SM City. Left when I went back inside.”

His reply came immediately: “Stay inside. I’m coming.”

Fifteen minutes later, Efren strode into the coffee shop, scanning the room like a soldier. He sat opposite her. “Tell me.”

She recounted every detail, down to the license plate’s first three letters.

“Good,” he said. “You did everything right. Don’t go straight home. We’ll switch cars.”

Her stomach turned. “This is real.”

“It’s been real,” Efren said softly. “Now it’s visible.”

They left together through a side exit, took a taxi to his office, and from there used his car to drive to a safehouse in a quiet subdivision. The house belonged to a retired judge who owed Efren a favor. It smelled faintly of old wood and mothballs, but it was secure.

Inside, Efren poured her water and set it on the table. “Nathan’s accelerating. We’ll escalate too.”

She sat down heavily. “I feel like my life is being peeled away.”

Efren leaned against the wall. “It’s not being peeled. It’s being stripped. There’s a difference. Stripping can be stopped.”

She met his eyes. “You sound so sure.”

“I’m paid to sound sure,” he said. Then, more softly, “But also, I am sure.”

That night, as rain fell over the city, Jersel lay awake in the spare bedroom of the safehouse. She listened to the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the faint echo of motorcycles on a distant street. She thought of Nathan and Natalia, of their conspiratorial smiles, of the white van waiting at SM City.

But she also thought of Lito’s drills, of Efren’s map, of her own notebook filling with evidence. She imagined her body becoming a lockbox, her mind a blade. She whispered to herself in the dark: “I am not the same.”

The next morning, Efren took her to a firing range on the outskirts of the city. He introduced her to a female instructor, a retired policewoman named Miriam. “Strictly for confidence and familiarity,” he said. “We’re not turning you into a vigilante.”

Under Miriam’s guidance, Jersel learned to hold, aim, and dry-fire a pistol. The sound of live rounds later startled her but didn’t make her flinch. Each shot seemed to puncture a piece of the fear lodged under her ribs.

“Good stance,” Miriam said, adjusting her grip. “Breathe. Squeeze, don’t yank.”

Jersel hit the paper silhouette’s torso again and again. She didn’t care about the bull’s-eye; she cared about the steadiness in her hands.

Efren watched from behind the safety glass. When she glanced back, his gaze held that same quiet intensity, softened only by admiration.

That evening, Natalia texted Jersel: “Dinner soon? Miss my best friend. We can talk?”

Jersel stared at the message until it blurred. She typed back: “Busy.”

Three dots danced. “Ok. You know I’m here.”

Jersel put the phone face down. In her notebook, under today’s date, she wrote: Natalia — fishing for info.

She closed the book, her jaw set. She felt a tremor of sadness but also a new thread of clarity. Natalia wasn’t her best friend. Natalia was an opponent who knew her soft spots.

Not anymore.

Across town, Nathan slammed his phone down. “She’s dodging. She’s hiding.”

Natalia lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Maybe she’s just busy.”

He turned on her sharply. “You’re supposed to be my eyes. She’s slipping.”

Natalia looked at him through the smoke. “She’s not who she used to be.”

Nathan’s smile was thin as wire. “Then we take her down before she learns how to fight.”

At Sarangani Bay the following dawn, Jersel jogged again, her breathing steady. Fishermen hauled nets nearby, the air thick with salt and diesel. She paused to stretch, watching the sunrise ignite the water like liquid fire.

She thought of Efren’s plan: two more weeks of training, asset freezes, surveillance. She thought of Nathan’s van. And she thought of herself — the woman who once measured sugar carefully to avoid a morning argument.

“Never again,” she whispered to the tide.