Objection

Chapter Five

If idiocy were a crime, Andrei Romano would have been sentenced to life without parole.

Paul Marcus Razon leaned back on the cracked red couch in San Beda Law’s student lounge, one leg casually crossed over the other, while Andrei, half-Filipino, half-Italian, full-time menace, flashed his phone like he’d reinvented fire. Alexander Almeda sat between them, half-laughing, half-exasperated, sleeves rolled, the exact picture of a betrayed class president.

“You did what?” Paul asked flatly, sipping his iced Americano.

Andrei grinned. “Relax. It’s social experimentation.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “You made a Tinder account.”

“Yes.”

“Using my name.”

Andrei hesitated. “…and your pictures. But it’s for science.”

Alex nearly spat out his drink. “Science?!”

“And market research,” Andrei said, placid. “You’d be surprised how many women are just waiting to match with a future Supreme Court justice.”

Paul stared, unimpressed the way a professor stares when a defense collapses under cross-examination. “And you picked me?”

“Well, duh,” Andrei smirked. “Nobody swipes right on me. You’re the brand. I’m just leveraging your market presence.”

“That’s literally fraud with confidence,” Alex said, groaning.

Paul set his cup down, voice smooth and cold. “Why my face, Andrei?”

“Because it works!” Andrei announced, proudly scrolling the phone. “Look, matches. Mirriam, UST, La Salle, UA&P. All outside the U-Belt. That’s the trick.”

“What trick?” Alex asked.

Andrei leaned in conspiratorially. “You can’t use your real identity here. Everyone in Mendiola knows you’re Paul Razon: top of the class, bar-topper-in-the-making, walking ego. They’d assume it’s fake. But girls from Katipunan, from Makati? They believe. They think you’re real. They’re intrigued.”

Paul blinked. “So your strategy is catfishing with a travel radius.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Andrei sniffed. “It’s regional outreach.”

Alex was laughing now, stomach hurting. “You’re actually insane. So what happens when they discover you’re not Paul Razon, but a fifty-percent-less-attractive, budget-airline version?”

Paul smirked.

Andrei rolled his eyes. “You underestimate my charm. They stay.”

“They stay?” Alex repeated, aghast.

Andrei shrugged. “I’m funny. I have good hair. By the time they realize I’m not Paul, they’re already in too deep. Curiosity becomes chemistry. Works every time.”

Paul leaned forward, voice low and calm. “Andrei.”

“Yeah?”

“Deactivate it.”

Andrei blinked. “Come on, man. It’s not that deep.”

“It’s identity theft.”

“It’s marketing!”

The temperature in the room shifted. “You’re using my reputation to get laid with strangers,” Paul said evenly. “That’s not marketing. That’s stupidity with Wi-Fi.”

Alex snorted. “He’s right. Also, what kind of lawyer argues consent on Tinder?”

Unfazed, Andrei smirked. “The charming kind.”

Paul exhaled, long-suffering. “Delete the account, Andrei.”

Andrei dug into his pocket and produced a cracked burner phone, handing it over with a theatrical flourish. “Fine. You’re no fun. Here.” He slid the phone across the table and pushed a scrap of paper with a number scribbled on it. “That’s the phone and number I used. If it bothers you so much, take it over. I’ll even give you my matches.”

Paul stared at the phone like it was radioactive. “You made a separate phone and number just for Tinder?”

“Compartmentalization is a virtue,” Andrei shrugged.

“You’re compartmentalizing your crimes,” Alex said, barely containing his laughter.

Paul set the phone between them like evidence, picked it up, and said quietly, “This must be deactivated tonight.”

Andrei stretched, unrepentant. “Sure, sure. I’ll handle it.” He winked. “But if you change your mind, the account’s got momentum. You’d be shocked how many girls will match with you in a ten-kilometer radius. Tinder loves you.” He walked off whistling.

Alex shook his head, still chuckling. “You realize he probably has another phone where he can log in, right? He’ll keep using it.”

Paul watched Andrei go, expression unreadable. “If I find out he didn’t delete it, I’m going to wreck his face.”

Alex grinned. “Fair. But let’s be honest, if Tinder were real life, you’d crash the app in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t even have time to date,” Paul said, rolling his eyes as he picked up the phone.

“Tinder doesn’t care about your time,” Alex said. “It cares about chaos.”

Paul’s mouth twitched. “Exactly why I don’t f*****g use it.”

He pocketed the burner phone and dismissed the nonsense, completely forgetting about it. Later that night, back at his condo in New Manila with the late news murmuring on TV and a beer in hand, the phone buzzed on the side table where his housekeeper had left it.

A Tinder notification.

Paul sighed and glanced at the screen.

You have a new match.

He shook his head.

Andrei Romano was going to regret this.