Chosen Blood

Chapter 3 - Save and Negotiate

Night in Manila mapped out restless light and muted danger—the city that tested you with small things first: lost taxis, crowded markets, a hand that brushed too close—before dropping a storm without warning.

Hima and Abi left a late workshop, both delayed by schoolwork.

Abi had argued about data integrity until she’d satisfied her ego; Hima had stayed to finish a case study on corporate leverage.

They walked side by side—Hima’s stride long and sure, Abi’s steps quick, eyes flicking to corners where cameras and people hid.

Near the MRT exit a scuffle snapped them to attention. A girl no older than sixteen was being shoved by two men in cheap suits. One man yanked her wrist; the other drove a fist into her ribs. Bystanders walked past as if it weren’t their business.

“Hey!” Hima’s voice cut like a blade. She moved before Abi could think. “Let her go.”

The taller thug sneered. “Back off, kid.”

Abi’s phone came up—not to film, but to map the crowd, scan escape routes, and ping a nearby clinic.

“You look like trouble,” she said calmly. “Trouble doesn’t like cameras or witnesses.”

The fight was brutal and brief. Hima’s hands found grips and pressure points the attackers hadn’t expected; the men staggered, surprised that the teen they’d sized up fought with precise, controlled force.

Abi moved like someone picking social locks—shoving a trash can to trip one thug, shouting to draw attention so the others scattered. The girl broke free and crumpled into Hima’s arms, sobbing.

“What’s your name?” Abi asked softly as they shepherded her to safety.

“Lila,” she hiccupped.

“They said they were taking me to my dad’s safehouse… but I—” The sentence dissolved into tears.

Abi guided them to the small NGO clinic she’d pinged. Aya arrived groggy from sleep after Abi called. She moved with the calm of someone who’d seen worse and kept her hands steady—checking bruises, offering water, wrapping a blanket around Lila. “You’re safe,” Aya said, voice a steady anchor.

Lila sniffed, eyes wide with gratitude and fear. “They called him ‘Dela Cruz’—said my father would be there. Said it was urgent.”

Hima’s jaw tightened.

Memories of her parents’ ambush sharpened into a low, dangerous focus. Lila needed safety now.

They arranged for her to stay at the clinic’s emergency shelter. Aya ran a thorough check; Abi patched a burner phone to a throwaway SIM so Lila could call. Hima sat, paper cup cupped in both hands, thinking about what to do next.

Two days later a black sedan eased up to their rented house—tinted windows moving with the certainty of people used to buying control.

A woman stepped out first: immaculate dress, courtesy like a blade. A composed man hovered behind her.

They introduced themselves as Mara Dela Cruz and her husband Tomas. “You rescued my niece,” Mara said, voice even.

She slid an envelope across the table. Inside was money—neither ostentatious nor stingy, enough to steady three students.

Abi inspected the envelope carefully. Aya hovered, torn—money could mean tuition paid, medical supplies, stability. Hima’s stare stayed fixed on Mara.

“We didn’t do it for pay,” Hima said flatly.

Mara’s smile remained. “Consider it a token of gratitude.

We can offer financial support, placements—safe rotations for medical training, tech contracts, and business mentorship.”

Hima read the underside: favors owed, leverage exchanged. She set the envelope aside and met Mara’s composed look with one of her own. “We helped because it was right. But if you’re offering, tell us straight—what does that mean?”

Mara smoothed the proposal into practicality.

“We pay for loyalty and results. We can place Aya in a funded clinic, offer Abi consulting contracts, and arrange mentorship for your business studies.”

Hima weighed the trade. Money and placements could accelerate Aya’s path and give Abi real resources—but strings were possible. She stood, deliberate. “I’m not interested in being bought. I’m interested in partnership. We join on our terms. We vet you; you vet us. We take assignments that match our rules. Aya will do medical tasks, Abi will handle tech, and I’ll take business-facing responsibilities. No actions that put Aya at risk without her consent. No cutting us off from our own resources. Compensation is fine—but we’re not disposable.”

Abi’s mouth twitched; Aya watched with a mix of pride and fear. Mara’s expression shifted—interest, appraisal. “You ask a lot,” she said finally.

Tomas spoke low. “We’ll provide immediate compensation with no strings attached. We’ll open doors: clinic rotations, consulting contracts, and mentorship. Deeper integration must be earned.”

Hima nodded. It wasn’t total freedom, but it wasn’t naked exploitation. “We’ll prove ourselves—but not blindly. No tasks that put Aya directly at risk without her say. We keep autonomy: our accounts, our comms.”

Mara extended her hand. “Agreed in principle. We will draft terms and watch. Consider the cash a bridge.”

Hima’s grip was firm. “We’ll accept the bridge and the chance to show we’re worth more than an entry in your ledger.”

Abi opened the envelope and counted quickly—practical, not greedy.

“This will cover Aya’s next semester,” she said. “And seed fund a few legitimate projects that can feed into other goals.”

Tears shone in Aya’s eyes—relief, practical and sharp. “If this helps me finish rotations sooner…” Her voice steadied. “This could help a lot of people.”

Mara’s husband nodded. “We will send a liaison. You’ll be given tasks to test loyalty and competence. Success leads to deeper opportunities.”

Hima’s half-smile carried both gratitude and warning. “We won’t be manipulated.”

“You won’t be,” Mara said, though her eyes catalogued possibilities.

The visitors left. The envelope sat on the table like a small, heavy sun—practical aid and a test. They gathered in the dim kitchen as Manila hummed beyond the windows.

“What now?” Aya asked.

“We test them,” Hima said.

“Take the money—that’s pragmatic. Accept placements—but vet the people behind them. Make our conditions written. Abi—run background checks. Aya—get the clinic contacts and learn their operations. I’ll meet their business associate and trace who moves the money.”

Abi snapped her fingers, energized. “Secure comms. Redundant accounts. A parallel ledger. Receipts for anything they hand us.”

Aya squeezed Hima’s hand. “Promise me—no secrets.”

Hima looked at them both—Aya’s steadiness, Abi’s spark—and nodded. “No secrets. We use them; we don’t let them use us. We learn. And when the time comes—we strike from power.”

They had stepped into a room full of light and shadows.

The Dela Cruz family offered compensation and openings; Hima had negotiated a dangerous bargain but one taken with eyes open.

Outside, Manila breathed on. Inside, three young women took their first careful steps onto a chessboard where every move would have a cost—and the possibility of reclaiming everything.