The Wife They Couldn't Kill

1

There were mornings when I woke up before the alarm.

Not because I had slept enough.

I rarely did.

Sleep was a privilege I had never fully learned how to trust. My body treated rest like a trap—something too quiet, too soft, too dangerous to fall into completely. Kahit ilang buwan na kaming wala sa Europe, kahit wala na akong naririnig na mabibigat na yapak sa hallway, kahit wala nang tauhan ni Lolo na pwedeng biglang pumasok sa kwarto ko without knocking, I still woke up like someone had called my name in the dark.

Sharp.

Silent.

Ready.

The ceiling above me was stained from an old leak the landlord promised to fix but never did. A thin c***k ran from one corner to the lightbulb, jagged and uneven, like a scar the apartment refused to hide. The fan above us turned slowly, making that soft, tired clicking sound every few seconds. Click. Pause. Click. Pause. Parang countdown na hindi ko alam kung saan papunta.

I stayed still for a while.

Listening.

That was always the first thing I did.

Before opening my eyes fully, before moving even a finger, before allowing myself to believe the room was safe, I listened.

To the fan.

To the distant bark of a dog somewhere outside.

To the early-morning tricycles passing below the apartment building.

To the neighbor's faucet turning on through the thin wall.

To Rae's breathing from the mattress beside mine.

Steady.

Slow.

Alive.

Only then did my chest loosen.

Just a little.

The apartment was small. Too small for the kind of people I had been raised around, people who measured comfort by the size of their properties and safety by the number of armed men outside their gates. Here, our dining table could barely fit two plates without one of them almost falling off the edge. Our kitchen was a corner with a single burner, a rice cooker, and shelves that held instant noodles, canned food, and whatever groceries I could stretch until the next payout.

But I liked it.

Or maybe I liked what it meant.

No guards.

No marble floors.

No cold hallways that smelled like expensive perfume and gun oil.

No men lowering their heads when I passed because they knew my surname before they knew my face.

Just chipped tiles. Thin curtains. A rusty lock I had replaced with three better ones. A window that faced the back of another building. Laundry hanging from plastic hangers. Two pairs of shoes by the door. Rae's school bag leaning against the wall.

Ours.

Small, yes.

Temporary, maybe.

But ours.

I turned my head slowly and looked at him.

Rae was curled on his side, one arm under his pillow, his blanket kicked halfway down his legs. He looked younger when he slept. Softer. His mouth was slightly open, hair messy against his forehead, lashes resting against cheeks that still had too much childhood left in them for the life we had escaped.

Ten years old.

Too young to understand why I sometimes stood by the window for hours at night.

Too young to know that I memorized every exit in every place we entered.

Too young to realize that when I smiled at him outside his school gate, my eyes were always scanning the street behind him.

Good.

He deserved to be too young.

He deserved mornings where his biggest problem was unfinished homework or whether his classmates would trade snacks with him during break. He deserved teachers who called him bright, friends who shouted his name across the hallway, a classroom that smelled like pencil shavings and air-conditioning instead of blood and smoke.

He deserved a life where no one looked at him and saw the family he came from.

That was why I left.

People thought leaving was the hardest part.

It was not.

I had left places before. Rooms. Countries. Bodies. Versions of myself I could not afford to keep.

The hardest part was keeping us gone.

Every day, I had to make sure we did not leave traces too obvious to follow. Every payment had to be careful. Every document had to be clean enough to pass but dirty enough not to lead anyone back to the truth. Every call from Sevryn had to be ignored long enough to frustrate him but answered occasionally enough to keep him from sending half of Europe after us.

It was exhEclipse g.

But exhaustion was still better than surrender.

I sat up slowly, careful not to wake Rae. The floor was cold under my feet. For a moment, I just stayed there, elbows on my knees, staring at the small space we had built a life inside.

A month.

That was all it had been.

One month since we left Europe.

One month since I looked Lolo in the eyes and realized there was no argument that would make him accept Rafael.

Rafael.

Rae.

My brother.

Not by blood. Not by the family records Lolo cared about. Not by the rules men like him used to decide who belonged and who did not.

But mine.

He was mine in the way people became yours when you chose them despite everyone telling you not to. Mine in the way his small hand had held the back of my shirt the first night we ran. Mine in the way he looked at me for permission before trusting anyone else. Mine in the way I had promised him, without saying it out loud, that I would not let them send him away like he was a mistake that needed correcting.

Lolo accepted me.

Sevryn.

Solenne .

All of us, in different ways, had been collected by that family and given a surname that felt like both protection and ownership. We were not born Alcazar, but we became useful enough to be kept.

Rae was different.

To Lolo, his blood was a stain.

To me, he was a child.

And if the old man could not see the difference, then I had no reason to stay.

The rice cooker clicked.

I stood.

Morning began the way most of our mornings did—with quiet movements, careful budgeting, and the soft ache of pretending I was older than eighteen.

I washed rice with one hand while checking my phone with the other. No new messages from the school. No alerts from the fake accounts I used. No suspicious transactions. No unknown numbers except the ones I had already blocked.

Good.

I opened my wallet next.

Three bills. Some coins. A folded receipt. A small list of expenses written on the back of an old flyer.

Rent.

Electricity.

Water.

Rae's project materials.

Groceries.

School contribution.

My tuition balance.

I stared at the numbers for a while.

Then I folded the paper again.

Money had a different sound when you did not have enough of it.

In mansions, money was silent. It moved through accounts, signatures, lawyers, transactions no one had to look at too closely.

Here, money was loud.

It clinked in coins at the bottom of my bag. It crumpled in my pocket. It disappeared too quickly after groceries. It kept me awake at night, whispering calculations against the dark.

I could get more.

That was never the problem.

Underground fights paid well when people wanted to watch a girl bleed and win anyway. Street races paid better when rich boys with modified cars underestimated me. Other jobs—the kind I did not name unless necessary—paid enough to keep Rae in school and our apartment secure.

Dirty money.

Blood money.

Survival money.

I used to think I would care more about that.

But then I watched Rae sleep with his school ID beside his pillow because he was afraid of losing it, and I realized morality was a luxury adults used when children were already safe.

I cooked rice.

Reheated the ulam from last night.

Packed his lunch.

The tupperware was old, the lid slightly loose on one side, so I wrapped it twice in plastic. I added extra rice because he was growing too fast and always pretended he was not hungry when he thought food was running low. I placed the spoon and fork inside a folded tissue. Then, after hesitating, I tore a small piece from a notebook and wrote:

Eat properly. Don't trade your food for candy. I'll know.

I stared at the note.

Too soft.

I almost removed it.

Then Rae stirred behind me.

"Ate?"

I turned.

He was sitting up, hair messy, one eye still half-closed.

For a second, he looked exactly like what he was.

A child.

Not a burden.

Not a risk.

Not the reason I had turned my back on the only powerful family that ever protected me.

Just my brother.

"Gising ka na?" I asked.

He yawned and rubbed his face. "May pasok ako."

"Obviously."

"May breakfast?"

"Wala. Starve ka today."

His eyes widened for half a second before he saw my face.

Then he frowned. "Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

"No."

I smirked and placed his plate on the small table. "Kumain ka na. Mabagal ka pa naman kumilos."

He scrambled up and rushed to the bathroom, nearly slipping because his blanket was still tangled around one foot.

"Careful," I snapped.

"Opo!"

The bathroom door shut.

I exhaled.

The apartment became quiet again, but not the same kind of quiet as before. This one had movement waiting inside it. A school uniform hanging from a chair. Shoes that needed wiping. A child brushing his teeth too loudly behind the door. Rice cooling on the table.

A life.

Small.

Fragile.

But real.

By the time Rae finished breakfast, the sun had already climbed high enough to push heat through the thin curtains. He wore his uniform neatly, though his collar was slightly crooked. I fixed it before he could complain.

"Ate," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Stay still."

"I can do it."

"You did it wrong."

"Hindi naman halata."

"Sa akin, halata."

He rolled his eyes but stayed still.

I adjusted his collar, brushed invisible lint off his shoulder, then checked his bag. Books. Notebook. Pencil case. Water bottle. Lunch. Assignment folder.

"Homework?"

"Done."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Math?"

He hesitated.

I looked at him.

He smiled nervously.

"I did most of it."

"Rae."

"I'll finish during break."

"No. Finish before class."

"Ate naman."

I stared.

He sighed in defeat. "Okay."

Good.

There were rules in this life we were building. Small ones. Normal ones. The kind of rules that did not involve weapons or escape routes or which names not to say in public.

Do your homework.

Eat lunch.

Do not talk to strangers.

Call me if anything feels wrong.

Never leave school without me knowing.

If someone asks too many questions, lie.

If someone says my real surname, run.

Okay.

Maybe not all the rules were normal.

But they kept him alive.

We locked the apartment together. One lock. Second lock. Third lock. I checked each one twice. Rae waited without complaining because he had already learned which parts of me not to question.

Outside, the hallway smelled like fried garlic and laundry soap. Someone's baby was crying behind another door. A neighbor greeted us as we passed. I nodded but did not stop.

The walk to Rae's school was fifteen minutes if we moved fast, twenty if he got distracted by food stalls or stray cats. Today, he was unusually quiet.

That meant he was thinking.

I hated when he thought too much.

"Anong problema?" I asked.

He kicked a small pebble along the sidewalk.

"Wala."

"Liar."

He glanced at me.

I waited.

He sighed.

"Tinawagan ka ulit ni Kuya Sevryn kagabi?"

My steps slowed for half a second.

Of course he heard.

The apartment walls were thin. My voice was quieter than most people's, but Rae had lived with fear long enough to hear silence too.

"Hindi," I said.

Technically true.

I did not answer last night.

"Hinahanap pa rin tayo?"

"Yes."

"Galit siya?"

"Concerned."

"Same thing minsan."

I looked at him.

He kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

Too young.

Too smart.

Too aware.

My chest tightened.

"Kuya Sevryn won't hurt you," I said.

"I know."

"Then?"

He swallowed.

"Si Lolo?"

The name settled between us.

Heavy, even under the bright Philippine morning, between vendors selling taho and students walking in uniforms and jeepneys passing too close to the sidewalk.

I did not answer immediately.

Lying was easy for me.

Too easy.

But not to him.

Never to him.

"I won't let him take you," I said.

Rae looked up.

There was fear in his eyes, but also trust.

I hated that trust sometimes.

Not because I did not want it.

Because it gave me something to lose.

"Promise?" he asked.

I stopped walking.

He stopped too.

For a moment, I saw him the way I had seen him the night we left—trying not to cry, carrying a backpack too heavy for him, trusting me more than any child should have to trust an eighteen-year-old girl with blood under her fingernails and no real plan except run.

I reached out and fixed the strap of his bag.

"I promise."

He smiled.

Small.

Relieved.

Then, like children always did, he let the fear go faster than I could.

"Can I buy fishball later?"

"No."

"Ate."

"No street food on school days."

"But you eat street food."

"I have stronger stomach."

"That's unfair."

"Life is unfair."

"You sound old."

"I feel old."

He laughed.

And just like that, the morning loosened.

By the time we reached the school gate, the place was already crowded. Cars lined the street. Drivers opened doors for children with polished shoes and expensive bags. Mothers kissed cheeks. Fathers checked watches. Guards greeted students by name.

I stopped a few steps away from the entrance.

I never went too close if I did not have to.

Crowds made it harder to track movement.

Too many hands. Too many faces. Too many possible exits and threats.

Rae adjusted his bag and turned to me.

That was when I took out his lunch.

"Rae, baon mo."

I handed him the tupperware wrapped in plastic.

Agad niya itong kinuha, then smiled at me like it was just lunch. Like it was not the result of last night's budgeting, this morning's careful cooking, and every dirty job I had taken so he could stand here in a clean uniform in front of one of the best schools in the Philippines.

"Sige, Ate. Salamat."

Hindi ko napigilan ang maliit na ngiti.

Ginulo ko ang buhok niya.

"Ate!" He ducked away, fixing it immediately, but he was laughing.

"Ayusin mo grades mo," I said. "Huwag kang puro laro."

"Opo na," he answered, tone making it obvious he had heard the same warning too many times.

But before he entered, he looked back.

For a second, the noise around the gate softened.

Then he waved.

I lifted my hand back.

He ran inside, bag bouncing behind him, lunch secure in one hand. A group of children immediately called his name. He turned toward them, face brightening, and within seconds, he disappeared into their noise.

I stayed there longer than necessary.

Watching.

Counting.

Making sure no one followed him.

Making sure no unfamiliar adult looked at him too long.

Making sure the gate closed behind him with him on the right side of it.

Only then did I breathe.

My brother was ten years old, and I was doing everything I could to keep him in one of the best schools here in the Philippines. Halos umabot na sa one million ang tuition niya for one school year, pero pinagsisikapan ko. Pinag-iipunan ko. Pinaglalaban ko.

He deserved the best.

The best life.

The best education.

The best future.

The best that I could never have.

I pulled my hood over my head and turned away from the gate.

The morning sun was already warm, almost harsh against the back of my neck, but I did not lower my hood. Mas komportable ako kapag hindi masyadong nakikita ang mukha ko. Mas komportable ako kapag hindi ako napapansin.

Our apartment was a twenty-minute walk from my school. Since hinatid ko pa si Rae, it would take me around thirty minutes bago makarating. Hindi naman problema sa akin ang paglalakad. Sanay ako sa mas mahirap doon. Sanay ako sa pagtakbo habang may humahabol. Sanay ako sa paghinga nang tahimik kahit may baril na nakatutok sa likod ko.

Walking to school was easy.

Too easy.

That was why I did not trust it.

Habang naglalakad, ilang beses akong tumingin sa mga salamin ng nakaparadang sasakyan, sa mga taong nakatayo sa gilid ng kalsada, sa mga motor na mabagal ang andar. Habit. Instinct. Paranoia. Call it whatever you want.

But that instinct kept me alive for years.

Then my phone vibrated inside my pocket.

Kuya Sevryn calling...

Huminto ako sa gilid ng daan.

For a second, I just stared at the screen.

The morning kept moving around me. Students passed. A vendor shouted prices. A jeepney slowed near the corner. Somewhere, someone laughed like the world was not built on threats and blood debts.

I encrypted my phone.

Of course I did.

Alam kong tina-track niya kami. Hindi siya tanga. Sevryn was trained to find people. To hunt. To bring back what belonged to the family.

And according to them, I still belonged to them.

But Rae did not.

That was the problem.

Ayaw ni Lolo sa kanya. He accepted me, Sevryn, and Solenne kahit hindi naman kami totoong magkakapatid. We were all orphans. Different blood. Different pasts. Same roof. Same surname, eventually.

Pero si Rafael—si Rae—hindi niya matanggap.

Galing daw ito sa pamilyang kinamumuhian niya.

As if a child should pay for the sins of the people who gave him blood.

The phone kept vibrating.

I answered.

"Kuya."

"The f**k, Selena! Where are you?!"

Sevryn's voice exploded through the speaker so loudly I had to pull the phone slightly away from my ear.

"And will you stop encrypting your phone?"

Napangisi ako, pero walang saya sa ngiting iyon.

"Good morning din, Kuya."

"Don't give me that. Where are you?"

"Somewhere safe."

"Safe?" He laughed, but it sounded more frustrated than amused. "You disappeared with Rafael, blocked half of our trackers, encrypted your phone, and you expect me to believe you're safe?"

"I am."

"Sel, come home. I'll provide you shelter, food, everything. You know I can."

Napatingin ako sa kabilang kalsada habang may dumadaang kotse.

For one second, naalala ko yung bahay namin sa Europe.

Malaki. Malamig. Tahimik. A house full of expensive furniture, hidden weapons, and people who called murder business.

Shelter, food, everything.

Yes, Sevryn could give that.

But not freedom.

Not for Rae.

"Magtratrabaho pa rin ako para sa Mafia, Kuya," sabi ko. "You can't take Azrael away from me."

There was a sharp pause on the other line.

"Selena."

I hated it when he said my name like that.

Parang kuya siya.

Parang nag-aalala siya.

Parang hindi niya rin kayang magpadala ng tao para hanapin ako kung kailangan.

"Come home," he said, softer this time. "Please. We can talk to Lolo."

"I already talked to him."

"That was different."

"He wanted Rae gone."

"He was angry."

"He meant it."

Silence.

I continued walking again, slower this time. The street was getting busier, students in uniforms passing me by, vendors calling customers, cars honking like everything was normal.

Like my brother's safety was not hanging between me and the family I ran away from.

"I can provide for us," I said. "I'm an underground fighter. Baka nakakalimutan mo."

"f**k! I told you to stop fighting and racing!" His voice rose again. "Where the hell exactly are you? Halos galugarin na namin ang buong Britain!"

"Then stop looking in Britain."

Another pause.

I smiled faintly.

"You can never find me, Kuya. Not until Lolo accepts Azrael."

"Sel—"

I ended the call.

For a few seconds, hawak ko pa rin ang phone ko kahit wala na ang boses niya. The screen went black, and my reflection stared back at me.

Hood up.

Eyes cold.

Face calm.

The face of someone who knew how to disappear.

I was eighteen years old.

An underground fighter.

A car racer.

A mafia assassin.

Nabubuhay kami sa perang nakukuha ko sa pangangarera, pakikipaglaban, and other jobs I did not say out loud unless I had to. It was dirty money, yes. But it paid for rent. Food. School. Rae's books. His uniforms. His future.

We left Britaina month ago and ended up here in the Philippines.

Unexpected.

Messy.

Hot as hell.

But life here was f*****g great compared to the cage we escaped from.

They would never imagine me here.

Ako, apo ng isang mafia lord, living in a third world country, walking to school like any normal student with unfinished homework and a packed schedule.

That was exactly why it worked.

People always searched for power in powerful places.

They never thought to look for it hiding in plain sight.