KABANATA ISA
1546 Words
Gunshots echoed everywhere—sharp cracks ricocheting off concrete walls, bouncing through the narrow corridors like angry thunder. Smoke crawled along the ceiling, thick and bitter, stinging their eyes and throats. The air tasted like metal and dust and burnt powder, and every breath felt heavier than the last.
A soldier beside Sergeant Limuel trembled violently, his face pale under the grime. His hands were bound so tightly his fingers had started to turn numb.
“Sir… I’m sorry.” The soldier’s voice cracked into a whisper. “We failed this operation because of my incompetence.”
Limuel turned his head slowly, forcing his expression to remain calm even as fear tried to claw its way up his chest.
“No,” he said firmly, each word deliberate. “It’s not your fault.”
The soldier blinked hard, trying not to cry. Around them, the room shook from another distant blast, dust raining from the ceiling in a soft, cruel shower.
“And this operation is not a failure,” Limuel continued, voice steady despite the pounding in his ears. “We still have a chance—as long as I’m breathing.”
He scanned the dim cell-like space. One door. Bolted shut. No windows. No escape routes. Just cold concrete walls that reflected the distant screams and gunfire like a reminder: they were trapped.
Their hands were tied. Their feet were restrained. They sat on the freezing floor, backs pressed to the wall like criminals waiting for execution.
Beside them were the civilians they had been assigned to escort—Americans who were supposed to secure a weapons deal for the military. Now, those same men were huddled together like frightened children, shoulders shaking, eyes darting at every sound outside.
One of them—middle-aged, dirt smeared across his face—started sobbing quietly.
“I don’t want to die,” he choked out, tears carving clean lines down his cheeks. “I still… I still want to see my wife.”
Limuel’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
He’d trained for gunfights. For ambushes. For missions that went wrong.
But he hadn’t trained for this—listening to civilians beg for their lives while they waited, helpless, in the dark.
He swallowed, ignoring the throb in his ribs and the warmth of blood soaking through his uniform. Their lives weren’t in their hands anymore.
They were in the hands of people far more ruthless.
“No,” Limuel said again, louder this time, as if volume alone could turn his words into a shield. “We will get out of here alive.”
For a heartbeat, the world outside suddenly fell silent.
No gunfire. No screaming. No explosions.
Just a heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed against their ears.
Limuel’s stomach dropped. Silence like that usually meant only one thing: someone was coming.
Then—
The door creaked.
The sound was slow. Controlled. Like whoever opened it didn’t care if they were heard.
A calm, measured voice cut through the darkness. “Are you Sergeant Limuel?”
A man stepped into the room.
He wore a sleek black mask that swallowed the little light there was. No insignia. No badge. No visible weapons—at least none Limuel could see. His movements were quiet, almost too quiet, like he didn’t belong in the chaos outside. Like the battlefield had to adjust itself around him.
Limuel narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the gloom. “Yes,” he answered cautiously.
The masked man didn’t waste time. He moved fast—efficient, precise—kneeling and slicing through their restraints like he’d done it a hundred times. The blade flashed once, twice, and the ropes fell away.
“I’m here to rescue you,” the man said, voice even. Not heroic. Not dramatic. Just a statement of fact. “Follow my lead, and move only when I say ‘go.’”
Before Limuel could ask anything, the masked man slipped back into the corridor as silently as he arrived—like a shadow peeling away from the wall.
And immediately, the chaos returned.
Gunshots erupted again, louder now, closer. Explosions shook the floor so hard the civilians cried out and pressed themselves against the walls.
“INTRUDER!” enemy soldiers shouted somewhere outside. “There’s an intruder!”
Limuel forced himself to stand, legs stiff from being tied for so long. He helped the trembling soldier up, then reached down to pull one of the civilians to his feet.
“Stay close,” he hissed. “Don’t break formation.”
The masked man reappeared in the doorway as if he’d been waiting for the exact right moment. His head tilted slightly, listening to the corridor like it was a song only he could hear.
“Go,” he said.
They rushed out.
The hallway was a nightmare. Smoke. Sparks. Debris. Bodies sprawled across the floor, some unmoving, some… still twitching. Limuel’s heart slammed against his ribs as they stumbled forward, trying not to look down.
Shots cracked from the far end.
The masked man moved.
Limuel could barely track him.
He didn’t run like a normal person. He flowed—smooth, calculated—slipping between bullets like he already knew where they would be. Enemy soldiers raised their guns and fired, but their shots found nothing but air.
The masked man’s hand snapped out.
A soldier collapsed.
Another lunged forward—
A sharp sound, like a blade biting into flesh.
Another body hit the ground.
Limuel, injured and limping, did what he could. He shoved a civilian behind a half-broken wall, yanked another away from a line of fire. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
“Move! Move!” he barked.
They pushed deeper through the base. Every corner felt like a trap. Every shadow looked like an enemy waiting to strike. But the masked man kept clearing the way, as if fear couldn’t touch him.
Then—
Clack.
A gun clicked empty.
An enemy soldier in front of them froze, then slowly grinned when he realized what had happened. He lifted his chin, smugness creeping into his eyes.
“Huh.” His voice dripped with satisfaction. “Now what do you think you can do with no bullets left?”
The masked man didn’t react. He didn’t curse. He didn’t flinch.
He simply spoke, calm as ever.
“Kill you.”
The enemy’s smirk faltered.
In a blink, the masked man closed the distance.
One fluid motion—so fast it looked unreal—steel flashed, and the soldier’s head separated from his body like it was nothing.
Blood sprayed. The body dropped.
Limuel and the civilians froze, horror and awe slamming into them at the same time. One of the Americans gagged, eyes wide, trembling so hard he could barely stand.
Limuel’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep moving. He’d seen death before. But not like that.
Not that clean.
Not that effortless.
They didn’t stop.
Explosions rumbled behind them, lights flickering as the base shook. The masked man guided them through back corridors and half-collapsed rooms, always moving at the perfect time—always one step ahead of the enemy.
Finally, a burst of cold night air hit Limuel’s face.
They were outside.
An alley.
A sleek black car waited there like it had been expecting them the whole time.
The masked man yanked open the doors. “Get in.”
Limuel helped the civilians into the backseat, then shoved the soldier in after them. When everyone was inside, he climbed in last, chest heaving, vision swimming.
The masked man slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The sound was smooth. Controlled.
Limuel swallowed, forcing himself to speak through the pounding in his head.
“Who… who are you?” he asked, voice thin with fear, awe, and something he didn’t want to admit—curiosity.
The masked man didn’t answer.
He kept his hands on the wheel, gaze fixed ahead. Through the mask, his eyes looked almost unreal—piercing, unreadable, as if whatever he’d seen in life had taught him to feel nothing at all.
Limuel felt it then. A chill deeper than the cold air.
Whoever this man was… he wasn’t just strong.
He was something else entirely.
And as the car sped into the night, Limuel couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his gut—
This wasn’t the end.
This was only the beginning.
1 year later
“Okay, class, may bago kayong kaklase,” sabi agad ng isang profesor pagpasok nito sa silid.
Nagtinginan ang mga estudyante. May ilan pang nagbubulungan, may ilan naman agad na naging interesado.
“P’wede ka nang pumasok,” dugtong ng profesor, tumingin sa pintuan kung saan may isang binatilyong naghihintay sa labas.
Bumukas ang pinto.
Tahimik siyang pumasok, bitbit ang bag, walang halatang kaba. Hindi siya nagmamadali—pero hindi rin siya nag-aaksaya ng oras. Para siyang sanay na sanay pumasok sa mga lugar na puno ng matang nakatingin.
Nang tumapat siya sa harap, ngumiti siya nang bahagya—sakto lang. Polite. Controlled.
“Hello, everyone! I’m Shun Williams,” kalmadong bati ng binatilyo.
At sa unang tingin pa lang sa kanya, may kakaiba nang naramdaman ang ilan.
Parang… may anino sa likod ng ngiti.
- Writer
