Back in Manila, the familiar hum of Echelon returned like a soundtrack she had grown up with. The clack of keyboards, the soft shuffle of layouts being rearranged, the faint smell of coffee that lingered in the walls like a permanent tenant. It was almost comforting, almost enough to make her believe her life was normal again. Almost. Because tucked beneath that comfort was the reality that Sofia was still knee-deep in the Tristan Jacinto feature, still dragging the weight of Hong Kong around with her like an invisible suitcase.
Her notebook, thick with scribbled quotes and half-legible shorthand, lay open on her desk. Every line carried a trace of that interview room, the sharp light, the sound of his voice. Her laptop screen glowed with her current headline draft: “Tristan Jacinto: Buil
