Check-Mate

CHAPTER 3

I stayed in the taxi for a long time, staring out the window and feeling my face cool down. When I finally reached our house, the familiar sight of the front porch helped me breathe again. As soon as I opened the gate, a fluffy orange streak darted toward me.

"Hey, Mochi," I whispered, bending down to scoop up our fat ginger cat. He let out a loud, demanding meow, rubbing his head against my chin. Cats were so much easier to deal with than humans—they didn't care if your hoodie was inside out or if your attendance was a mess.

I walked inside to the usual chaos.

"Kaisha! You're late. You missed the part where Migz tried to cook and almost set the kitchen on fire," Reign called out from the sofa. She was sprawled out with her laptop, probably finishing a plate of snacks she didn't intend to share.

"It was a controlled flame!" Kuya Migz shouted from the kitchen, still wearing his apron over his work clothes. Being the eldest, he took his role as the 'chef' of the house very seriously, even if his talent didn't always match his enthusiasm.

"It was scary, Ate Kai," Lanaya, the youngest, whispered as she ran up to me, hugging my waist. She was holding a cat toy in one hand and a drawing in the other. "Kuya Migz made the pan scream."

I laughed, feeling the stress of the afternoon melt away. "It’s okay, Naya. We’ll just order pizza if the kitchen explodes next time."

I headed up to my room to change, Mochi still purring in my arms. I tossed my bag onto the bed and finally jumped into my blankets, exhausted. The day’s chaos—the mysterious text, the VP, the hoodie, and that stupid branch—all swirled in my head until the weight of my eyelids finally won.

The shrill, mechanical chirp of my alarm sliced through the quiet at 5:30 a.m.

I opened one eye, staring at the ceiling in the pale, blue-grey light of dawn. I immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment. Normal people were still buried under duvets. Outside, even the birds sounded half-committed to their morning songs.

My phone screen flickered to life on the nightstand. There’s one unread messages from last night.

Unknown Number: One more late or absent mark will officially affect your evaluation, Miss Lopez. Be on time tomorrow.

I groaned into my pillow. Whoever this was, they were disturbingly invested in my future. I thought about drifting back to sleep, but the memory of my tragic attendance record—and the formal threat of an evaluation—stung like cold water.

I got up.

Being awake this early gave the world a strange, slow-motion feel. I had enough time to make my bed for the first time in weeks and actually fold the clean laundry sitting on the 'wardrobe chair.' Downstairs, the kitchen was quiet, smelling of coffee instead of burnt pork.

My mother walked in and stopped mid-step, her eyes widening at the sight of me eating a hot breakfast.

“Who are you,” she asked carefully, “and what have you done with my daughter?”

“I’m just being productive, Mom.”

She sat down slowly. “Should I call a priest?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can still go back to being disappointing.”

“That sounds more familiar.” She smiled, handing me a small list. “Since you’re being a functional human today: buy eggs, dish soap, snacks and cat food on your way home.”

"Got it. Love you!" I kissed her cheek and headed out.

The road to campus was a revelation. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement and jasmine. No aggressive horns. No sweaty crowds. Even the school gate looked kinder in the soft, golden morning light.

Inside, the campus felt like a hidden, premium version of itself. Students sat under trees in quiet groups; the breeze was fresh, and the usual midday stress was nowhere to be found. I bought a cup of taho, the warm syrup and silken tofu sweetening my mood as I wandered toward the building.

When I reached the hallway of Section E, I nearly dropped my drink. Kyle was already there, leaning against the wall and eating a siopao. He stared at me for three full seconds.

“Are you possessed?” he asked flatly.

“Very funny.”

“Kaisha Lopez before sunrise? This is character development,” he grinned.

Jessie arrived next, pausing mid-stride to stare at me. “No. I need to sit down. Why are you early?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be sick yesterday?” I retorted.

“Lovesick doesn’t count,” Kyle snorted, ducking as Jessie threw a crumpled tissue at him.

The group gathered—Paolo with his iced coffee and two pens clipped to his shirt, and Menchie, carrying her usual stack of organized folders.

“You came early,” Menchie said, bumping my shoulder. “See? Starting the day with a breeze feels better than starting it with a panic attack.”

“Don’t push it,” I muttered, though I secretly liked the lack of sweat on my brow.

“Morning celebrity is here,” Kyle whispered, straightening up.

Eli walked down the hallway, looking annoyingly put-together for seven in the morning. His white polo was crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and he carried a brown paper bag that smelled heavenly—yeast, butter, and warm sugar.

“Well, look at this,” Eli said, stopping in front of us. His eyes landed on my taho, then my face. “You’re real.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought Kaisha before 7 a.m. was just an urban legend.”

“You’re too comfortable being a jerk this early,” I said, crossing my arms.

“It’s not an insult. It’s a surprise,” he countered, his lips curling into a grin that really should have come with a warning label. He held out the bag. “Anyone want bread before I regret being generous?”

Kyle and Paolo dove in immediately. Jessie reached in delicately, murmuring something about 'beauty carbs.' I reached last. As I grabbed a warm pandesal, my fingers brushed against Eli’s.

Static. Again.

I pulled back quickly, the warmth of the bread seeping into my palm. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Lopez,” he said.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because ‘Late Girl’ sounded rude.”

He started walking backward down the hallway, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Try being early again tomorrow. I need to verify this wasn't a one-time miracle.”

We entered the classroom, the mood light and the air through the windows still cool. Classes blurred by in an unusually good flow. By mid-morning, the professor stepped out, leaving the room buzzing with low chatter.

I reached into my bag for my notebook, but my hand hit something unfamiliar. I pulled it out—a bright yellow sticky note. My name was written across the front in neat, sharp print: Kaisha.

My smile faded. I looked around. Kyle was arguing with Paolo; Jessie was checking her gloss; Menchie was reading. No one was looking at me.

Slowly, I unfolded the paper. Inside were five words:

Good. You made it early.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Yesterday, the message had been a formal warning about my evaluation. I was certain it was a professor or a strict department head.

But this? This wasn't a formal notice.

So it wasn't a professor?

A professor wouldn't sneak a sticky note into a student's zipped bag. This was too close. Too personal. I looked toward the open classroom door, a chill running down my spine. Someone had walked past my desk, unzipped my bag, and dropped this in while I was laughing with my friends.

Coming early was starting to feel exciting—but for a completely different, and slightly terrifying, reason.