The message came at 5 PM, just as Klein's alarm was going off.
Mom: The doctors say we need to start treatment soon. I told them my son is sending money. You are sending it, right, Kahi?
Klein stared at his phone screen in the darkness of his studio apartment—a converted storage room in Tondo with a mattress on the floor and walls thin enough to hear Mrs. Santos arguing with her drunk husband next door. The blue light illuminated the calculation he'd been running in his head for weeks:
Rent: 8,000. Food: 3,000 if he stretched it. Transportation: 2,000. Utilities: 1,000. That left 11,000 pesos from his BPO salary—about 200 USD. His mother needed 500 USD just for the consultation.
He was short by three hundred dollars, and that was before treatment even began.
Klein typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: Yes, Mom. Don't worry. I'm handling it.
The lie tasted familiar. He'd gotten good at them.
The commute to Ortigas took two hours—jeepney to the MRT station, train if it wasn't broken down, then a fifteen-minute walk to the building. Klein made this journey six days a week to handle complaints from angry Americans about their cable bills. Twenty-five thousand pesos a month. It used to feel like enough.
He bought a single pandesal from a street vendor for twelve pesos—breakfast, lunch, and pre-shift meal combined. The bread sat heavy in his stomach as he walked, a reminder of all the meals Rico had shared from his wife's Tupperware over the past month. Klein had stopped refusing after the third offer, unable to afford pride when his body was eating itself.
The thought of Rico made something twist in Klein's chest that wasn't quite guilt, but close enough.
Five thousand pesos. That's what Rico had loaned him three months ago when his mother's medication ran out. "Pay me back when you can, pre. No pressure." Rico's easy smile, his wife's homemade adobo in the Tupperware Klein couldn't return empty.
Klein had promised to repay it within a month. He'd spent it on rent instead.
When Rico's wife miscarried six weeks later and they needed money for the hospital, Klein had avoided the smoking area for two weeks straight. Took his breaks in the bathroom. Couldn't meet Rico's eyes in the cubicle next to his.
Rico never asked for the money back. Never mentioned it. Just kept sharing his lunch.
Klein had let him.
The BPO's air conditioning hit him like salvation. Ten hours of escape from Manila's heat, from the smell of open sewers and rotting garbage, from the weight of his mother's cancer hanging around his neck—and from the memory of Rico's wife crying in the hallway when she thought no one was watching.
"Klein, my friend!" Rico called from the next cubicle as Klein logged in, voice bright and unburdened. "Annie was looking for you earlier. Something about Sunday?"
Klein remembered—she'd invited him to her church's feeding program. Free breakfast. The irony made his throat tight. Annie's church. Where he'd volunteered to count typhoon donations eight months ago. Where he'd pocketed 2,000 pesos while everyone else was in the fellowship hall praying for the Visayas victims.
It wasn't much. The church had raised nearly 100,000. They'd never notice. His mother needed it more than distant strangers who might not even be real, might just be another government scam like everything else in this country.
The justification had come so easily it had scared him.
"Yeah, I'll talk to her during break," Klein said.
"Good, good. Hey, my cousin might swing by later. Miguel. You met him before, right?"
Klein's hands stilled on his keyboard. He had met Miguel. Last week, in the smoking area, with an offer that Klein had been trying not to think about ever since.
"What does he want?"
Rico shrugged. "Didn't say. Just asked if you'd be working tonight. Probably wants to talk business."
Business. That's what Miguel had called it. Medical tourism. Connecting foreigners with private clinics. Finder's fees. Klein had walked away from that conversation, but the number had stayed in his head: fifty thousand pesos per successful connection. Enough to cover his mother's consultation and initial treatment.
He'd just be making introductions. Just pointing someone toward an opportunity. What they chose to do after that wasn't his responsibility.
Except Klein knew exactly what happened to the "unwilling donors." He'd lived in Manila long enough to know that some opportunities were cages.
"Klein?" Rico was watching him with concern. "You good, pre? You look—"
"I'm good. Just tired." Klein forced a smile and put on his headset. "Let's get through this shift."
The calls blurred together. Angry voices demanding supervisors, threatening to cancel services. Klein absorbed their rage with practiced calm, his voice never wavering from the script. "I understand your frustration, sir. Let me see what I can do to help."
Between calls, his mind drifted to Santos.
Andres Santos. Forty-three years old. Father of a girl with cerebral palsy who needed weekly therapy sessions at 3,000 pesos each. Klein had seen the family photo on Santos's desk during the interview two years ago—the man's tired smile, his daughter's leg braces, his wife's protective hand on the girl's shoulder.
Klein had lied about his credentials anyway. Claimed two years of customer service experience he didn't have. Forged a reference letter from a company in Davao that was too far away to verify easily.
He'd gotten the job. Santos, with his legitimate experience and desperate need, hadn't.
Klein had seen Santos in a 7-Eleven three months later, wearing a security guard uniform. Night shift, probably. The kind of job that paid half what the BPO did and destroyed your body in five years.
Their eyes had met across the store. Santos had looked away first.
Klein bought his cigarettes and left without saying anything. What could he say?Sorry I took your daughter's therapy money? Sorry I'm better at lying than you are at telling the truth?
He'd stopped going to that 7-Eleven.
At 9 PM, his break finally came. Klein stepped onto the smoking area even though he didn't smoke—couldn't afford the vice. The city sprawled below, gleaming towers and dark slums separated by streets but worlds apart.
Miguel was already there, leaning against the railing with a cigarette.
"Klein. Been waiting for you." Miguel's smile was friendly, but his eyes were calculating. "Rico said you've been thinking about my offer."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't say no." Miguel took a drag. "Your mom's cancer, right? Stage three? I heard you on the phone last week, talking to the hospital. That's rough, man. Really rough."
Klein's jaw tightened. "What do you want, Miguel?"
"To help. Seriously." Miguel pulled out his phone, showed Klein a photo of an older Filipina woman. "My mom. She had breast cancer two years ago. I know what it's like, watching them get sicker while you're counting pesos for the MRT. I know what it's like to feel helpless."
"How did you pay for her treatment?"
Miguel's smile turned proud. "Medical coordination. I work with a company that connects foreign patients with Philippine hospitals—medical tourism, you know? Foreigners pay premium rates for the same procedures that cost a fraction here. The hospitals get international clients, the foreigners save money compared to their home countries, and people like me get finder's fees for the referrals."
It sounded legitimate. Klein had seen the billboards—St. Luke's advertising to Middle Eastern patients, Makati Med courting Americans for cardiac surgery. Medical tourism was real business.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just coordination." Miguel's voice was smooth. "I've got a client right now—Australian guy, kidney issues. Needs a transplant. His insurance won't cover it back home, waiting list is three years. Here? Private hospital, six months maybe, and half the cost. I introduce him to the right doctors, make sure he gets proper care, I get fifty thousand pesos referral fee from the hospital's international patient program."
"Fifty thousand for an introduction?"
"Premium service, pre. These foreigners need translators, someone who knows the system, someone who can navigate PHIC and hospital bureaucracy. The hospitals budget for it—cost of doing international business." Miguel leaned forward. "I need someone trustworthy. Someone who can meet the client, explain the process, help with initial paperwork. Easy work. One afternoon, fifty thousand pesos."
Klein's mind raced. Medical tourism was legitimate. But fifty thousand for paperwork?
"Why can't you do it?"
A micro-hesitation. "I'm handling three other clients this week. Plus I need someone who sounds professional—you've got that BPO English, that customer service voice. These foreigners trust that." Miguel leaned forward. "One introduction. That's all. You meet the Australian, explain how Philippine healthcare works, walk him through the consultation process at the hospital. Clean, legal, easy."
"Which hospital?"
A micro-hesitation. "Private clinic in Quezon City. Specializes in transplant cases."
"Thought you said Makati Med or St. Luke's."
"Those are for cardiac cases, orthopedics, that kind of thing." Miguel's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Transplants are different. Special licensing. This clinic has the best survival rates in Metro Manila for kidney transplants."
Klein had spent three years in Manila. Long enough to know that "special licensing" and "private clinic in Quezon City" could mean anything from legitimate specialist practice to organ trafficking operation.
"The Australian—he has a donor already?"
"That's not our concern. The clinic handles donor matching. We just facilitate the initial connection." Miguel stubbed out his cigarette. "Look, I know what you're thinking. But it's all legal. The clinic has DOH accreditation, the whole setup. Medical tourism is a real industry—Google it if you don't believe me."
Medical tourism was real. Miguel wasn't lying about that.
But Klein had also read the news. Seen the occasional scandal about "donors" who hadn't quite understood what they were signing. About poor people from the provinces showing up at hospitals with vague promises of "compensation for medical participation." About consent forms in English that Tagalog speakers couldn't read.
"The donor—they're getting paid?"
Miguel's expression flickered. "The clinic handles all that. PHIC reimbursements, insurance processing. Not our department."
"That's not what I asked."
"Klein." Miguel's voice hardened slightly. "You want to help your mom or not? Because I'm offering you clean money for clean work. Introduce one foreigner to one clinic. What happens after that—the medical procedures, the donor arrangements, the insurance—that's between the hospital and their patients. You're just the coordinator. Just the introduction."
And there it was. The plausible deniability.
Klein would just be making an introduction. Just pointing someone toward an opportunity. What the Australian chose to do after that wasn't his responsibility. What the clinic did to find donors wasn't his concern. He'd just be a name on a referral form.
Except Klein knew exactly what "donor arrangements" meant in a country where fifty thousand pesos could change someone's life. Where people from the provinces showed up in Manila because a cousin said there was "easy money" for "simple medical work."
Miguel was offering him the same thing Klein had done to Santos—plausible deniability wrapped around harm. I just submitted my application. I didn't know they'd use my credentials instead of his. Not my fault they chose me.
The same thing he'd done with the church donations. The church raised so much. They'll never notice. Those typhoon victims might not even be real—probably government scam anyway.
He could take Miguel's offer. Could tell himself it was just coordination, just paperwork, just an introduction. Could collect his fifty thousand pesos and never ask what happened to the "donor" the clinic found for the Australian.
Could keep moving that line.
"I need to think about it," Klein heard himself say.
Miguel's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy with false sympathy. "Don't think too long, man. The Australian won't be around forever. And your mom..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
"Break's over, people!" The supervisor's voice crackled over the intercom. "Back to your stations."
Miguel pulled out his phone, typed something. Klein's phone buzzed.
"Address for the clinic. Client's hotel information. He's staying at Makati Shangri-La—Room 847. Rich kid slumming it in the Third World, probably won't remember your face tomorrow." Miguel's smile returned. "No pressure, pre. Just if you change your mind. Offer expires at 4 AM—the Australian flies to Singapore after that, looking for other options."
Klein returned to his cubicle, but he couldn't focus. Every call was his mother's voice. Every angry customer was time running out. The clock on his computer screen might as well have been counting down to her death.
At 10 PM, Annie stopped by his desk with a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
"You look terrible," she said bluntly. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Just a long shift."
"Klein." She set the coffee down and leaned against his cubicle wall. "I've worked with you for two years. I know when you're lying. Talk to me."
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was because Annie was the only person in his life who offered kindness without wanting something in return—even though he'd stolen from her church, even though he didn't deserve it. But Klein told her. Not about Miguel's specific offer, but about his mother, about the money, about the impossible mathematics of survival.
Annie listened without interrupting. When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"My church," she finally said. "The feeding program on Sunday. Father Miguel—different Miguel, not that asshole cousin of Rico's—he also runs a medical assistance program. It's not much, maybe ten or twenty thousand pesos depending on the case, but it's something. Legitimate something. And he knows people at the charity hospital who can get your mom on the subsidized treatment list."
"That could take months."
"It could. Or it could take weeks. You don't know until you try." Annie's eyes were steady. "I know it's not the fast solution. I know it's not enough. But it's clean money. Money that won't keep you up at night."
"What if she doesn't have weeks?"
"Then you figure it out. But you figure it out without selling your soul to Miguel's operation." Annie's voice softened. "I've seen where that road leads, Klein. I've seen good people convince themselves it's just one time, just one compromise. It's never just one time."
Klein wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that playing by the rules was enough, that morality wasn't a luxury only the privileged could afford.
But his phone sat heavy in his pocket, Miguel's unread message waiting like a loaded gun.
The shift ended at 3 AM. Klein's throat was raw from talking, his ear aching from the headset. Rico offered to share a Grab taxi, but Klein declined—couldn't justify the expense when the jeepney still ran, even if he'd have to wait an hour for one headed to Tondo.
Couldn't face Rico in an enclosed car, either. Not with that loan sitting between them like a corpse.
He stood at the empty jeepney stop, Manila's night pressing down on him. The city never truly slept, but it had quiet hours where the chaos dimmed to a low simmer. This was one of them.
He pulled up his messages and started typing:
Mom, I found a program through a friend's church. It's not fast, but it's real. We're going to figure this out. I promise.
His thumb hovered over the send button. It felt like a lie. Annie's program might take weeks. His mother might not have weeks.
But it wasn't Miguel's lie. It wasn't plausible deniability wrapped around someone else's desperation. It was an honest uncertainty, and that mattered.
Klein hit send.
The weight didn't lift—not completely. But it shifted. Became something he could carry instead of something crushing him.
Annie was right. There were always options if you were willing to be patient. If you were willing to be honest about the cost.
Tomorrow, he'd meet with Father Miguel at the church. Start the application process for the medical assistance program. Maybe Annie knew someone at the charity hospital who could expedite things. Maybe he could pick up extra weekend shifts—the BPO was always desperate for Sunday coverage. Maybe sell his laptop, his phone, anything that wasn't essential.
He'd make it work. Somehow.
The jeepney stop sat empty, the next ride probably thirty minutes out. Klein checked the time—3:47 AM. The route home was two hours of waiting and riding, arriving just before dawn.
Or he could cut through Tondo's alleys. Ten minutes saved, maybe fifteen. He'd taken that shortcut a thousand times—knew which turns to take, which blocks to avoid, which corners the sari-sari stores left lit all night.
Klein started walking.
The alley was darker than usual—someone had smashed the single streetlight again. Klein's footsteps echoed off the concrete walls. Somewhere a dog barked. Somewhere a door slammed. Normal Tondo sounds. Nothing to worry about.
His phone buzzed. Klein pulled it out, expecting his mother's reply.
Instead, Miguel's message glowed on the screen:
Last chance. Australian checking out at 4:30 AM. 50k waiting. Your call.
Klein deleted it without responding. Blocked the number. Kept walking.
The attack came from behind—something heavy and jagged, swung wild. Pain exploded across his lower back and side as broken glass tore through cloth and skin. Klein's legs gave out and he collapsed onto the filthy concrete. Warm blood soaked through his shirt impossibly fast.
"Wallet! Phone! Now!" The voice was young, male, vibrating with chemical desperation.
Klein's hands fumbled at his pocket, fingers already going cold and clumsy. His wallet. His cheap smartphone—the one he'd just decided not to sell. He dragged them out, and the attacker snatched them away.
There was a beat of silence. Then:
"Two hundred fucking pesos?" The kid's voice cracked with rage and disbelief. "That's it? That's all you got?"
Klein tried to speak, tried to say something about the phone, about the money in his account—not much, but something. But blood filled his mouth.
The kid kicked him—once, twice, three times. Klein heard it in the violence: the same desperation Klein had felt staring at Miguel's message. The same mathematics of survival that turned people into monsters.
Klein had refused to cross that line.
This kid hadn't.
The footsteps ran, fading into darkness. Klein lay there, bleeding out onto the Tondo street. His vision was already narrowing, edges going dark and fuzzy. The pain was fading too, replaced by a spreading coldness that felt almost peaceful.
Mom, I'm sorry. I tried. I really tried.
His last text sat on a phone now in someone else's pocket. His mother would read it tomorrow—would believe, for a few hours at least, that her son had found a solution. Would have hope before the hospital called about his body.
Klein wished he could have given her more time. Wished the hope could have lasted longer.
But even through the dying, through the fear and regret and pain, Klein felt something else. Something strange and unexpected:
Relief.
Not because he was dying. But because his last choice had been the right one. Because he'd finally drawn a line and held it. Because whatever else he'd done—whatever he'd stolen or lied about or taken from people who needed it more—he'd ended on the side of something that felt like integrity.
Maybe that didn't matter to the universe. Maybe morality was a luxury only the living could afford. Maybe he'd just killed his mother for the sake of a stranger he'd never meet, for the sake of "donors" who were already being exploited by someone else's Miguel.
But it mattered to him.
Klein's vision went dark. His lungs stopped fighting. And somewhere in the space between his last heartbeat and nothing, Kahiramura Klein died—not innocent, not damned, but something in between.
Something balanced.