The next morning smelled like burnt rice.
Gabriel pushed away the blanket he barely used and stood up to silence the small fight happening in his stomach. He had skipped dinner again. There was no more rice last night—only hot water mixed with sugar. His father called it budget champorado.
"Champorado na walang tsokolate," he muttered, tying his shoelaces.("Chocolate porridge without chocolate.")
From the sala, the TV blasted some old action film—bullets flying, a woman screaming. His father hadn't slept yet. Or maybe he just didn't want to.
"'Wag ka nang magpakapulube. Ayusin mo na 'yang buhay mo."("Stop living like a beggar. Fix your life already.")
That was the first thing his father said to him that day.
Gabriel didn't answer. He tied his shoes tighter and left. No breakfast. No goodbye.
The road felt lighter today.
Maybe it was the air. Maybe the wheels were greased by angels. Or maybe he was just too hungry to feel the weight of anything.
He rode faster than usual, the wind cutting through his thin uniform shirt. The bike rattled and bounced like it always did, but today, it felt like it was gliding. Like it knew where he wanted to go—even before he turned the handlebar.
He arrived ten minutes earlier than the bell, breathing hard but smiling a little.
"'Di ka pa rin marunong maglakad? Ikaw na talaga, idol."("Still don't know how to walk? You're really something, idol.")
Paulo was leaning against the school wall, arms crossed like a security guard with attitude.
"Maaga ka ngayon. May delivery?"("You're early today. Got a delivery?")
Gabriel didn't reply. He walked past them like usual.
But today, someone else was watching.
During recess, something felt... off.
Not with the bike. Not even with Paulo's usual teasing. Something else.
Gabriel sat at the edge of the hallway, chewing on the cheap bread he bought from the sari-sari store across the street. Dry, but enough.
Then he saw him.
A man. Mid-fifties, maybe older. Wearing aviator shades, a rolled-up long-sleeve polo, and holding a silver cane—not one for support, but the kind that looked like it should have a blade hidden inside.
He stood just outside the school gate, pretending to smoke a cigarette that wasn't even lit. Watching. Still. Focused.
Gabriel stared back.
The man raised his chin slightly, like he recognized him.Like he was saying: Took you long enough to notice me.
Gabriel blinked. A tricycle passed in front of his view. When it moved on, the man was gone.
That night, Gabriel got home before curfew.
He parked his bike beside the small pile of hollow blocks that used to be their dirty kitchen. He heard it again—the tick.
That same faint, steady sound from under the seat.
He crouched, brushing off dust and old gum. His fingers touched something metallic.
A small latch?
He turned it.
Click.
Nothing happened.
Or maybe everything did.
The bike gave a soft mechanical jerk—like it shifted on its own. The back wheel spun a few inches. The frame gave off a low hum—so quiet he thought he imagined it.
He stood back.
The night was still, but something inside him had moved.
The next morning, someone knocked at their door.
His father was still snoring on the sofa.
Gabriel opened it.
It was the man with the silver cane.
Up close, he looked even stranger. One eyebrow was completely shaved off. His right eye twitched every few seconds. And his voice?
Smooth. Low. Like someone who didn't need to speak loudly to be heard.
"You're fast, kid," he said. "Too fast for someone riding a piece of scrap metal."
Gabriel's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer. He pulled out a black card, sleek and glossy. No name. No number. Just a logo: two interlocking gears. And in the center, the number 5.
"Come to this address after school," he said. "Bring the bike."
"Why?" Gabriel asked.
The man smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just... knowingly.
"Because it's not just a bike. And you're not just a rider."