(Renz "Air" Alonzo — Arrival in Manila)
The first thing Renz saw was light.
Then noise.
Then more light.
Then more noise.
Manila wasn't a city — it was an argument that never ended.
"Bro, they even got traffic on a Sunday?" Bornok muttered, one arm out the window, sweat glistening on his forearm.
Mario leaned from the back of the truck, filming the skyline with his cracked phone.
"Postcard vibes! Pangasinan who?"
Renz grinned, eyes locked on the glass towers flashing gold in the heat.
"Bro, this is it. Every legend started here. Manila's where the real ones play."
Bornok scoffed. "Yeah? They play or they pay rent?"
The truck honked, lurched, rattled past a bus so close the driver cursed in stereo.
Welcome to the capital.
Pier 17 — The Delivery
The docks hit them with the smell of salt, diesel, and regret.
They unloaded crates while forklifts screamed at each other.
Renz's shirt clung to his back, but he didn't care — he was already staring past the cranes and ships toward the skyline.
Bornok tossed him a towel. "Yo, stop looking at buildings like you're dating one."
Renz caught it without looking. "You don't get it. Somewhere out there, the best hoopers in the country are balling right now."
Mario snorted. "Probably in aircon."
"Exactly," Renz said, smiling. "And I'm about to join them."
The Gym
The sign read METRO HOOPS ACADEMY — glossy, pretentious, expensive.
Renz walked in, head high, grin cocky.
At the counter, a girl with perfect posture smiled too sweetly.
"Walk-in 400 pesos. City league pick-up runs tonight."
"Four hundred? For half court?" Renz asked.
"Full court. Full Manila experience," she replied, unblinking.
He paid.
Inside, the air smelled like sanitizer and air-con.
Six guys in matching shirts ran half-speed drills.
No sweat. No trash talk. Just sneakers squeaking politely.
Renz stretched, checked the rim height, and on the first possession — took flight.
360 dunk. Perfect spin.
Silence.
A whistle blew from somewhere near the scorer's table.
One of the players — the tallest one, maybe a regular — frowned.
"Bro, no dunking. You'll scratch the backboard."
Renz blinked. "Then what are we playing for?"
Next drive — he windmilled from the elbow, hung in the air longer than reason, landed light.
One guy clapped once. Once.
"Nice hops, probinsyano," another said.
"Thanks," Renz shot back. "You still warming up, or that your full speed?"
Ten minutes later, he left.
No rhythm. No noise. No life.
Just air-conditioning and disappointment.
Back at the Depot
Mario was already waiting, mouth full of fishballs.
"Yo! Guess what I found!"
Renz dropped his bag onto the truck. "If it's another overpriced gym, don't."
"No bro — under the bridge! There's this crazy court! Floodlights, crowd, streamers! And some dude with a megaphone yelling about a 3v3 — 500 pesos per player, 15k pot!"
Renz raised an eyebrow. "500 pesos again? City really does tax ambition."
Bornok smirked. "So what? You in?"
Renz snorted. "Nah. I just paid four hundred to watch walking traffic cones. I'm done with Manila."
Mario groaned. "Bro! They had cameras! Someone even said Flowstate!"
Renz zipped his bag. "Flowstate? Sounds like another fake hype team. Let's go home."
Bornok sighed. "We ain't even been here a day."
"Exactly," Renz said. "Long enough to know hype when I see it."
Cut to: Under the Bridge
Floodlights buzzing.
Graffiti glowing like art.
Sweat and smoke blending in the air.
Riki Dela Peña stood on a wobbly plastic chair, megaphone in hand.
"ALRIGHT LISTEN UP, MANILA!"
Crowd cheered back.
Bong blew an airhorn that didn't quite work.
Teo held the rim steady while Jax taped lines on the floor.
Riki grinned, voice bouncing off concrete.
"FLOWSTATE 3V3 TOURNAMENT TONIGHT!
500 pesos PER PLAYER — THAT'S 1,500 PER TEAM!
POT MONEY 15,000 pesos — I'M KEEPING 3k FOR ELECTRICITY SO DON'T CRY!"
Someone yelled, "Scam 'yan!"
Riki fired back instantly. "Scam ka diyan! This is community service with style!"
Crowd howled.
"TWELVE TEAMS! FIRST COME FIRST SERVE! LIVESTREAM AT EIGHT — SO IF YOU MISS A LAYUP, ALL OF MANILA SEES IT!"
Bong grabbed the megaphone. "AND IF YOU OWE ENTRY FEE — WE ACCEPT G-CASH AND APOLOGIES!"
Laughter everywhere.
It was chaos, but it worked.
At the back of the crowd, a trio in clean white jerseys slipped in quietly.
Imperium Reborn.
Raf Alcantara.
Prime De Vera.
And the new kid — Diether Alcaraz.
He didn't talk.
Didn't warm up.
He just took one ball, flicked a three-pointer from half court.
Swish.
Then dunked, quiet.
Everyone stopped talking for half a second.
Teo murmured to Riki, "They're back."
Riki didn't look away. "Rebranded."
Bong whispered, "And upgraded."
Back in the Truck
Renz leaned against the window, trying to sleep through traffic.
The city rolled by — too loud, too proud, too fake.
Bornok hummed with the radio.
Mario stared at his phone.
Then Renz's head snapped up.
He'd heard it.
Thud. Clap. Swish.
He looked out —
down the ramp —
and saw it.
Floodlights.
Crowd.
Movement.
The bridge alive.
He didn't even know what he was looking at, only that it felt right.
He slapped the dashboard. "Bornok, stop!"
"What?"
"Stop the truck!"
Bornok laughed. "Bro, you can't stop here! It's one-way!"
"Then go around!"
"Go around where—"
"Anywhere! Just turn!"
Mario looked up. "What's wrong?"
Renz's voice was low, certain.
"I found it."
Bornok sighed, flipping the blinker.
Traffic horns exploded behind them.
"Manila," he muttered. "You don't visit — it kidnaps you."
As the truck looped the overpass, Renz's eyes never left the glow beneath the bridge.
The sound echoed through the cab — sneakers, laughter, rhythm.
He smiled for the first time since Pangasinan.
End of Chapter 2 — "The Bridge and the Air."
(Next: Chapter 3 — When Rhythms Collide.)