The rain in Manila didn't wash things away; it just made the grime stick.
Joie stood on the platform of the PNR station, her knuckles white as she gripped the strap of her bag. She had just come from a "special session" with Stephen in a windowless room in Pasay. Her ears were still ringing from the concussive force of a suppressed .45, and her mind was a jagged glass mosaic of the man's face before the light left his eyes.
She felt hollow. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the $Anatomy$ of a crime. She was twenty years old, and she was already haunted.
When the 9:15 PM train screeched to a halt, Joie boarded and slumped into a seat near the doors. She pulled her textbook from her bag, clutching it to her chest like a shield. She needed to look like a student.
The train jolted forward, the old metal groaning under the weight of the city's exhausted workforce. A few stops later, the car lurched violently as it rounded a bend.
A woman standing nearby lost her footing. Her laptop bag swung wildly, and she tumbled forward, landing squarely in Joie's lap.
"Oh my god! I am so sorry!"
Joie instinctively reached out to steady her, her hands gripping the woman's forearms. Even through the panic, Joie's trained mind noted the Radial Pulse—it was fast, lively, and warm.
The woman sat up, brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She was older, maybe twenty-five, with a face that looked like it belonged in the sun, not this fluorescent-lit tomb of a train car. She smelled like vanilla, rain, and overpriced espresso.
"I'm such a klutz when I'm tired," the woman laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the gloom. "Are you okay? I didn't crush your books, did I?"
"I'm fine," Joie said, her voice sounding raspy even to her own ears.
The woman lingered, her eyes dropping to Joie's hands, which were still resting on her bag. Joie's fingers were stained with dark, purple-black smudges—bruising from the kickback of the heavy-caliber pistol she'd been forced to fire all afternoon.
"Wow," the woman said, pointing at the marks. "You must be a really dedicated student. Is that ink? Are you one of those people who writes notes on their hands?"
Joie looked down at the "ink" that was actually the physical evidence of her indoctrination. "Something like that," she whispered.
"I'm Alliana," the woman said, offering a hand that was soft, unscarred, and real. "And if you're studying that hard, you definitely deserve a break. Or at least a better seat than this one."
For the first time in months, Joie felt something other than the cold weight of the Tenorio debt. She felt a genuine Serotonin spike—a chemical rebellion against the darkness.
"I'm Joie," she replied, shaking Alliana's hand.
"Well, Joie, you look like you're carrying the weight of the world in that backpack. What are you studying that's so serious?"
"Medicine," Joie said. "I want to be a doctor."
Alliana's smile widened. "A healer. That's amazing. The world needs more of those. Most people I know just want to sell apps or flip real estate."
They talked for the next four stops. Alliana talked about her job in digital marketing, her love for hole-in-the-wall ramen shops, and how she hated the way Manila felt like a giant pressure cooker. She didn't ask for Joie's last name. She didn't ask about her "family business."
To Alliana, Joie was just a tired, brilliant student with messy hair and ink-stained fingers.
When Alliana reached her stop, she paused at the door, the rainy night air rushing into the car. "Hey, Joie? If you're ever on this train again and you aren't buried in that textbook... maybe we could grab a coffee? You look like you could use a friend who doesn't talk about Science."
She handed Joie a small, post-it note with a number scribbled on it.
As the train pulled away, Joie watched Alliana disappear into the crowd. She looked down at the note, then at her bruised hands. She was a Tenorio. She was a weapon. She was a secret.
But for the first time, she wanted to be the girl on the train.