Narrator’s Point of View

The midday sun slipped through the half-closed curtains, painting the living room in a soft, golden haze. It was only noon, yet the heat was already pressing down thick, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Stephanie lay sprawled across the sofa, sunk deep into the cushions, a small bowl of chips balanced in her right hand. She munched lazily, each crunch sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room—though not nearly loud enough to drown out Alesia.

Planted in front of the TV like she was hosting a TED Talk, Alesia spoke with the conviction of someone preaching gospel, her voice filling every corner of the room.

The show flickering on-screen was wasted on Stephanie; she hadn’t caught a single word over Alesia’s booming sermon.

“I’m telling you, Stephanie, this one’s different,” Alesia declared, her hands slicing the air as she paced. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, alive with certainty.

“Like, actually different. You’ll see.”

Stephanie sighed and sank deeper into the couch, clinging to her chips like a lifeline.

They were her only refuge, a salty distraction against the storm of matchmaking energy radiating from her best friend.

But Alesia wasn’t letting up. Her voice carried on, certain and unstoppable, as though she already knew how the ending would play out.

She had spent days setting up the blind date—choosing the right man, planning the place, picturing how it could finally pull Stephanie out of her rut. And now, with one half-hearted shrug, Stephanie had brushed all of that aside.

“Seriously?” Alesia asked, her voice cracking with disbelief.

Stephanie didn’t even look at her.

She reached lazily for another chip, eyes glued to the television as if nothing else in the world existed.

The crunch of her chewing echoed in the silence, each bite like a door slammed shut.

Alesia froze a few feet away, stiff as a statue, arms crossed tightly against her chest. She stared at Stephanie, willing her to turn around, to care, to say something. But nothing came.

Just more crunching.

She let out a sharp, exasperated sigh—loud and pointed.

Stephanie didn’t so much as flinch.

“What?” Stephanie mumbled, barely moving her lips as she reached for another chip.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the TV, though she flicked Alesia a quick glance—just enough to show she was listening, kind of, before zoning back out.

Alesia’s patience finally cracked.

“You’re seriously turning down Rico Sawyer?” she said, her tone dripping with disbelief.

“He’s rich, he’s well-connected, and everyone says he’s a total catch. The guy owns, like—what—three companies in Asia?”

She flopped onto the couch beside Stephanie, practically bouncing with irritation and excitement all at once.

“Do you have any idea how many girls would kill for this chance?” she pressed, eyes wide, waiting for the reaction that never came.

Stephanie just kept chewing.

The glow of the TV screen reflected in her eyes, her attention fixed on anything but her best friend’s words.

“I’ve said it before, haven’t I?” she murmured. “I’m just… not interested.”

Alesia’s arms folded across her chest again, her jaw tight.

“Oh! You are not interested?” she repeated, louder this time.

“When are you going to be, Stephanie?”

Her frustration snapped through the air like a whip—sharp and overdue after years of patience.

Before Stephanie could answer, Alesia lunged forward, snatching the remote from the side table. She clicked it off without hesitation.

The screen went black. The room fell still.

Stephanie blinked, her trance broken. Slowly, she turned her head, finally meeting Alesia’s gaze. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—packed with things left unsaid.

Stephanie rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Stephanie. Why can’t you just give him a chance?” Alesia snapped.

Stephanie stood abruptly, annoyance written in every movement, and stalked toward the kitchen. She didn’t even bother replying, just focused on the thought of cold water. But Alesia’s footsteps followed close behind. Stephanie paused halfway, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Is there something you want to say?” she asked, trying to keep her tone calm, though irritation seeped through.

“You’re going on a date,” Alesia said firmly, catching up.

“Whether you like it or not.”

Stephanie stopped dead, whipping around to face her.

“Excuse me? And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I already said yes to him—and he’s expecting you tonight.” Alesia’s grin spread slowly, like she knew she’d just won.

Stephanie’s eyes widened.

“Wait— what? You said yes? Without even telling me?” Her arms flew up in disbelief. “You made plans for me without even asking?”

“It’s just a date! A freaking date! What’s the big deal?” Alesia shot back, rolling her eyes right back at her.

Stephanie opened her mouth for a comeback, but something about Alesia’s expression stopped her. Beneath the stubborn grin was something softer—hope.

“He’s a good guy, Stephanie,” Alesia said, her voice gentler now.

“Just give him a chance.”

Stephanie exhaled, the tension coiled in her chest loosening just a little. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to slow the spiral of frustration.

“Fine,” she said finally, clipped but decisive. “I’ll go. But you owe me one hell of an explanation afterward.”

Alesia smirked, raising her brows in victory.

Without another word, Stephanie turned and walked to the kitchen. This time, she got her glass of water—her much-needed chill before the night ahead.

Narrator's Point Of View

Charlie took the folded piece of paper without a word, his uncle’s voice still hanging heavy in the room.

“This will be your next mission,” Manolo had said, his tone sharp and final and leaving no room for questions.

“You’re going to abduct Scarlett Sawyer and bring her to our safehouse in Iloilo. Everything you need is in that note.”

Charlie only nodded, a gesture of both respect and resolve.

“Consider it done, Uncle.”

Now, with the night draping itself over the city like a heavy cloak, Charlie stood outside a quiet restaurant tucked into a narrow side street—the one owned by Manolo.

The conversation from earlier replayed in his head, every word etched into memory. Scarlett was inside. She wasn’t just a target—she was a thread in a much larger web, one he couldn’t yet see clearly. And it was his job to pull that thread. Adjusting his collar, he exhaled slowly, trying to ease the restless crawl of nerves beneath his skin.