The guards led Rafael into the dim interview chamber, the iron cuffs on his wrists scraping faintly against the table as he sat. Stacy had been waiting, her recorder already placed in the center, her notebook open but untouched. Her pen rested in her hand, though she felt as though her entire body was holding its breath.
Rafael leaned back, a half smile curling on his lips.
“You came back,” he said softly. “Even after your father’s warnings. I told you, Miss Bendoy, curiosity always wins.”
Stacy met his gaze. “This is not curiosity. This is work. You promised me seven confessions. We are at number four. So let us begin.”
Rafael chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Always so eager. But you must understand, what I will tell you now is not like the others. This confession is not just about crime. It is about fire. And when you play with fire, you do not walk away unscathed.”
“Tell me about Trisha Vasquez,” Stacy pressed, her voice steady even though the name sent a ripple of anticipation through her.
At the mention of Trisha, Rafael’s expression shifted. The smile lingered, but his eyes darkened, as though he was staring into a memory that both burned and haunted him.
“Trisha,” he murmured. “She was not a chapter in my life. She was the book itself. Every page soaked with desire, every sentence written in blood and smoke.”
“Start from the beginning,” Stacy said, pressing the recorder’s red button.
Rafael leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “We met in a nightclub on Taft Avenue. She was not like the others. She was not impressed by my reputation or my money. She looked at me as if she already knew I was dangerous and that was exactly why she stayed. We drank together, danced together, and by morning, we had already planned our first crime.”
“What crime?” Stacy asked quickly.
“A robbery,” Rafael said without hesitation. “A jewelry store in Makati. Trisha wanted diamonds, not for the wealth, but for the thrill of taking something that sparkled so much it blinded others. She told me, ‘If we are going to burn, let us burn bright.’ So I agreed. And that night, we did not just take jewels. We shattered glass, we set fire to the curtains, we left the street filled with smoke. It was not about gain. It was about destruction, about leaving a mark.”
Stacy wrote furiously in her notebook. “So it was Trisha’s idea?”
Rafael smiled faintly. “You are trying to understand the balance of power between us. That is clever. The truth is, power shifted constantly. Sometimes she led, sometimes I did. But together, we were unstoppable. The city became our canvas, and we painted it with chaos.”
“What else did you do with her?”
Rafael’s voice turned sharp with memory. “There was a night in Quezon City when we stormed a club owned by a rival. Andrew was with us, heavy with rage, and Trisha, dressed like sin itself, distracted the guards while I slipped in with the gun. Shots echoed, men fell, and the music kept playing. And when we ran out, her hands were stained with blood that was not hers. She looked at me and said, ‘This is love, Rafael. This is what it means to belong to each other.’”
Stacy’s stomach knotted. “You are saying you equated violence with love?”
Rafael tilted his head. “Do you not see, Miss Bendoy? Passion is never pure. It feeds on extremes. Trisha and I lived in the extremes. In the nights we did not kill, we tore each other apart in other ways. We screamed, we fought, we broke furniture, we clawed at each other as if to remind ourselves that pain was proof of being alive. That was love in its rawest form. It was never gentle. It was fire consuming everything.”
Stacy forced herself to meet his eyes. “And yet she is gone. Where is she now?”
A silence followed. For the first time, Rafael’s face faltered. His jaw tightened, his fingers curled into fists.
“She left,” he said finally. “Or perhaps I pushed her away. Eleonor tried to rescue her, to bring her back to sanity, but Trisha was already scarred too deep. Our crimes had soaked into her veins. I told her once, ‘We can never go back. We can only go forward until the fire burns us completely.’ She did not believe me. She tried to run. And I let her.”
“Let her?” Stacy leaned closer. “Or did you force her?”
Rafael’s eyes flashed. “Careful with your words. You think you know me because you listen to these confessions, but there are things you cannot begin to imagine. I did not kill Trisha. I did not force her to leave. But I destroyed her, Stacy. I destroyed her with my love, and that was enough.”
Stacy felt a chill race down her spine. “So this is your fourth confession? That you destroyed the woman you loved?”
Rafael gave a slow nod. “Yes. Confession four is not a crime that can be judged in court. It is a crime of passion, a crime of love twisted into violence. Trisha was my accomplice, my mirror, my ruin. And when I lost her, I realized destruction does not end when the fire goes out. It lingers, like ash in your lungs. You keep choking on it even when you think you are breathing fresh air.”
Stacy’s pen stilled. “Do you regret it?”
Rafael leaned forward until his chains clinked loudly on the table. His gaze locked onto hers with a piercing intensity.
“Regret is for those who wish to erase the past. I do not wish to erase it. I want it carved into me. Every scar, every scream, every night of passion that ended in blood. I want it all. Because without it, I am nothing. Without Trisha, I am just another criminal. But with her, I became legend.”
Stacy’s throat went dry. She struggled to find her voice. “And now you sit here, in chains, waiting to die. What kind of legend ends this way?”
Rafael smiled, slow and chilling. “The kind that lives through the words of a journalist who cannot stay away. You will write me, Stacy. And through you, I will remain alive. That is why you are here, even when your father tells you to run. You want to understand the fire. Maybe you even want to feel it.”
“That is not true,” Stacy whispered.
“Is it not?” Rafael leaned back, studying her with a look that felt too intimate. “Every time you ask me about Trisha, I see the question hidden behind your eyes. Could you ever be consumed like that? Could you ever love until it destroys you?”
Stacy forced herself to push back. “This interview is not about me. It is about you.”
“Then write this down,” Rafael said, his tone sharp and deliberate. “Confession four: I loved Trisha Vasquez until she drowned in my fire. I loved her until there was nothing left of her but smoke. And now, Miss Bendoy, I find myself staring at you and wondering if the same fate awaits you.”
Stacy’s breath hitched. She clicked off the recorder, her hand trembling. “This interview is over for today.”
The guards moved to escort Rafael out, but before he rose, he leaned closer, his voice meant only for her.
“You cannot run from me, Stacy. Just like Trisha could not. Fire always finds something to burn.”
That night, Stacy lay awake, her father’s warnings colliding with Rafael’s words. She had written every line, transcribed every detail, but what unsettled her most was not the crimes he described. It was the way he spoke of love, destructive yet magnetic, and the way he made her question her own boundaries.
Her phone buzzed again with another anonymous message.
“Do not become her.”
Stacy stared at the screen, her heart pounding. Somewhere in the city, shadows of Rafael’s past were watching her. Trisha’s ghost was not just in his stories. It was creeping into Stacy’s life, reminding her that the fire still burned, waiting for its next victim.
And she feared it might already be her.
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