The prison chamber felt colder that morning. Stacy sat stiffly, her recorder already on the table, her pen pressed too tightly between her fingers. She had not slept well. The thought of Trisha’s name still echoed in her ears from the last session, and the anonymous message that warned her not to become her lingered in her phone.
When the guards escorted Rafael into the room, he wore the same calm smile, but his eyes were darker, heavier. He sat, chains clinking softly, and leaned forward as if the walls themselves were listening.
“You look tired, Miss Bendoy,” Rafael said, voice low and almost intimate. “Did my confession about Trisha keep you awake?”
Stacy inhaled deeply. “We are not here to talk about my sleep, Rafael. We are here for confession five. You promised seven.”
“Ah, straight to business again,” Rafael chuckled. “That is what I admire about you. But confession five will not be easy to hear. It will not only scrape at my sins but also at the very foundations of your own life.”
Stacy frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
Rafael’s gaze pierced through her, unblinking. “I mean your father.”
The words froze her hand mid-note. “My father?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Yes,” Rafael said, his tone deliberate. “Filemon Bendoy. The esteemed politician. The man who prides himself on integrity and reputation. Do you think he is untouched by dirt? Do you think power in this country is ever clean?”
Stacy’s jaw tightened. “If this is an attempt to provoke me, it will not work. Confess your crime, Rafael. Leave my family out of it.”
Rafael leaned back, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “But that is the confession. You see, not all the crimes I committed were for myself. Some were convenient shadows cast to cover the sins of men like your father. Men who smiled on podiums while we bled in the alleys. Men who whispered names to us in exchange for silence and loyalty.”
Stacy’s pulse quickened. “You are saying my father was involved with you?”
Rafael chuckled softly. “Do not look so shocked. Filemon Bendoy knew me long before you ever stepped into this prison. He did not shake my hand, of course. Men like him do not dirty their hands. But he knew Andrew. He knew others in my circle. And sometimes when a rival threatened his career or when an inconvenient truth was about to reach the papers, someone else conveniently disappeared. Guess who was blamed?”
Stacy’s pen slipped from her hand, clattering against the notebook. She swallowed hard. “You are lying. You want me to doubt him so I lose my footing.”
Rafael tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Do you think I need to lie? Lies are for cowards. I have nothing to lose now. I am already marked for death. Truth, Miss Bendoy, is my last weapon. And I know how to use it.”
She forced her voice steady. “Give me names. Give me proof. If you are claiming my father used you, then tell me how.”
Rafael leaned closer, the chain on his wrist rattling as he pointed a finger at her. “Confession five: I killed for men of power. And one of those men was Filemon Bendoy. He may not have spoken to me directly, but his wishes were clear. In 2016, there was a councilor from Quezon City who threatened to expose a bribery scandal. That man was gunned down in his car by Andrew. Guess who benefited from his silence?”
Stacy’s lips parted, words caught in her throat. “That does not prove anything. Many politicians benefited from that death.”
Rafael smirked. “Clever. You argue like him. But here is another one. In 2018, a journalist uncovered land deals tied to your father’s allies. That journalist disappeared. People assumed I ordered it, and maybe I did. But only because someone powerful asked for it. Someone who wanted the journalist gone before the story reached the headlines. Do you want to know how I was paid? Not in money. In protection. Cases against me were made to vanish. Police raids conveniently missed our hideouts. And when I finally fell, it was only because I was no longer useful to them.”
Stacy gripped her notebook so tightly her knuckles turned white. “You expect me to believe my father protected you?”
“I expect you to believe what you already suspect,” Rafael said, voice low. “Do not tell me you have never wondered why his campaigns always came out spotless. Why no scandal ever touched him even though everyone else in that circle drowned in it. Power is bought with blood. And he bought plenty.”
Stacy’s heart pounded. “If this is true, why tell me now? Why not shout it to the courts, to the press, to everyone?”
Rafael smiled faintly. “Because the courts do not care. The press is bought. But you… you are different. You are his daughter, yet you came to me. You wanted truth, and now you choke on it. That is why I tell you. Because it will cut deeper through you than through anyone else.”
Stacy shook her head. “No. This is manipulation. You want me to hate him so that I lose my balance, so that I trust you more than him.”
Rafael’s eyes softened, strangely sincere. “Maybe. Or maybe I want you to see that we are not so different. You run from your father’s control. I ran from the men who used me. Both of us chained by the choices of others. Do you not feel it? The weight of their hands on our lives?”
Stacy pressed her palms to her temples. “Stop twisting this.”
Rafael leaned in, his voice a whisper that cut through the room. “Confession five, Miss Bendoy. I killed for your father. And now you have to decide what to do with that truth. Will you expose him? Or will you protect him like the good daughter he always wanted you to be?”
Her chest tightened. She wanted to scream at him, to accuse him of lies, yet part of her felt the sting of recognition. Her father had always been secretive, always controlling, always reminding her that the family name came before anything else. She had dismissed the whispers around politics as rumors. But Rafael’s words… they planted a seed of dread that would not die.
The recorder between them kept spinning, the small red light blinking steadily, as though mocking her silence.
Finally, Stacy spoke. “If you think this will make me give up, you are wrong. I will find the truth. If my father is clean, I will prove you wrong. If he is not… then I will write it anyway.”
Rafael’s smile widened. “That is why you fascinate me. You are not afraid to walk into the fire. But remember, fire does not care if you burn willingly or not.”
The guards signaled the end of time, stepping closer. Rafael did not move at first. He kept his eyes locked on Stacy’s, a strange mixture of warning and admiration in his gaze.
As they pulled him up, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “You see now why my last confession will be the most dangerous. Because it is not about crime. It is about you.”
That night Stacy returned home, her mind a storm. She found her father in his study, the glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across his stern face. He looked up when she entered.
“You are late again,” Filemon said curtly. “I told you to stop seeing that man.”
Stacy’s throat tightened. “Why, Father? Why are you so afraid of what he says?”
Filemon’s eyes narrowed. “Because he is a murderer. His words are poison. And if you keep entertaining them, he will drag you down with him.”
“Or is it because his poison is close to truth?” Stacy shot back, her voice trembling. “He told me about the councilor in 2016. About the journalist in 2018. He said you benefited from their deaths.”
Filemon stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. His face darkened. “Enough. Do not bring that filth into this house.”
“Answer me!” Stacy demanded. “Were you involved?”
Her father’s silence was louder than any denial. His jaw worked, his hands clenched at his sides, but no words came.
Tears pricked Stacy’s eyes. “You always told me to honor the family name. To protect our reputation. But what if that name is built on blood? How many people have to die for you to stand in your spotless suit?”
Filemon’s voice came like a whip. “You do not understand the world I live in. Sometimes sacrifices are necessary. Sometimes a single life must be lost so that thousands can be saved. That is politics.”
“No,” Stacy whispered, shaking her head. “That is power. And it disgusts me.”
Filemon stepped forward, his voice firm, his presence towering. “You will stop those interviews. Do you hear me? Stop them before you destroy everything.”
But Stacy met his gaze with a defiance he had never seen in her before. “I will not stop. Because for once in my life, I want the truth. Even if it ruins us.”
She turned and left, leaving him in the silence of his study.
Back in her room, Stacy sat on her bed with her recorder beside her. She replayed Rafael’s words, each confession cutting deeper than the last. For the first time, she feared that her story was no longer just about Rafael’s sins. It was about her family’s as well.
And in the shadows of her heart, she wondered if Rafael was right. Fire does not care if you burn willingly.
It only cares that you burn.
ns216.73.216.46da2
and then Add to home screen.