The newsroom of the Manila Sentinel buzzed with the usual chaos of keyboards clattering and phones ringing. A storm had rolled in from the bay, hammering the tall glass windows with rain, and the entire office smelled faintly of damp paper and over-brewed coffee.
Stacy Bendoy sat at her desk, eyes fixed on her open laptop, though she was not really reading the press release in front of her. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitant, restless. At twenty eight, she had managed to carve a small space for herself in journalism, reporting mostly on social issues and political events, but she knew she had not yet written anything that would truly make her name.
Her editor, a sharp tongued man named Ramon Villaverde, appeared at her desk without warning. He slapped a folder onto her keyboard, making her jolt.
“Stop pretending to write fluff,” Ramon said. “I have something bigger for you.”
Stacy blinked at the folder. “What is it this time? Another corruption scandal? Or a rally downtown?”
Ramon smirked. “Bigger than rallies. Bigger than politics. Rafael Manuel agreed to an exclusive. He wants to confess. And he wants to confess to us.”
The name sent a shiver through Stacy’s body. Rafael Manuel. The man who had haunted headlines for nearly a decade. A street orphan who had grown into the mastermind of robberies, extortions, and murders that spanned the dark alleys of Tondo to the polished corridors of Makati. He was no ordinary criminal. He was intelligent, calculating, and terrifyingly persuasive. Now he was waiting on death row, his execution already scheduled.
“Why me?” Stacy asked, her voice low. “You have senior reporters who would kill for this assignment.”
Ramon leaned closer. “Because he asked for you by name.”
Stacy froze. “That is not possible. I have never met him.”
“Maybe you have a fan,” Ramon said with a chuckle. “Or maybe he saw one of your articles and decided he wanted your pen to record his sins. Either way, I am not arguing with the opportunity of a lifetime. You will go to the penitentiary tomorrow. Bring your recorder, bring your nerves, and for once bring your heart. If you pull this off, you will not just be another Bendoy in the papers. You will be your own name.”
Her father’s name rang silently in her ears. Filemon Bendoy, the politician who had spent her childhood teaching her to measure her every word. To him, journalism was a dangerous career, unbecoming of a daughter from a family of influence. To Stacy, it was her rebellion, her independence. And now she was being sent into the lion’s den with a man who had fascinated and horrified the country in equal measure.
“I will do it,” Stacy said, though her stomach was already tightening with fear.
Ramon gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Just remember, criminals like him love to manipulate. Do not let him crawl into your head. You are there to record, not to sympathize.”
That night Stacy sat alone in her small apartment, the rain outside pounding harder than before. She had pulled Rafael’s old news clippings onto her screen. The stories were fragments of his legend. The murder of a rival in an alleyway, the orchestrated robbery of a jewelry shop, whispers of connections to politicians and businessmen who had never been named.
Her phone rang. It was her father. She considered ignoring it, but then sighed and answered.
“Where are you,” Filemon Bendoy’s commanding voice asked at once.
“At home,” Stacy said, trying to sound calm.
“I heard from someone at the Sentinel that you are being sent to New Bilibid. Do not tell me it is true.”
Stacy’s silence betrayed her.
“You will not do it,” Filemon said firmly. “This is not a story for you. This is dangerous and shameful. Leave the coverage of criminals to other people. Do not stain yourself with their filth.”
Her hand tightened on the phone. “I am a journalist, Papa. This is my work. You always said truth must be faced. This man is about to confess his truth, and I will be there to write it.”
“You think criminals speak truth? They speak poison. And poison spreads.”
“Then let me taste it myself,” she whispered. “Let me decide.”
Her father’s sigh was heavy, weighted with disapproval. “You are risking everything. Remember that when it is too late to turn back.” He hung up before she could reply.
Stacy sat in silence, staring at the raindrops sliding down her window like tiny rivers. A part of her was trembling. Another part of her felt an unfamiliar thrill.
The next morning she arrived at New Bilibid Prison, her press badge clipped to her blazer and a recorder tucked inside her bag. The prison loomed gray and massive against the morning light, a concrete fortress that seemed to hum with the memories of violence.
A guard escorted her through a series of gates, each one clanging shut behind her with a metallic echo that seemed final.
“You nervous, ma’am?” the guard asked, glancing at her pale face.
“A little,” Stacy admitted.
“Do not believe everything he says,” the guard muttered. “That man can talk the devil into praying.”
When they reached the visiting room, Stacy’s breath caught. Rafael Manuel was already there, seated behind the thick glass. He wore the orange uniform of a death row inmate, but he sat with the poise of a man in control. His dark eyes fixed on her the moment she entered, sharp and unreadable.
Stacy sat across from him, picking up the phone attached to the wall. He picked up his own receiver and smiled, the kind of smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Bendoy,” Rafael said. His voice was calm, deep, and disturbingly warm. “I have been waiting for you.”
Stacy forced herself to return the gaze. “I suppose you know who I am.”
“I know more than your name,” he replied. “I know how you write. I know how you search for truth in places most would rather ignore. That is why I chose you. If my words are to be remembered, I want them carried by someone who understands obsession.”
Stacy pressed the record button on her device. “Then start with why you want to confess. You are already sentenced. What difference does it make?”
Rafael leaned closer to the glass. “Because death erases a man. Confession makes him eternal. And because I owe the world seven truths. Seven confessions. Each one a piece of me that must be set free before the needle enters my vein.”
She felt her throat tighten. “Seven?”
“Yes,” he said with a faint smile. “And the last will be the most dangerous of all.”
Stacy steadied her voice. “And what is the last?”
Rafael’s gaze did not waver. “My last crime is falling in love with you.”
The words struck like a stone dropped in still water. Stacy’s hand trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it.
“You do not know me,” she said sharply.
“I know enough,” Rafael whispered. “The rest I will learn as I speak. The question is, Miss Bendoy, are you brave enough to listen to all seven confessions, knowing where they will lead?”
For a moment the prison felt too quiet, as if every sound had retreated to let his words linger.
Stacy swallowed hard. “I am here to record your story. That is all.”
Rafael’s smile widened. “We will see.”
Outside the rain had stopped, but inside the walls of New Bilibid, a storm had only just begun.
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