The old grain district sat along the southern canal bank, far removed from the neon signs and loud markets of central District 4. Here, the air smelled of ground wheat, dry burlap, and diesel exhaust from heavy freight trucks.
At 7:00 AM, Hunza stood outside the iron gates of Farooq Flour Mills. The three-story brick building had soot-stained walls and wide sliding wooden doors, through which the steady, mechanical hum of heavy milling machinery echoed into the street.
Hunza adjusted his hoodie, standing tall and steady. He held the slip of paper Leo had given him in his fist.
He stepped through the side pedestrian gate into the main yard. Workers in white, flour-dusted overalls were hauling sacks off flatbed trucks onto iron hand handcarts. In the center of the yard stood an elderly man in a faded vest, holding a brass-bound clipboard and watching every truck load with sharp, unblinking eyes.
"Mr. Farooq?" Hunza asked, his deep voice carrying over the rumble of the mill motor.
The old man turned slowly. He had a thick white beard, deeply creased skin around his eyes, and a posture as straight as a timber beam. He looked Hunza up and down—noticing his broad, heavy frame, his humble demeanor, and the dark circles of fatigue under his eyes.
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"You're the boy Rashid spoke about," Farooq said, his voice dry and raspy like flour dust. "Hunza."
"Yes, sir," Hunza replied, bowing his head slightly. "Assalamu alaikum."
"Wa alaikum assalam," Farooq replied, narrowing his eyes as he stepped closer. "Rashid says you don't have local barangay clearances or municipal labor papers."
"I don't, sir," Hunza said directly, looking Farooq straight in the eye. "I came across the border when I was young. I have no city documents. But I have two arms, a strong back, and I do honest work."
Farooq tapped his clipboard against his hip. "I don't run a charity here, son. This mill processes three tons of wheat a day. Local gangs try to slip stolen grain into my inventory, and loan shark collectors try to tax my drivers at the gate. My night supervisor needs to guard the inventory, lock the iron gates, and check every weigh-scale slip before the morning trucks leave."
Farooq leaned in, his sharp gaze probing Hunza's face. "The work pays seven hundred pesos a day—cash in hand every evening. But if one sack goes missing, or if you let dirty grain through that gate, you don't just lose the job. You answer to me."
Hunza felt a surge of quiet gratitude in his chest. $\text{₱}700$ a day—more than double what he made hauling cabbage crates, and entirely earned through clean, honest sweat.
"No stolen grain enters your gate on my shift, sir," Hunza said quietly, his voice firm and unwavering. "And no sack leaves without a clean receipt."
Farooq stared at him for three long seconds, then nodded once toward the main warehouse floor.
"Shift starts at six in the evening," Farooq said, turning back to his clipboard. "Go home, rest your shoulders, and come back ready to work. Don't be late."