The messenger kid, whose name was Leo, sat on an overturned milk crate in the alley, his hands still trembling as he reorganized his scattered delivery satchel.
Hunza didn't move from his spot against the brick wall. His left arm throbbed with a dull, heavy pulse, every heartbeat sending a spike of heat through his bruised shoulder. He didn't complain. In silence, he simply breathed through his nose, waiting for the surge of adrenaline to subside so he could think clearly.
"That guy... that was Big Mark," Leo stammered, looking at Hunza with a mix of awe and terror. "He works for Mr. Barlas. Nobody stands up to Mark like that. You... you took a full swing from a pipe and didn't even drop."
Hunza let out a quiet, short laugh, though he kept his eyes closed. "I'm ninety kilos, kid. Gravity does most of the standing for me. What was in those envelopes?"
Leo hesitated, clutching his satchel tightly against his chest. "Just night-mail. Direct hand-deliveries across the district. Money drops, IOUs, quiet contracts between vendors who don't want to pay municipal taxes or deal with banks."
Hunza opened his eyes. "How much do you make per run?"
"Five hundred pesos a drop," Leo whispered. "A full night's run—if you don't get robbed or caught by precinct patrols—can net three to four thousand pesos."
Four thousand pesos a night.
The math clicked instantly in Hunza’s head. In two weeks of night-mail runs, he could pay off Ayesha’s rent for the next three months, cover her doctor's appointments, and buy proper prenatal vitamins without having to beg his family or take a hand-out.
"Who coordinates the runs?" Hunza asked, leaning forward despite the sharp pang in his shoulder.
"Old Man Rashid at the harbor docks," Leo said softly. "But he doesn't just hire anybody. You need a deposit, or a guarantee. If a package goes missing, Rashid makes you pay for it out of your own skin."
Hunza slowly pushed himself up from the ground. His knees cracked loudly in the quiet alley, his heavy frame forcing him to take a firm, wide stance to stay balanced. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his phone.
A screen notification lit up his face: an automated text from his bank showing a remaining balance of ₱70.
He swallowed hard, the familiar knot of insecurity tightening in his throat. He felt small, slow, and completely out of his depth. He was an eighteen-year-old high school graduate who couldn't even remember to pay his household electricity bills on time. What right do I have to walk into an underground harbor network?
He looked up toward the third-floor window of the tenement building. A dim yellow light still burned behind the thin curtains. Ayesha was up there, waiting in silence, carrying a life they couldn't afford to announce to the world.
Hunza closed his eyes, his mind steadying into a quiet, familiar prayer.
Ya Allah, you know I am lazy. You know I doubt myself every single minute of the day. But I don't ask for an easy way out—I just ask for the strength to stand ground on the path I choose. Let what comes late be solid.
He opened his eyes, wiping his face with his good hand, and looked back at Leo.
"Take me to Rashid," Hunza said.
The Harbor Docks
By 2:00 AM, the sea breeze blowing off the Manila Bay docks smelled heavily of salt, diesel exhaust, and rotting fish. Large shipping containers were stacked like iron blocks, casting long, dark shadows under the tall floodlights.
Leo led Hunza past a line of rusted warehouses to a small, brightly lit office built inside a repurposed shipping container. Inside, sitting behind a wooden desk covered in ledgers, cup noodles, and old landline phones, was a bald man in his late fifties with a thick gray beard and a faded tattoo on his forearm.
Old Man Rashid didn't look up when the door clicked open.
"You're late, Leo," Rashid grunted, flicking through a stack of paper bills. "And you brought company. I told you, no strays."
"He saved the drop, Uncle Rashid," Leo said quickly, stepping into the room. "Big Mark cornered me in the alley near the tenement block. This guy took Mark down."
Rashid stopped counting the money. His sharp, dark eyes slowly shifted away from the desk and locked onto Hunza.
He took in Hunza’s full appearance: the five-foot-three stature, the baggy hoodie soaked in sweat, the big belly, and the slight limp in his left shoulder. There was nothing intimidating or sharp about Hunza’s posture. He looked like an out-of-place kid who had lost his way home.
"You took down Mark?" Rashid asked, his voice rough like sandpaper. "Mark is six-foot-two and built like an iron stove."
Hunza burst into his sudden, easy laugh, scratching his head. "Ah, uncle, I wouldn't say I took him down. He swung a pipe, I kind of got in the way, and he fell over some wooden crates. Mostly bad luck on his part."
Rashid stared at him without smiling. He had run night-mail couriers for twenty years. He knew the difference between a loud-mouthed street thug trying to look tough and someone who was hiding real weight under a smile.
"Why are you here, kid?" Rashid asked coldly. "You don't look like a runner. You look like you should be studying for college entrance exams."
Hunza’s smile faded slightly. He didn't give a dramatic speech. He didn't boast about his strength or tell a tragic story.
"I need money," Hunza said simply, his voice low and steady. "I need four thousand pesos a night, and I'm not afraid of the hard routes."
"And if you get caught? If Barlas's men take a package from you?" Rashid leaned forward, resting his calloused elbows on the desk. "I don't extend credit to eighteen-year-olds. If a drop fails on your watch, the debt falls on your head. Seven days to repay, or my enforcers come to your family's front door."
The mention of his family made Hunza’s heart drop. The image of his mother’s worried face flashed in his mind. If his parents ever found out about this—or about Ayesha—it would crush them.
The pressure felt suffocating, like a heavy weight crushing his chest. Every instinct told him to apologize, turn around, and run back to the safety of his bedroom.
You're useless, Hunza, the voice inside his head whispered. You always mess up the small things. What makes you think you can handle this?
Hunza squeezed his right hand into a tight fist inside his pocket, forcing his mind to go quiet.
"I'll take the runs," Hunza said, looking Rashid straight in the eyes. "Give me the hardest route you have tonight."
Rashid watched him for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick, wax-sealed brown envelope. He slapped it onto the wooden desk.
"District 4. The old fish market behind the railway line," Rashid said. "Deliver this to the tea house at the end of the alley before 4:00 AM. Pay is two thousand pesos upon confirmation."
Hunza picked up the heavy envelope, sliding it deep into the inner pocket of his hoodie.
"One rule, kid," Rashid added, his eyes narrowing. "In this line of work, quick men survive, and slow men get caught. Don't be slow."
Hunza offered a small, quiet smile as he turned toward the door.
"Uncle," Hunza said softly, pausing at the threshold. "Slow is all I know. But once I start moving, nobody pushes me back."