Theories Scatter Like Ash When the Wind Turns

  November 9, 2035

  The floor-length glass door made a soft click as Amy Rivera pushed it open with the heel of her palm, her other hand still thumbing through half-loaded browser tabs on her phone. The chill of Anton’s office met her like a slap, the AC always turned a few notches too high for her liking.

  Anton sat reclined in his ergonomic chair, arms resting behind his head, gaze momentarily unfocused on the skyline behind him, Makati’s glass-and-steel limbs reaching into a late afternoon haze. The sun diffused through the windowpanes like it was trying to soften itself for him.

  Amy didn’t wait for a cue. She dropped into the chair opposite his desk, a rhythm they’d fallen into over the past two months. No greetings. No pretenses. Just questions.

  “How come you get a private office,” she asked, half-teasing, half-genuine, “while Mariana just gets a large cubicle? Isn’t she also a senior reporter?”

  Anton tilted his head, giving her the faintest smirk. “Sexism, yeah. This institution’s corrupt as hell. Doesn’t let women succeed too well.”

  Amy raised a brow. Anton held the silence long enough for her to wonder if he was serious, then added, deadpan: “I’m kidding. Jesus. That tone wasn’t clear enough for you?”

  He leaned forward now, fingers tapping the desk lightly. “Seriously, Mariana doesn’t want one. She thinks cubicles are better for collaboration. Open layout, easier conversations, less hierarchy.”

  Amy didn’t skip a beat. “So you don’t agree with her?”

  Anton blinked. “What?”

  “You have an office.”

  “And?”

  Amy shrugged, half-challenging.

  Anton exhaled in amusement. “Amy, that’s a fallacy. Just because I do something doesn’t mean I disagree with someone who doesn’t. I agree with Mariana. I just… like having a private office, that’s all. I like silence. And doors. And knowing that nobody can see me picking my nose between edits.”

  Amy let the corners of her mouth twitch, barely a smile. “Just curious,” she muttered, already bored of the digression. She crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and added, “Anyways. You called me up here.”

  Anton didn’t answer immediately. He took a sip from the condensation-slick cold brew beside his keyboard and said, “You haven’t gotten much on the Robin Hood gang.”

  She sighed through her nose, the kind of sound that wasn’t quite defeat but carried the weight of it. “It’s more complicated than I thought.”

  Anton gave a slow nod, like he was letting her walk into a point he’d already mapped days ago. “Told you Sunday. Tracking donation surges and cash flows through these charities, it’s a nightmare. Especially in Manila. Most of this stuff happens off the books. Hand to hand. Cash. No receipts. It’s not even laundering half the time, it’s just… faith.”

  Amy groaned. A long, low sound of intellectual frustration. “It’s like trying to draw the wind.”

  Anton’s fingers danced briefly across the trackpad, Amy could see from the reflection on the window that he’s pulling up a folder on his screen. Rows of filenames, timestamps, charity names, cryptic shorthand, flashed under the white glare of the monitor.

  “From what you’ve managed to send me so far,” he said, eyes scanning, “you’ve already interviewed some of the bigger charities, right?”

  Amy leaned back, crossing her arms. “Yeah. I didn’t really know exactly where the gang’s operating in Metro Manila, so I figured I’d start with the most established ones. See if anything stood out. Nothing did, their ops are clean, every donation was logged and there were no significant bumps anywhere last year.”

  Anton’s brow twitched as he clicked into one of the files. “I noticed…” He scrolled, the soft whir of his mouse wheel filling the space. “Every single interview you logged are video calls, text messages, emails.”

  A beat of awkward silence pooled between them. Amy looked down at her shoes. “Yeah. They are.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  She shrugged, trying for casual. “I’m still juggling classes and work. Remote was just… faster.”

  Anton’s eyes narrowed slightly. “One of those charities you reached out to, their main offices are right next to UP. You could’ve walked over. Fifteen minutes, tops. They even have representatives in your school.”

  Amy let out a small, dismissive puff of air. “Video call, in-person, it’s the same thing, information-wise.”

  Anton sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Call me a boomer, but no, it’s not. You miss a lot through a screen. The way people react, how they carry themselves, the little tells you can’t see unless you’re breathing the same air. The dynamics just… aren’t the same.”

  She didn’t answer right away. Deep down, she knew he was right. The thought stung, not because she disagreed, but because she couldn’t quite put into words why she’d kept herself behind the safety of a lens. Not yet.

  “I’ll take note,” she said finally, her tone clipped into professionalism. “But the fact is, out of the major charities in the Metro, none of them had any suspicious spikes in donations this past year.”

  Anton’s gaze stayed on her, steady, the Makati skyline burning pale gold behind his head.

  “So,” he said, “where do you think the next likely lead’s going to be?”

  Amy tapped a knuckle lightly against her knee. “Not yet certain. If we’re still assuming the serial burglars are doing this to redistribute wealth… then we can’t rule out the possibility they’re giving it out directly, instead of going through intermediaries like charities.” She paused. “That’s saying if these burglars really are running some kind of Robin Hood thing. Right now, that’s still just a theory we haven’t been able to confirm.”

  Anton’s eyes narrowed, inviting. “Go on.”

  “With that assumption,” Amy continued, “it’s going to be impossible to track any kind of leads.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  He tilted his head slightly, as if he already had the answer in his pocket but wanted to hear hers. “Why?”

  “Because we don’t know the scope. Or the location. Or who they’re giving to. Tracking sudden bumps in quality of life or spending capacity across the entire Metro? Not even AI can do that reliably. The data’s too noisy, some people might have just landed a better job, or received an inheritance, or won the lottery. You can’t separate cause from coincidence.”

  Anton nodded slowly. “Alright. So the distribution side’s a dead end. Where do we go from there?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “We switch to tracking how and where they’re fencing the items. It’s cleaner. No matter how they spend the money, charity, gambling, or blowing it on luxury watches, the stolen goods will have to go through fencers.”

  Anton allowed himself the ghost of a grin. “The other motives wouldn’t explain why they left visible stacks of cash in the house. And there’s also the possibility these guys just really like nice things.”

  Amy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please don’t make this investigation any more emotionally daunting than it already is.”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just covering all the bases.”

  “So, let’s summarize,” Anton said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “Charities link, bust. Direct distribution, no go. Which leaves us with pawnshops and fencers.” He held her gaze. “What’s the first step?”

  Amy stared back, her expression caught between thought and surrender. The seconds stretched. She didn’t have an answer.

  Anton let the pause hang just long enough to make the silence feel instructional, then leaned back. “Alright. First thing, you don’t just walk into pawnshops asking about stolen goods. You start by mapping. Identify every pawnshop and secondhand dealer within the probable radius of the burglaries we know about. That gives you a landscape. You narrow it down by reputation, some shops are squeaky clean, others…” He tilted his hand in a so-so gesture, “…more flexible with what they accept.”

  He swiveled slightly in his chair, eyes flicking toward the skyline like he could see the city’s underbelly over the rooftops. “Then you start visiting. Not as a reporter, at least not at first. You go in as a customer, ask questions, get a feel for who’s chatty and who keeps their mouth shut. See how long it takes before they drop names or make offhand comments. You’re looking for patterns, same kinds of goods, same descriptions of sellers, sudden influx of high-end items that don’t match the neighborhood’s income profile.”

  His attention snapped back to her. “That’s where the trail starts. Fencers leave traces if you know where to look.”

  Amy sat there for a moment, thinking. The words she was about to say tasted like defeat, but she let them out anyway. “That’s… too much manual work for a trainee who’s still in school. I need help.”

  Anton’s brow arched. “What kind of help?”

  “Manpower,” she said plainly. “Chatting up that many pawnshops would take forever. By the time we get a clear lead, the gang could’ve hit another dozen houses.”

  Anton leaned back, fingertips drumming lightly on the armrest. He studied her, weighing something behind his eyes, then gave a short nod. “Alright. I’ll see if I can corral some of the other trainees and juniors to help with the legwork.”

  His tone shifted, less about logistics now, more about her. “And Amy? I know I’m beating a dead horse here, but be careful when you interview the pawnshops.”

  “I know, I know, I’m well aware.” Amy said with a forced smile.

  * * * * *

  Miguel was already seated when Amy walked in, his profile caught in the low glow of the restaurant’s lighting. A quiet sanctuaries from the noise outside, walls dressed in deep wood paneling, the air thick with the mingled scents of seared meat, fresh herbs, and expensive wine. Directional spotlights fell in warm cones over each table, turning every meal into a kind of stage play for two.

  Amy approached, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she smiled apologetically. “Sorry I’m late. Work kept me.”

  Miguel looked up, his expression softening instantly. “It’s fine. Only been a few minutes.” His lips curved into something sly. “Besides, the image of waiting for someone is more romantic.”

  She gave a small laugh, rolling her eyes, but the smile lingered as she slid into the seat across from him.

  Menus were barely glanced at before they began ordering, starters, mains, sides, desserts, drinks. The waiter scribbled briskly as the list grew, retreating with the promise that the first courses would be out shortly.

  Miguel rested an elbow on the table, chin on hand, watching her with a curiosity that was almost disarming. “So… how’s the investigation?”

  Amy exhaled through her nose, a wry twist tugging at her mouth. “We hit a roadblock. I’m pivoting to another angle.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “You won’t bore me,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “I’m interested.”

  She relented, leaning back in her chair, smiled. “Alright, long story short. The charity angle’s a dead end. So now I’m shifting to asking around pawnshops, see if anything about the stolen goods shows up that way.”

  Miguel’s smile curved wider, his tone warm with mischief. “You know, you’re kind of living the movie-reporter life right now. Secret investigations, tracking down leads, chasing after thieves, it’s very press badge in the rain, last cigarette before deadline energy.”

  Amy laughed, the sound short and genuine. “Yeah, except the reality’s way less glamorous. It’s just hours of manual work, spreadsheets, half-legible notes, and staring at numbers until your brain leaks out your ears. The most cinematic thing that’s happened so far is my laptop fan wheezing like it’s about to die.”

  She waved the conversation away. “Enough about me. How’s your week been?”

  Miguel shrugged, his shoulders shifting lazily against the backrest. “Mostly just holed up with school work. I only managed to get to the rock climbing gym once this week.”

  Amy blinked. “You rock climb?”

  “Yeah.” He brightened, leaning forward a little. “Actually, it was Sandro who introduced me to it. Got hooked on it even though Sandro moved on to other hobbies.”

  Her mind flickered back to when she and Sandro were still together, a hazy memory surfacing of him mentioning rock climbing exactly once, like a brief flirtation with the idea before discarding it for something else.

  Miguel tilted his head, studying her face. “You interested? Because when I mentioned rock climbing, your expression was… excited.”

  Heat prickled across her cheeks before she could stop it. “No. Maybe. Not really. I mean, I don’t have anything against rock climbing, I just never thought about doing it.”

  Miguel’s grin returned, slow and sure. “Then join me next time. It’ll be fun.”

  The starters arrived in a careful choreography of polished silver trays and quiet footfalls. The waiter set down a plate between them, a fan of smoked hamachi, translucent and glistening, each slice angled just so over a shallow pool of pale citrus-soy sauce that caught the light like liquid glass. A scattering of microgreens and edible flowers made it almost too pretty to disturb. Alongside it, their drinks, Amy’s gin and tonic, condensation already gathering at the base; Miguel’s glass of red, the kind that released its scent before it touched his lips.

  Miguel leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting just inside the boundary of his place setting. “So, back to work,” he said, eyes narrowing playfully. “Do you have any ideas yet on which pawnshops to go to?”

  Amy swirled the ice in her glass, watching the lime wedge bob in the clear fizz. “That’s actually what kept me. I was compiling a list of pawnshops to visit before I left the office. Narrowed it down to twenty-four.”

  Miguel gave a low whistle. “Twenty-four? That’s a lot of ground to cover. You need help?”

  “Yes,” Amy said without hesitation, “but thankfully, the company’s roping in other people to help with the workload.”

  He tilted his head, studying her as if weighing something. “And you? You’re going to visit these pawnshops yourself?”

  “I wanted to avoid doing it in person,” she admitted, “but… I probably don’t have a choice this time. There’s no emailing pawnshop owners and asking them to hand over confidential info. Not if I want real answers.”

  Miguel took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down with deliberate care. “So, do you need someone to tag along?”

  Amy’s brows rose just enough to signal she knew exactly what he was leading to. She shook her head. “No. I can’t impose like that. This is work. I can’t rope in friends.”

  “Friends look out for friends,” Miguel countered easily, leaning back in his chair. “And going into a bunch of pawnshops, poking around about stolen goods? That’s not nothing. Safety’s a thing, Amy. You shouldn’t do it alone.”

  She started to say she didn’t need a companion, because she didn’t, not really. But the truth was, the idea of walking into twenty-four pawnshops, one after the other, asking the kinds of questions that made people guard their words, felt heavier than she wanted to admit. With someone else there, even if they couldn’t do much, the weight would be halved.

  She already knew her answer before she spoke. “Alright. You can come.”

  Miguel smiled, warm and satisfied, and reached for his chopsticks. “You won’t regret it.”

  They began to share the hamachi, each bite breaking the perfect arrangement on the plate, the tang of the sauce cutting clean through the buttery fish.