Romeo and Gian

By Alvin E. Lauran

'In a country drowning in corruption and silence, truth becomes the most dangerous love of all.

Romeo Navarro is an investigative journalist whose exposé threatens to bring down one of the nation's most powerful men. Gian Aragon is that man's son-an artist torn between loyalty and conscience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 4, 2025
• ISBN: 9789353532482

Book preview

Chapter 1

T

he rain that morning felt biblical. It struck the glass panes of The Manila Sentinel’s newsroom in relentless rhythm—each drop a whisper, a warning, a weight. The city beyond was half-drowned: streets turned into shallow rivers, the smell of damp paper and diesel thick in the air. Manila always looked tired during monsoon, but that day, the tiredness carried a different name—fear.

Inside, the newsroom pulsed with quiet intensity. Phones rang, printers hissed, screens glowed with stories still being written. The air-conditioning struggled against the humidity, making the scent of brewed coffee and human tension inseparable. It was barely eight in the morning, and already, the walls seemed to hum with history waiting to happen.

At the far end of the room sat Romeo Villareal, thirty-three, calm in the eye of the storm. He had the kind of face that could command attention without saying a word—sharp, composed, and sincere. His eyes were a deep brown, steady and penetrating, the kind of eyes that made liars tremble. His skin held the warm tone of someone constantly out in the field, chasing stories under the Philippine sun. A faint scar traced the edge of his left eyebrow—an old souvenir from a protest that turned violent years ago. His shirts were always crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing lean forearms that spoke of discipline and long nights of typing.

He carried himself with quiet authority—never loud, but impossible to ignore. The kind of journalist who didn’t need a byline to be believed.

His desk was a chaos of documents, flash drives, and crumpled drafts—months of digging, verifying, cross-checking, and running from dead ends. His latest story was open on the screen, the headline staring back at him like a verdict:

THE SAMARICA PAPERS: BILLIONS LOST IN FLOOD CONTROL PROJECTS TIED TO GOVERNOR GREGORIO ARAGON

He read it again, slowly, as if tasting the words for poison.

Behind him stood Rina Cordero, The Sentinel’s editor-in-chief. In her late forties, Rina had silver streaks in her jet-black hair that framed a face both stern and compassionate. Her almond eyes were sharp behind thin glasses, her lips always pressed in that knowing half-smile of someone who had seen the rise and fall of too many truths. She wore her trademark black blazer over faded jeans—a symbol of her rebellion against the corporate men who underestimated her. Her presence in the newsroom was maternal and militant all at once; no one ever dared to lie to her.

You’re certain about this? she asked, voice low but unwavering.

Romeo turned in his chair. Every detail. Contracts, ghost firms, fund transfers, even the offshore accounts. The money for Samarica’s flood control went to companies owned by the governor’s cousins. They built dikes that collapsed in a week. People died when the water returned.

Rina’s brows knit together. And you think publishing this will save them?

Romeo gave a faint smile. No. But silence never saved anyone either.

For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the newsroom filled the space—the tapping of keyboards, the shuffle of papers, the hiss of the rain outside. Finally, Rina walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. You know what happens after this goes live. You’ve named one of the President’s allies. You’re not just touching a snake pit—you’re inside it.

Romeo met her eyes, steady and tired. They can come for me. But the story stands. The people deserve to know where their taxes went—and who turned their floods into profit.

She sighed. You’ve always had a death wish for the truth.

He almost laughed. Maybe the truth is the only thing worth dying for.

At exactly 8:37 a.m., Rina nodded to the IT desk. Send it live.

A single keystroke sent the story into the bloodstream of the nation.

Within minutes, The Samarica Papers spread like wildfire across every platform—Facebook, X, television, radio. Screens blazed with the governor’s photo beside satellite images of crumbling embankments and drowned barangays. Hashtags trended. The Palace released a cautious statement calling for due process, while opposition senators demanded investigation. In Samarica Province, where the rain still fell, villagers gathered around small radios, hearing for the first time that their governor—their supposed protector—was at the center of it all.

By noon, the newsroom phones wouldn’t stop ringing.

Some calls came from senators’ aides offering statements of denial. Others, from anonymous voices whispering, You’ve gone too far. One call simply breathed into the receiver before hanging up.

Rina ordered a security guard posted at the building entrance. This is how it starts, she muttered, pacing by the glass wall. First, they discredit you. Then they sue. Then they find you on a roadside.

Romeo pretended not to hear her. His focus was elsewhere—on the rain streaking down the window like thin veins of silver.

He remembered Samarica vividly: a humid afternoon five years ago, covering the aftermath of a typhoon. He had walked among shattered homes and muddy fields, taking notes as children scooped floodwater out of their houses with broken basins. He’d met a boy then—sixteen, maybe seventeen—taking photos of the devastation with an old film camera. The boy had a quiet intensity, his eyes fixed not on the destruction, but on the people rebuilding.

Romeo had asked, Are you a journalist?

The boy had smiled shyly. No, sir. Just trying to keep something alive.

That memory returned to him now, uninvited but vivid, like a photograph developed in the darkroom of his mind.

The newsroom door suddenly slammed open.

Boss! a reporter gasped. Channel 8 is already calling this ‘fake news.’ The governor’s PR team is smearing the paper—accusing us of political bias.

Rina pinched the bridge of her nose. Let them. We have the evidence. They have fear.

Romeo closed his laptop and stood. If they want to talk, I’ll face them.

Rina’s voice sharpened. You’ll do no such thing. Stay out of sight for now. They’ll paint you as the villain. Let the story breathe before you do.

He nodded, reluctantly.

As the day dragged on, the newsroom buzzed with the adrenaline of consequence. The Sentinel’s legal team prepared for backlash. Reporters whispered about Romeo as if he’d lit a match in a room full of gas.

Outside, thunder rolled over Quezon City.

The rain had not stopped.

At twilight, Romeo stepped out of the building. The streetlamps reflected on puddles, the smell of wet asphalt heavy in the air. He stood under the awning, coat slung over one arm, eyes distant. He should have felt triumphant—his story was changing headlines, maybe even history. Yet what he felt instead was an unexplainable ache.

He took out his phone and scrolled through the article again. Thousands of shares, hundreds of comments—praise,