The market square hums with the scent of grilled

pork and fried bananas. Liza, 22, pushes her

cart under the noon sun, her fingers raw from

tying plastic bags. She has no time for the

aswang stories whispered by old women—her focus

is on the next scholarship exam, the only way

out of the barangay. Her mother’s letters arrive

weekly, each one a reminder of the OFW wages

she’ll never see until she’s gone.

A man in a dark suit approaches, his eyes too

sharp, his smile too smooth. He offers her a

contract: a loan, no interest, no collateral.

All she must do is deliver a package to a

highrise in Makati. Liza hesitates, but the

words “scholarship guaranteed” freeze her breath.

She agrees.

The package is a small box wrapped in black

cloth. The building has no name, only a number.

A guard lets her through with a nod. Inside, the

air smells of incense and old money. She leaves

the box at the desk, but the man who gave it to

her is gone. The elevator buttons glow faintly,

as if alive.

Liza’s exam results arrive days later. She

passes with flying colors. Her mother weeps, her

father buys her a new uniform. But the box

returns, now filled with gold coins. The man’s

voice echoes in her head: “You’re not done yet.”

She ignores it. Until the night her cart

vanishes, replaced by a shadow that moves

without light. The other vendors whisper about

the diwata, but Liza knows better. She tracks

the shadow to an alley, where a girl in a school

uniform stands, holding her cart. The girl’s

face is hers—older, colder.

The girl speaks without moving her lips. “You

sold your name. Now you’re mine.” Liza tries to

run, but the streets twist, leading her back to

the same highrise. The doors open without her

touching them. Inside, the man waits, now

younger, his suit stained with something dark.

He shows her a ledger. Every name in it is hers,

from the day she signed the contract. The price

was not money—it was her ability to choose. The

girl steps forward, and Liza’s body follows. She

wakes in the market, her cart intact, but the

coins are gone. The exam results are blank. The

man’s voice lingers: “Next time, you’ll be ready.

”