The mountain road to Barangay San Miguel wound through terrain that brought back memories I'd spent years trying to suppress. Dense forest pressing in from both sides, isolated communities where strangers were noticed and remembered, and the kind of remote locations where people could disappear without anyone in Manila caring enough to investigate properly. I kept my hands steady on the steering wheel, but my mind was cataloging potential ambush points, escape routes, and defensive positions. Old habits from police work, sharpened by paranoia that had kept me alive when trusting the wrong person had gotten innocent people killed. "David?" Agent Fernandez's voice cut through my tactical assessment. "You've been quiet since we left Manila. Everything okay?" "Fine," I replied automatically, the same response I'd given to department psychologists when they'd asked why I'd started second-guessing every operation, every partner assignment, every piece of intelligence that seemed too conv

The cemetery's ancient stones felt comfortingly solid beneath my enhanced form as I watched the CLEANERS team begin their tactical withdrawal. How beautifully they'd performed exactly as I'd anticipated after months of careful observation and strategic manipulation. The Santos twins had grown so much since our first encounter in those provincial rice fields. From desperate children fighting for survival to coordinated operatives capable of tactical thinking under extreme pressure. The boy's rage had been beautiful raw and untempered, exactly as I'd designed it. I allowed my form to contract back to more manageable proportions, savoring the way they watched in horrified fascination. The scent of their fear was intoxicating. Eight feet was impressive for psychological impact, but maintaining that size required energy better conserved for actual combat operations. "Unit leaders, report status," I commanded through the supernatural communication network connecting me to my transform

The CLEANERS Manila facility felt different after our underground battle with the Neat Man. What had once seemed like a secure headquarters now felt exposed, vulnerable, filled with potential threats we hadn't recognized before. Every corridor, every room, every person we encountered could be part of the deception we were only beginning to understand. Which was why Mr. Clean's sudden interest in our personal lives set off every alarm system our recent experiences had developed. "Terrible business, what happened in the mountains," he said, appearing in the cafeteria during our breakfast debrief with his usual cleaning supplies and that helpful smile that had once seemed genuinely friendly. "I heard you boys had quite an encounter with some nasty creatures." Denmar looked up from his coffee, exhaustion making him less guarded than usual. "Maranhig. Enhanced variants with tactical coordination we'd never seen before." "Maranhig, yes," Mr. Clean nodded sagely, beginning to wipe do

The CLEANERS research library had become my second home over the past two weeks. While other agents attended advanced tactical training, participated in team building exercises, or took recreational leave, I spent every available hour diving deeper into Project Sunshine files and experimental transformation protocols. Reversal success rates. Genetic marker classifications. Timeline analysis for enhanced resistance subjects. Treatment protocols that might work for someone who'd been missing for months rather than days. *Was I fooling myself? The question whispered at the edges of my consciousness, but I pushed it down. Research was action. Research was hope.* "Marden," Agent Fernandez called from the library entrance, her voice carrying the tone she used when professional concern was shifting toward direct intervention. "You missed combat training again this morning." I looked up from the research terminal, blinking hard as my vision doubled for a second. "The bone token analysis r

The maintenance corridors felt like hunting grounds as Marcus moved through spaces most agents never saw. Twenty years of survival instincts made navigation through hidden passages feel natural narrow gaps between walls, service tunnels connecting building systems, observation points perfect for someone who'd learned to be invisible.His fingers traced the communication cable he'd spliced three hours ago. The intercepts would wake soon.Mr. Clean's routine had become predictable over weeks of careful observation. Morning rounds, afternoon maintenance, evening equipment checks. But those late-night activities those violated every pattern of normal janitorial work.Marcus pressed his ear to the conduit. Footsteps approached, padded and precise.The intercepts sang to life at the edge of his hearing soft mechanical sighs from the comm node he'd tucked behind a junction box. Mr. Clean's voice came through clear and dry."Asset development report."Marcus's throat closed. Not a question. A