The Man Who Won the End in the World

The Last Supper

On the seventy-fourth day after the sky burned, there was nothing left to eat in Quezon City.

Joaquin Mercado sat on the kitchen floor of the house he had paid for over eleven years and listened to the silence. It was a different kind of silence than before the storm. Back then, Manila had never been quiet. Jeepneys honked, karaoke machines bled through thin walls, and roosters screamed at four in the morning. Now there was only wind, and sometimes gunshots far away near Commonwealth Avenue.

No electricity. No signal. No water from the taps since the second week. The government trucks had stopped coming on day thirty-one. After that, people stopped pretending to be neighbors.

In his hands was the last can of sardines.

He had been saving it for eleven days, hiding it inside an old rice sack behind the water heater. His stomach had long stopped growling. It only ached now, a dull, hollow pain that made his hands shake as he worked the can open with a kitchen knife.

"Bea," he called softly. "Come here, anak."

His daughter stepped out of the darkness of the hallway. Eight years old, too thin, her school uniform hanging loose from her shoulders like a flag with no wind. Her eyes went straight to the can.

Joaquin smiled and held it out to her. "All yours."

"Papa, what about you?"

"Papa's not hungry."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. But Bea took the can anyway and ate with her fingers, quickly, like a stray cat afraid someone would take it away. Joaquin watched her and felt something close to peace. Whatever happened, she had eaten today.

Trina did not come out of the bedroom. She rarely did anymore. For the past two weeks, his wife had barely spoken to him, only watching him from across the room with an expression he couldn't read. He had told himself it was hunger. Hunger made everyone strange.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.

Joaquin rose to his feet, knife still in hand. Nobody knocked anymore. People who wanted something simply broke in.

But before he could move, Trina was already walking past him. She had combed her hair. She was wearing the white blouse she used to wear to church.

"Trina, don't—"

She opened the door.

Lorenzo Salcedo stood on the doorstep. His boss. Vice President of Alcaraz Logistics, the man who had signed Joaquin's paychecks for six years, who had shaken his hand at every Christmas party and called him the most reliable man in the company. Lorenzo looked thinner too, his expensive polo shirt stained and wrinkled. But his eyes were calm.

"Sir Lorenzo?" Joaquin blinked. "What are you doing here? How did you even get past—"

"The warehouses in Novaliches are empty," Lorenzo said. He wasn't looking at Joaquin. He was looking at Trina. "All of them. There's nothing left out there."

Trina nodded slowly, as if she had expected those exact words.

Something cold crawled up Joaquin's spine. "Trina. What is this?"

His wife finally looked at him. For eleven years he had loved that face. He had worked double shifts to buy her the gold necklace she wanted, had eaten instant noodles for a month so she could have her birthday dinner at a hotel in Makati. And now that face looked at him the way someone looks at a piece of furniture.

Lorenzo stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Joaquin raised the kitchen knife. His arm trembled. Seventy-four days of hunger had turned his muscles into wet paper. "Get out of my house."

"Your house?" Lorenzo almost laughed.

Joaquin never saw Trina move. He only felt her arms wrap around him from behind, pinning his elbows, and heard the knife clatter against the tiles. He was too weak to throw her off. He had given her his portion of rice for weeks. She was stronger than him now.

Then came the pain. Sharp and hot, just below his ribs.

Joaquin looked down at Lorenzo's hand and the blade buried in his side. He sank to his knees. The kitchen tilted.

"Papa!"

Bea's voice. Thank God. He turned his head, reaching for her, wanting to tell her to run, to hide, to close her eyes.

But Bea ran past him.

She ran straight into Lorenzo's arms and buried her face in his shirt.

"Papa Lorenzo," she whispered. "You came back."

The world went very quiet.

Joaquin stared at the little girl he had carried on his shoulders at every fiesta. The girl whose fevers he had sat through, whose school projects he had glued together at midnight, who had just eaten his last can of sardines.

*Papa Lorenzo.*

Trina crouched beside him. Her voice was soft, almost kind, the way she used to speak to him when they were first married.

"She was never yours, Quin," she said. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this. But at least tonight…" She brushed his hair from his forehead. "At least tonight, you'll finally be useful to this family."

He understood then. He understood the looks. The silence. The way Trina had watched him lose weight and said nothing.

The last thing Joaquin Mercado saw was Lorenzo reaching for the big pot on the stove.

Then darkness.

---

Heat.

Sticky, suffocating heat, and the rattling hum of an electric fan.

Joaquin gasped and sat up. His hands flew to his side, clawing at his shirt, searching for the wound.

Nothing. Smooth skin. No blood.

He was in his bed. Sunlight poured through the thin curtains. Outside, a jeepney horn blared, a tricycle engine sputtered, and somewhere a neighbor's radio was playing an old OPM love song. From the living room came the tinny voice of a morning news anchor.

"…PAGASA assures the public that the recent increase in solar activity poses no danger to the Philippines. Experts say the phenomenon is completely normal and—"

Electricity. There was *electricity.*

Joaquin grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up instantly, full battery, five bars of signal.

*Tuesday, March 3.*

He stared at the date until it blurred. The storm had struck on June 11. He had counted every day of the aftermath, carved them into the doorframe with a nail. He knew that date the way a man knows his own name.

March 3 to June 11.

One hundred days.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He pressed a fist against his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. Was it a dream? A hallucination before death? But the fan was real. The heat was real. The smell of garlic rice frying in the kitchen was real.

The bedroom door creaked open.

"Papa! Breakfast is ready!"

Bea stood in the doorway in her pajamas, round-cheeked and healthy, her hair tied in two crooked ponytails. She smiled at him with the same smile she had given Lorenzo as Joaquin bled on the kitchen floor.

Joaquin's hands began to shake. He curled them into the bedsheets so she wouldn't see.

"Papa? Are you sick?"

"No, anak," he heard himself say. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "Papa's fine."

Then Trina appeared behind their daughter, leaning casually against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand. She looked beautiful. Rested. Completely unaware that he remembered.

"Oh, before I forget," she said lightly. "Sir Lorenzo is coming over for dinner tonight. He says he wants to talk to you about a promotion. Cook something nice, okay?"

Joaquin went still.

He remembered this dinner. In his first life, he had cooked adobo for it. He had poured Lorenzo's wine with his own hands and thanked him for the opportunity.

And he had never once wondered why Lorenzo already knew where the plates were kept.