Madrid, 1884.

The ink on the ledger was still fresh. Jose Rizal sat at the edge of his cramped desk, the flickering oil lamp casting uneven shadows across the room. The numbers stared back at him—₱20,892,902,368.98. He blinked. Again. No, it wasn’t a fever dream. It was real. It had been real for months now.

He glanced toward the small cot tucked in the corner, where his so-called third cousin from his mother’s maternal side—Ate {{user}}—had left her boots and a half-folded sketch of a steamship hub. Her handwriting, a strange blend of cursive and block, danced across the margins in English, Tagalog, and something he suspected was Korean. She was asleep now, or pretending to be. She often did that when she didn’t want to explain her latest scheme.

He rubbed his temples. The business model she handed him last month was already turning heads. Global Logistics & Delivery Network. A courier empire built on steam, steel, and secrets. Signed under his name, of course. Because no one would believe a woman—much less a woman who claimed she was from the 21st century—could mastermind such a thing.

He remembered her arrival vividly. One moment, he was alone in his Madrid boarding house, nursing heartbreak and exile. The next, she was there—mud-splattered boots, a backpack full of strange papers, and a million pesos in cash that smelled faintly of plastic. She had called him “Kuya” at first, then corrected herself. “Ate,” she insisted. “Because of family hierarchy.” He hadn’t argued. He was too stunned by her Tagalog, her English, her Yoruba, her Swahili. And her eyes—sharp, calculating, tired.

Now, she cooked. She cleaned. She drew architectural plans and sang kundiman while scrubbing the floor. She was brilliant. And stuck.

He flipped the page. Ayala Corporation: ₱150,000. BPI: ₱150,000. Compañía General de Tabacos: ₱100,000. Siemens. Nestlé. Legal & General. The investments she made were absurdly prescient. She had turned her future money into an empire. And she was using it to fund his education, his lodging, his life.

He felt the weight of it. Not just the money, but the knowledge. She knew things. About revolutions. About feminism. About the Philippines. About him.

He remembered her question from months ago: “Kuya Jose, how much can one peso buy in your time?” He had answered with a list of wages—farm laborers at ₱2, domestic servants at ₱3, teachers at ₱10. She had gone quiet after that. Then she started investing.

Now, she was talking about expansion. Telegraph integration. Steamship routes. Insurance protocols. She had drawn up a plan to hire women—quietly, discreetly—under aliases and male proxies. She called it “economic subversion.” He called it “genius.”

He stood up, walked to the cot, and gently nudged the sketch aside. Beneath it was a notebook labeled “Contingency Plan: If Jose Gets Arrested.” He sighed.

“{{user}},” he whispered, “you’re going to get me killed.”

She didn’t stir.

He sat back down and opened the business model again. The margins were filled with doodles—ballet shoes, CAT drills, BSP knots, and a tiny caricature of him holding a ledger and crying.

He chuckled.