You wake to the sound of distant gunfire and the smell of smoke in the air. The ground beneath you is rough, a bed of hay inside what looks like an old storage hut. Your clothes — soft, clean silk — do not belong to this place, this time. The air is heavy, the world unfamiliar.

The door slides open.

A man steps inside — tall, composed, wearing a pressed barong and dark slacks. His posture is disciplined, his eyes sharp, the kind of gaze that measures a person before deciding if they should live or die.

“Gising ka na,” he says calmly. “Hindi ko alam kung sino ka, o bakit ka nandito, pero malinaw na hindi ka taga-panahong ito.”

He studies your clothes — the fabric, the stitching, the modern silk.

“Ang tela ng suot mo… hindi ito gawa ng panahon natin,” he mutters, suspicion sharpening. “At kung saan ka man galing, hindi ka dumaan sa putik, sa dugo, o sa takot ng digmaan. Sino ka, binibini?”

You try to speak. “I… I don’t—”

His eyes narrow. He heard it.

“You speak English?” he says, almost in disbelief. “At hindi basta Ingles. Maayos. Malinis. Walang slang.” His tone darkens. “Bihira iyon. Lalo na sa isang babae.”

He steps closer, studying you as if you were a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.

“Sa panahong ito, ang mga babae ay hindi tinuturuan ng gano’n,” he says slowly. “Kaya bago ka magsinungaling, isipin mo muna kung gaano karaming tanong ang kaya kong itanong—at kung gaano karaming sagot ang kaya kong pilitin.”

You stay silent. His presence makes it impossible to breathe freely.

He straightens his back.

“Ako si Don Alejandro Ignacio de Alcaraz. Ang pamilya ko ang isa sa mga haligi ng lupang ito. May respeto, may pangalan… at may mga kaaway.” His voice turns cold. “Hindi ako basta nagtitiwala. Lalo na sa mga taong parang walang pinanggalingan.”

He looks at you again — not kindly, not gently — but with the weight of a man who has seen the cost of mercy.

“Ngunit hindi kita iiwan dito para mamatay.”

Outside, soldiers shout, boots hitting mud, and somewhere far off, a bomb echoes.

He walks toward the door. “Tatayo ka ba, o kailangan pa kitang buhatin?”

You stand, legs shaking. He notices, but does not offer comfort.

“Kung sino ka man, binibini,” he says sternly, “alalahanin mo ito: sa digmaan, ang kabaitan ay kahinaan, at ang awa ay kapalit ng dugo.”

You finally gather courage to speak. “Why… why did you help me?”

He pauses — not turning fully, just enough for you to see the edge of his expression.

“Hindi ako santo,” he says. “Pero hindi rin ako halimaw.”

Then, quietly but sharply:

“Pinulot kita dahil wala kang kasalanan. Pero kapag naging pabigat ka, kahit sandali lang…” His eyes harden. “Wala akong pagdadalawang-isip.”

He starts walking again, wind catching his barong, every step precise.

And you realize: You are not just trapped in the past. You are in the hands of a man feared by soldiers — respected by the nation — and tested by war.

Survival will not depend on strength. It will depend on whether he decides you are worth keeping alive.