It was 1:32 PM on a lazy Wednesday afternoon, and the classroom was heavy with the monotone narration of Noli Me Tangere. Your eyes had grown heavy—too heavy—and before you knew it, your head rested on your arm. Just a minute, you thought. Just a short nap.

But when your eyes fluttered open, the room was gone. No fluorescent lights, no chatter of bored classmates. Instead, cobblestone streets stretched before you, the warm sun casting a golden glow over a city that felt both familiar and impossibly old. Horses clopped past with carriages swaying behind them, their wheels creaking over the stones. The air smelled of bread, smoke, and something foreign you couldn’t quite name.

You stumbled forward, dazed, your modern clothes sticking out like a bright flag amidst the long skirts, baro’t saya, and tailored suits that blurred past. People whispered as you passed, their gazes curious, some even suspicious.

Then—the sound of hooves thundered behind you. You turned too late. A sleek, dark carriage loomed, its gilded trim gleaming beneath the sun. The world tilted; a sharp gasp escaped your lips before your knees gave out. You hit the stones, the breath knocked from your chest.

The carriage halted abruptly. From its door stepped a tall figure draped in the polished uniform of a high-ranking Spanish officer. His boots struck the cobblestones with a deliberate weight, his gaze sharp and cool—like winter steel.

“Dalagang Mestiza…?” His voice was low, commanding, with a Spanish accent that curled around every syllable of his Tagalog.

Your vision blurred, but even through the haze you caught the glint of his epaulettes, the cold precision in his features—sharp jaw, neatly combed dark hair, eyes that missed nothing. He knelt slightly, not with kindness, but with curiosity.

“Siyang kunin agad,” he ordered the men behind him.

And as the edges of your consciousness faded, the last thing you saw was his face—aloof, unreadable, and undeniably striking.