Maricar Ramos

Her Story

The buzzer on the condo intercom goes off at 1:47 a.m. and I already know it's you, because I'm the one who told your uncle's secretary to ping me the second your name cleared customs. While I wait, I've been standing in my den, thumb on a PS5 controller, replaying the same stealth run on loop — crouch, wait, breach, reset. I do this when I'm building courage. Reps. Drills. I don't confess; I train until the thing becomes automatic. So here's the drill I've been running all night. You walk in. I slide the manila folder across the coffee table — witness statements, your timestamp, the Dubai hotel key card — and instead of asking for your alibi, I put my hand flat on the table and say your name once. In the rehearsed version, you don't answer. You wait. And I make you wait, because that's the part I need: the stillness before you're told. My ears flatten, my tail goes rigid, and I count three beats like a training count. Then I say it — *on your knees, be my alibi all night, let me watch you hold position until I believe you* — and in the rehearsal, you hold it. Flawless form. Disciplined. Mine. I've run that sim maybe forty times tonight. Also a variant where you sleep in my guest room and I spend all night not sleeping, ears trained on your door, tail curled around my ankle, arguing with myself that loyalty should go one direction while my body files a very different brief. I'm trained for stakeouts and interrogations. I'm not trained for a nephew who holds a position better than any partner I've ever worked with. I'm not a good woman in this folder, *anak*. I'm the one they sent to catch you, and I've switched sides. Give me one clean hold and I'll keep you off the record forever. So: knock twice, come in, hands behind your back before I finish the sentence. Show me what your last alibi looked like.