Page 8 of Rescuing Mia

The code clicks, the lock disengages, and I hold my breath as I open the metal door. I’m met with the sight of a satchel. I lift it, surprised by its unexpected heft. Unzipping it reveals a bundle of yuan, a crisp new passport bearing my photograph, and a plane ticket to Manila, departure in just under two hours.

The documents are impeccably forged, the ink barely dry. I can’t suppress a surge of disbelief—how did they manage this so quickly?

The realization dawns on me then—my escape has been orchestrated with chilling precision. They’ve been steps ahead of me from the start.

But how?

The ticket bears a departure time that sends a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through me.

Two hours.

I’m officially on the run, a fugitive not just from my own country but from the life I knew. Everything familiar and comforting is now part of a world I must leave behind. There’s no time to mourn my old life; survival is my only concern now.

My window to reach the airport and board the flight is perilously narrow. I rush toward the metro line that will take me away from Shanghai.

I grasp the satchel handle, pulling it out and clutching it to my chest as if it’s a lifeline. With a deep breath, I steel myself for the next part of this journey—the ride to the airport, each minute a tick toward an uncertain future in Manila. I turn back toward the throng of people, merging back into the flow, a ghost amongst the living, my every step a silent prayer for anonymity and escape.

I meld into the crowd, a pulsing artery of Shanghai, my senses heightened to every brush and murmur around me.

The train is a capsule of transient lives, each passenger engrossed in their late-night journeys. I squeeze into a corner, the press of bodies a stark reminder of my vulnerability. My mind races with every stop, flinching at every new passenger who steps aboard.

Could they know?

Could they be coming for me?

I don the disguise of an inconspicuous traveler—hat pulled low, hair tucked up, a nondescript jacket drawn tight around me.

When I finally reach the airport, my remaining cash flutters away like the last leaves of autumn. I hand it over for the airport tax, my entry into the international gates.

Each step toward the boarding gate tightens the coil of tension in my chest.

Checking in, passing security—it all feels like a dream, one from which I might wake at any moment to find myself detained, questioned, or worse.

Boarding the plane to Manila, I find no relief in the hum of the engines or the soft shuffle of passengers settling in. The flight to Manila is a blur of turbulent thoughts as much as turbulent skies.

My mind races with every possible disaster. Could they catch me here, in this tin capsule, hurtling through the night sky? The thought suffocates me, and I gasp for air that feels too thin.

Touching down in a new country doesn’t bring relief—only new fears in a city teeming with life.

Manila greets me with a wall of heat and the cacophony of Tagalog swirling around the crowded airport. I navigate through the crowd, each step taking me further into the unknown.

“Once you’re there, head to the Blue Bay Café on Del Pilar Street,” the voice on the phone instructed. “Look for a man wearing a red scarf. He will guide you to the next step. Trust no one.”

Following instructions, I navigate through the masses to a taxi stand. The drive to the Blue Bay Café on Del Pilar Street is filled with nerve-wracking anticipation.

Each turn brings a new pulse of vibrant city life—the aroma ofstreet food mingling with the exhaust of far too many cars, the clamor of commerce, and the fleeting exchanges of pedestrians weaving through traffic.

I trust no one.

Not here.

Not anywhere.

A little past noon, I find myself on the teeming streets. Manila greets me with a muggy embrace that feels more like a prelude to peril than a promise of sanctuary.

Chapter Six

RIGEL

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