Chapter Eight: God of the Gutter
The man Ely met in the outskirts of Pasig didn’t look like someone who once wore white vestments.
He looked like someone who clawed his way out of a shallow grave.
Levi Abrigo was a name erased from seminary records.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRWh7I4RzHL
No clear reason for dismissal.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJr4qGK3eMR
No case filed.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrNe9nDmSj2
No history left—just whispers.
But to Father Ely, whispers were louder than sermons.
He found Levi in a borrowed barbershop chair, smoking a half-lit cigarette while trimming the hair of a child who kept flinching. He never looked up. Not until Ely said the name.
“Emiliano.”
A pause.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7Bf5WNLqph
A laugh.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5olqnwFYJE
Then Levi turned slowly, revealing a scar just below his eye.
“He’s still playing priest?”
Levi didn’t believe in God anymore.
Not the one in scripture.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡysVrHPRXDB
Not the one in stained glass.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjZuiac3QFe
And especially not the one who “watched silently while a holy man taught us to sin.”
He wasn’t angry anymore, though. That was the terrifying part.
He was numb. Dangerous.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwygsyl1kXP
And far more useful than Ely expected.
“You wanna bring him down?” Levi asked. “You’ll need more than victims. You’ll need receipts. Movement. Dirt. Confessions.”
“He doesn’t just hurt them, Father,” he added. “He launders money. Pays silence. Manipulates succession. He’s not just a predator—he’s a kingpin in robes.”
“And I can show you where the bodies are buried.”
Literally?
Ely wasn’t sure yet.
That night, they broke into a private church residence—one Ely recognized as the “storage house” for church artifacts. A forgotten structure tucked behind the seminary, accessible only through an underground hall used during processions.
Inside, the air smelled like wax, rust, and mildew.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrCeGhexM38
A single overhead bulb flickered above a locked cabinet.
Levi opened it with a crowbar.
Inside: VHS tapes.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡREBZoMlDSc
Labeled with years.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPI8cR2dylE
And names.
Choir practices.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3BtF7aZikU
Retreats.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQBwQUzTH72
Private counselings.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiOB7RfatKK
And in the back, under a pile of mold-eaten folders—one marked “For Archives Only: San Gabriel Seminary”.
“He filmed them,” Ely whispered.
“Of course he did,” Levi spat. “You think men like Emiliano trust memory? No. They document their sins. So they can own the people in them.”
Ely stepped back, bile rising in his throat.
Levi stared at him.
“Still want to be the hero, Father?”
Ely didn’t answer.
He simply picked up the tape.
And walked out—into a night colder than any silence he’d ever known inside a chapel.
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