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.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYarm1GfW8e
No clear reason for dismissal.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE75BSo0bOT
No case filed.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq4IXan4caM
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.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡefHOnc83uK
A laugh.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpO8VLiHUBe
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.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZw2wQWoLcv
Not the one in stained glass.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTe7YD3dn6I
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.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxqMVEBSGMb
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.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQxiqdGBQXX
A single overhead bulb flickered above a locked cabinet.
Levi opened it with a crowbar.
Inside: VHS tapes.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxEjERBlCqI
Labeled with years.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9gbCGZJgvq
And names.
Choir practices.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡalEwcugYME
Retreats.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAU6yK0eDUZ
Private counselings.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmdQUDbMDaU
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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