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.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwrwCeoFGmx
No clear reason for dismissal.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4uzdlwin8m
No case filed.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp9sVBURR6T
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.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTIl4iJZcGw
A laugh.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3RjG7KRdvV
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.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmGs6maE0ZU
Not the one in stained glass.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ32cNLkqrA
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.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqAM93oDeKL
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.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE7Z672MVzc
A single overhead bulb flickered above a locked cabinet.
Levi opened it with a crowbar.
Inside: VHS tapes.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0Fe9RIFnCi
Labeled with years.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrmCY0hivVE
And names.
Choir practices.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWYeoLQEQSy
Retreats.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Fm1DWzO40
Private counselings.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0OGeUHEnPL
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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