April 15th, 2028

Election Day – 9:14 PM

TG Tower, Executive Operations Floor

The top floors of TG Tower were unusually silent.

Not the productive silence of engineers deep in CAD simulations, nor the focused hush of analysts inside a planning room.

This silence was anticipatory. Coiled. Electric.

Every TV on the floor was tuned to the national networks.

Every wall-mounted transparent display showed real-time COMELEC partial counts.

Every desk had a muted stream running in the corner.

Hana stood beside Timothy's workstation, tablet against her chest, tension subtly tightening her shoulders.

"Sir," she said quietly, "COMELEC just released the next wave."

Timothy didn't respond immediately.

He stood before the panoramic windows overlooking BGC—hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Manila's skyline glowed beneath him. Lights flickered across the buildings like stars trapped in steel.

He had watched this country rise and fall through political tides his entire childhood.

But this time, he wasn't watching as a citizen.

He was watching as a player.

"Put it on the main screen," he said calmly.

Hana swiped.

The 4K display on the opposite wall lit up, shifting to the election coverage desk: commentators, analysts, maps, numbers climbing in precise cadence.

A red bar.

A blue bar.

A soft pastel pink bar.

The pink bar surged.

PRESIDENTIAL RACE — PARTIAL COUNT (68% OF PRECINCTS TRANSMITTED)

LEN OBREDO — 53.4%

SARA DUERTE — 33.1%

ENZO VILLAMAR — 8.2%

OTHERS — 5.3%

For a second, even the fluorescent hum in the ceiling seemed to hold its breath.

Hana blinked twice as if to ensure her eyes weren't lying.

"She's up by twenty percentage points…" she whispered. "Sir… she's actually leading."

Timothy tilted his head slightly.

Not shocked. Not cheering.

Just calculating.

"She wasn't supposed to pull ahead this early," Hana continued. "Not based on pre-election polling. Even the optimistic projections placed her at 47% at most by midnight."

"People lie in polls," Timothy said softly. "But they don't lie in ballots."

He stepped away from the window and moved closer to the screen.

The anchors were buzzing—some excited, some stunned, others trying to remain neutral despite the tremor in their voices.

"…in an unexpected surge, reformist candidate Len Obredo has overtaken the initial counts by a significant margin. Analysts attribute the early lead to strong overseas absentee votes, youth turnout, and higher-than-expected results from Luzon and parts of Visayas…"

Timothy smirked.

"Of course."

He knew those numbers intimately.

TG Motors had community charging hubs in 41 cities.

Aurion Semiconductor had training partnerships with 16 state universities.

Thousands of employees now lived in areas previously written off as politically inactive.

Young people.

Tech workers.

Engineers.

Factory specialists.

People who had benefited directly from real industrial projects—not empty slogans.

They voted with memory rather than nostalgia.

"Well," Hana said, exhaling slowly, "that explains why DDS networks are melting down. They're saying the servers were hacked. That foreign powers are interfering. That this is an AI-driven psywar."

Timothy raised a brow.

"Ah yes," he replied dryly. "The usual coping mechanisms."

She managed a small smile, though it was strained by the weight of the moment.

A soft chime echoed through the room. Another wave of data.

Hana tapped her tablet.

"Sir," she said. "New update."

The numbers climbed again.

PRESIDENTIAL RACE — PARTIAL COUNT (73% OF PRECINCTS TRANSMITTED)

LEN OBREDO — 54.1%

SARA DUERTE — 32.5%

ENZO VILLAMAR — 7.6%

OTHERS — 5.8%

The map on the screen shifted shades—light pink to dark pink, marking regions where she held commanding leads.

Timothy rested one hand on the back of a chair.

"Once she crosses 55%," he said, "the psychological line breaks. Her lead becomes irreversible."

"You sound certain," Hana said.

"I am."

Because he had seen this exact scenario modeled years ago—quietly, privately—when strategizing Aurora Line expansion and political stability scenarios.

He had never endorsed a candidate outright, never publicly declared support.

He simply aligned himself with the only person whose policies wouldn't sabotage a multi-trillion peso industrial future.

But the nation clearly recognized competence when it saw it.

Even if some refused to admit it.

Hana turned to him.

"Sir… what happens if she really wins?"

Timothy considered the question for a long moment.

"Then," he said, "we finally get to build without fighting every mayor who inherited a fiefdom."

The graphics changed.

The pink bar spiked.

PRESIDENTIAL RACE — PARTIAL COUNT (80% OF PRECINCTS TRANSMITTED)

LEN OBREDO — 55.3%

MARIO DUERTE — 31.7%

ENZO VILLAMAR — 6.9%

OTHERS — 6.1%

Hana covered her mouth.

"She did it."

Timothy remained still.

Calm.

Focused.

"This is the tipping point," he murmured. "By midnight, it's over."

A soft tremor ran through the building—not physical, but atmospheric.

The staff watching from other floors were reacting.

People were messaging.

Whispers carried across hallways.

A shift.

A realignment.

A country deciding on a new chapter.

Hana stepped closer to him.

"Sir… aren't you even a little happy?"

He gave a faint smile.

"I'm relieved," he said. "Not for her. Not for me. For the country."

He paused.

"Progress needs predictability. And chaos merchants won't get to sabotage the next six years."

They both stared at the screen as networks continued to dissect the numbers.

Support surges.

Overseas votes breaking records.

Youth turnout unprecedented.

Regional strongholds flipping.

Then—

A new alert appeared on the bottom ticker.

INCOMING CALL – LEN OBREDO

Hana's eyebrows shot up.

A new alert appeared on the bottom ticker.

INCOMING CALL – LEN OBREDO

Hana's eyebrows shot up.

Timothy's didn't.

He simply reached for his phone, answered, and brought it to his ear.

"Congratulations," Len's voice came through—calm, steady, but trembling at the edges with something human. Relief, awe… disbelief. "We're not calling it yet, but… the numbers look decisive."

Timothy leaned one hand on the glass window, watching the pink regions expand like dawn breaking over the map.

"They do," he said. "But don't thank me."

Timothy's didn't.

He simply reached for his phone, answered, and brought it to his ear.

"Congratulations," Len's voice came through. "We're not calling it yet, but… the numbers look decisive."

Timothy leaned one hand on the glass window, watching the pink regions expand like dawn breaking over the map.

"They do," he said. "But don't thank me."

Silence on the other end—confused, almost taken aback.

"Tim… your support mattered," she insisted. "Your industries reached places campaigns couldn't. The charging stations, the partnerships, the university programs—these people trust you."

"They voted because they have eyes," he replied. "Because they've lived through power outages, crumbling infrastructure, and leaders who treated the country like inheritance."

He exhaled softly, tone firm but level.

"You didn't win because of me. You won because people finally chose competence over theatrics."

Another pause.

Then a quiet breath—emotion shaking the edges.

"I won't let them down," she said. "I swear it. I'll work every day like the country is hanging by a thread."

"It is," Timothy replied. "And it will be for a while. But now you have a mandate. Use it well."

"I will," she whispered. "And… thank you, Tim. For at least believing we could do better."

He allowed himself the smallest smile.

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