April 15th, 2028

Election Night — 11:08 PM

TG Tower, Executive Operations Floor

The building didn't shake.

There were no cheers, no screams, no thunderous clapping in the upper floors.

But the atmosphere changed.

Subtly. Sharply. Like a pressure drop before a storm—not of destruction, but of history unfolding.

On the wall-mounted display, the election anchor's voice grew steady, measured. Behind him, a Philippine map glowed deep pink.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Commission on Elections has just released an official bulletin—"

All other sounds seemed to dim.

Even the low hum of the air conditioning felt distant.

"The partial count has reached 92% of all precincts nationwide."

Hana took a step forward.

The anchor continued.

"Based on the legally recognized and verified data, the COMELEC Board of Canvassers is now confident to release a formal statement…"

A new graphic filled the screen—simple, white background, black serif text:

COMELEC OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT (11:02 PM)

With 92% of total precincts counted, and given the irreversible lead—

Len Obredo is hereby declared the projected winner of the 2028 Philippine Presidential Election.

Below it:

LEN OBREDO — 57.08%

MARIO DUERTE — 28.2%

ENZO VILLAMAR — 6.1%

OTHERS — Rest

No doubts.

No recount fears.

No fragile slim margins.

It was decisive.

It was done.

Somewhere dozens of floors below, faint cheering could be heard—engineers, admin staff, interns, even cafeteria workers. They weren't cheering for a politician.

They were cheering for the possibility of competence.

But up here, it was quiet.

Timothy remained still, hands in pockets, gaze fixed on the screen.

On-screen, a panel of analysts tried analyzing what couldn't be explained by traditional political models.

"A thirty-point lead—this has never happened before, not in the modern election era," one analyst said breathlessly.

"This turnout number is staggering," another chimed. "Young professionals, OFWs, engineers, factory workers—they all pushed this forward."

"And look at the financial sectors," a third pointed. "TG Motors, Aurion Semiconductor, Sentinel Energy—all posting stock jumps despite the political uncertainty. That level of economic backing is unprecedented in Philippine politics."

A fourth analyst added, "We can't ignore the fact—much of this shift came from people who benefited directly from TG-affiliated infrastructure and employment zones. They saw the results. They voted for continuation."

Then, a moment later—

"…and yet," an anchor said carefully, "Timothy Guerrero himself has not endorsed any candidate officially. Only policies."

Hana glanced at him at that remark—soft, knowing.

Timothy didn't react.

He simply lifted the coffee cup from the side table, long gone cold, and placed it down again without drinking.

The phone on his desk lit up twice—messages from CEOs, ministers, ambassadors.

Then ten more.

Then fifty.

He ignored them.

For now.

"We're receiving live footage outside COMELEC in Intramuros," the anchor announced.

The screen shifted.

A sea of people held up pastel flags, phones, banners—some crying, some laughing, some just watching quietly as fireworks began blooming over Manila Bay.

Hana curved her lips into a faint smile, eyes softening despite trying to look professional.

"They're not celebrating a politician," she murmured. "They're celebrating relief."

Timothy nodded slightly.

Relief—yes.

For once, the nation wasn't choosing between bad and worse.

They had chosen competence.

The cameras then cut to Len's headquarters—a staged press area where she was preparing for her first statement. Staff were scrambling, volunteers crying, journalists trying to maintain composure.

She looked composed.

But not untouched.

There was unmistakable emotion—a restrained kind, the kind carried by someone who understood what leadership actually meant.

Hana watched quietly. "She looks… aware of the weight," she said.

"Good," Timothy replied. "She should be."

Silence lingered between them.

Not awkward.

Just… contemplative.

Then Hana spoke again, softly, almost carefully.

"Sir… how does it feel? Knowing that in some way, your work helped lead to this?"

Timothy remained quiet for a moment. His eyes didn't leave the screen.

He wasn't smiling.

But there was something in his expression—some mix of gravity, responsibility, and focus.

Finally, he answered.

"It feels," he said slowly, "like tomorrow will be harder."

Hana looked at him.

Not confused.

Just thoughtful.

"Because now," he continued, "there are no excuses. No more blaming politics. No more saying 'we could have—if only the government cooperated.'"

He stepped away from the window and approached the desk.

"The country has made a choice," he said. "Now we deliver."

He let the words settle.

In the room.

In himself.

"It's time," he concluded, "to build the future people actually voted for."

That wasn't optimism.

That was obligation.

His phone buzzed again.

This time, he checked.

A new message:

Len Obredo — Live Public Statement in 5 Minutes. Would you like to be on the call?

He typed one response:

Not on-screen. Just watching. Lead it well.

Hana read the message over his shoulder.

For once, she didn't say anything.

She simply nodded.

Because they both knew:

The election was the beginning, not the victory.

Politics had aligned.

Now industry had to execute.

A new banner scrolled across the screen:

PRESIDENT-ELECT LEN OBREDO TO ADDRESS THE NATION LIVE AT 11:15 PM

Timothy didn't sit.

Didn't smile.

Didn't celebrate.

He just adjusted his cuffs, stood straight, and looked at the screen as if preparing for a briefing.

Hana watched him, then exhaled and said, almost proudly—

"Sir… history just turned a page. At last, the Filipinos had woken up and grabbed their destiny with their own hands."

He didn't look away from the broadcast. He simply reached for the remote and switched the main display from the news panel to the official COMELEC broadcast feed. The logo faded in; a podium setup appeared, journalists fixing their cameras. A countdown timer—3 minutes before live transmission.

Hana moved to the side of the desk, setting down her tablet. She pulled up a secondary screen displaying live social media reactions, stock tickers, and incoming policy statements from think tanks already preparing transition memos.

A few staff members from the upper floor quietly entered the room—communications officers, legal advisors, and two policy analysts. No one spoke loudly. They just took their seats, eyes fixed on the screen.

A tray of unopened coffee sat on the side table. No one bothered to take one.

Hana lowered the lights slightly, making the display clearer.

Timothy remained standing.

It wasn't a celebration.

It was preparation.

Because in four minutes, the President-elect would speak.

And after that, the work would begin.

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