The divine glee was potent, but it couldn't silence the howling void in his stomach. The games were fun, but they were an appetizer. Max needed a real meal. The kind of meal he hadn't had in years, hot and savory and endless.
Money. The thought was no longer a distant, hopeless wish. It was a problem with a solution. He walked the streets of Quiapo, the dense crowds a perfect cover. He wasn't looking for a handout anymore; he was hunting. He spotted his target: a fleshy tourist, sweat beading on his pink forehead, a thick leather wallet poking invitingly from the back pocket of his cargo shorts.
Max ducked into a doorway, his eyes locked on the wallet. He didn't need to be close. He just needed to see it. He focused, the now-familiar pressure building in his skull. He imagined invisible fingers, nimble and quick. He saw the wallet lift slightly, a barely perceptible movement. He guided it, easing it from the pocket's loose grip like a midwife delivering a child. It slid free, hovering for a split second before Max pulled it towards him, letting it drop silently into a pile of discarded newspapers in the corner of the doorway.
The tourist ambled on, oblivious. Max waited until he was gone, then snatched the wallet. His hands trembled as he opened it. Crisp one-thousand-peso bills. More money than he'd held in his entire life. There was no guilt, only a cold, thrilling sense of justice. The world had taken everything from him; it was time to take something back.
He walked with a straight back for the first time he could remember. He found what he was looking for under a faded green awning: a 24-hour lugawan. The sign promised "UNLI-LUGAW" in big, friendly letters. Unlimited rice porridge. The smell of ginger, garlic, and simmering broth washed over him, and he almost wept.
He sat at a small plastic table, the surface sticky. He ordered the works—with egg, tripe, and fried garlic. The bowl came, steaming and perfect. He ate the first spoonful, and the warmth hit his stomach like a blessing. He didn't stop. He ate until his stomach protested, then he ordered another bowl, and another. He ate until the pain of hunger was replaced by the pain of fullness, and it was the most beautiful pain he had ever known.
When it was time to pay, the old woman at the counter told him the total. One hundred and twenty pesos. Max nodded, pulling a crisp thousand-peso bill from his stolen wallet. As he handed it to her, he looked past her at the simple wooden cash box on the shelf behind her.
While she counted out his change, Max focused on the box. With a delicate mental touch, he lifted the lid just a fraction. He saw the wad of bills inside. He plucked two thousand-peso bills from her stash with his mind, guiding them out of the box and into the large, floppy pocket of his own trousers. He then took one of her five-hundred-peso bills and slipped it onto the counter next to her tip jar. He took his change, nodded politely, and left, the extra bills nestled against his thigh. He had paid for his endless feast and left a massive tip using her own money. The sheer audacity of it made him giddy.
He stepped back out into the sweltering afternoon, full and flush with cash. And then he saw them.
She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made the grimy city backdrop fade away. Long black hair, flawless skin, a smile that could power a small town. She was laughing, her head tilted back as she listened to the man beside her.
And the man… he was her opposite. Short, with a potbelly that strained the fabric of his polo shirt and a face that looked like a sculptor's first, failed attempt. He was gesturing wildly, telling some stupid story, and she was looking at him with an affection that made Max's gorge rise.
In that instant, all the joy of his newfound power curdled into something black and acidic. He saw them, and he saw everything he wasn't. Everything he'd been denied. While he was starving in alleys, this ugly, loud little man had her. He had warmth, laughter, love. The injustice of it was a physical blow. The years of being invisible, of being spat on, of being less than dirt, all of it coalesced into a single, burning point of hatred directed at that happy, undeserving couple. The man's stupid, smiling face became a symbol of his entire miserable life.
Resentment was too small a word. This was a debt, and the universe was about to watch him collect.