Chapter 35: Going to Singapore

He opened his browser, thumb tapping through airline apps. Flights flickered on the screen, Hong Kong, Seoul, Kuala Lumpur, but his eyes fixed on one word: Singapore.A direct flight, departing in less than six hours hours. Economy was packed. Business class still had seats. The price tag was steep, but Timothy barely noticed it. He had made more money reselling cars in a week than the cost of this ticket. And compared to the numbers NVIDIA was throwing around, the fare might as well have been loose change.

Book now.

The confirmation email hit his inbox a second later.

He packed his things up and prepared to head to the airport. He booked a Grabcar and set the destination to NAIA terminal 3.

The Grabcar pulled up in front of his street, its hazard lights blinking. Timothy slid into the backseat with his backpack hugged close. The driver gave him a quick glance through the rearview mirror.

"NAIA Terminal 3, sir?"

"Yeah," Timothy answered shortly.

The car moved through the traffic-clogged arteries of Manila. Jeepneys belched smoke, buses swerved in and out of lanes, vendors pushed carts between vehicles. Timothy barely noticed. His gaze stayed glued to his phone, watching the map inch forward like it was taunting him.

Every red light, every stop, felt like a trap. He kept checking his watch, as if the seconds could somehow betray him.

By the time the skyline shifted and the airport signs loomed, Timothy’s pulse had steadied only slightly. The Grab rolled to a stop at the departure ramp. He paid, muttered thanks, and stepped out into the humid blast of air thick with exhaust and the sound of rolling luggage.

Terminal 3 stretched out in glass and steel, crowded but orderly. Families clustered with balikbayan boxes, businessmen in pressed suits checked their watches, and tired tourists shuffled forward with half-closed eyes.


Timothy adjusted his backpack strap and took a deep breath. This is it.

He joined the line at the entrance, passport and booking confirmation ready. Security scanned his bags, waved him through after the routine inspection. The moment he stepped inside, cool air washed over him, and the noise of the city dimmed to the controlled hum of the terminal.

He walked past rows of check-in counters, neon screens flashing destinations. Singapore Airlines. Flight SQ919. There it was.

He approached the counter, slid his passport and booking details forward. The attendant’s practiced smile never faltered. She typed, printed his boarding pass, and returned everything with the same line she had probably said a thousand times today.

"Boarding in two hours, Gate 114. Enjoy your flight, sir."

Timothy clutched the boarding pass like it was made of glass. Gate 114. Two hours.

He drifted toward immigration, the line crawling forward under the bright fluorescent lights. His heart jumped at every stamp of the officer’s hand on a passport ahead of him. When it was his turn, he slid his booklet and departure card across the counter.

The officer barely looked at him. A few keystrokes, a glance at his face, the thud of a stamp. Cleared.

Timothy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. From there, he moved through security again, shoes off, backpack scanned, laptop tray slid across the belt. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious. Just another passenger heading out of the country.

The pre-departure hall stretched wide, glass walls overlooking the tarmac. Aircraft tails lined the horizon, their logos sharp against the Manila sunset. Timothy walked past duty-free shops selling perfume and whiskey, past travelers lounging in seats with neck pillows already around their collars. He kept moving until Gate 114 came into view.

He sat down, tapping his foot, the boarding pass clenched in his hand. His mind raced. Singapore wasn’t just another country on the map—it was the firewall he needed between himself and the Philippines. A place where eight billion dollars could arrive without questions, without greedy officials clawing at it.

When boarding was called, his chest tightened. Business class lined up first. Timothy joined, trying to look calm, like he had done this a hundred times. The flight attendant scanned his pass with a polite beep, and suddenly he was stepping into the jet bridge.

Inside the cabin, the air smelled faintly of fabric and coffee. His seat, wider than anything in economy, felt like a throne compared to the cramped buses of Manila. He sank into it, tucking his backpack under the seat in front.

The captain’s voice crackled overhead, announcing the route and expected flight time—three and a half hours. Timothy stared out the oval window as the plane pushed back, engines roaring to life.

The runway lights streaked by. Then the nose lifted, and the ground fell away. Manila’s sprawl of lights glittered beneath him, then shrank, swallowed by cloud and darkness.

For the first time in days, Timothy let his shoulders drop. He was airborne.

The hours slipped by in a haze of engine hum and restless thoughts. Timothy dozed in fragments, his mind replaying Jensen’s voice, the contract, the weight of eight billion dollars waiting on a bank account that didn’t exist yet.

When the captain announced their descent, Timothy’s eyes snapped open. Outside the window, Singapore’s skyline rose from the water—clusters of towers glittering against the night, the city laid out in clean order like a machine running on time.

Changi Airport was another world compared to NAIA. Polished glass, soft lights, orchids arranged in neat displays. Timothy followed the stream of passengers toward immigration, passport tight in his grip.

The officer behind the counter scanned his booklet, glanced at his face, then back at the screen. For a heartbeat Timothy’s pulse thundered. Then came the sharp stamp. Entry approved.

Timothy stepped past the counter, his chest loosening with relief. He was officially in. No red flags, no questions.

The carousel spun, his backpack arriving last. He slung it over his shoulder and walked toward the exit. This was it, the start to getting that eight billion dollars!