Chapter 207: Sportscar Part 1

December 5, 2029 sat on Timothy’s calendar like a blank square he had refused to fill.No meetings. No calls. No site visits. No press. No speeches. He had told his assistant team it was maintenance, which was not a lie. If he kept pushing at the same pace, something would slip. Either a project, or his attention, or his temper.

At seven in the morning, his phone buzzed once.

Hana: Lobby. Bring a jacket. Do not wear anything with a logo.

He texted back a single word.

Ok.

Down in the basement parking, the car waited like it had been staged. Low, red, clean enough to reflect the fluorescent lights in a hard line across the hood. It did not carry TG plates. No decals. No security tail. Just a 2029 Ferrari with a full tank and fresh tires.

Hana stood beside it with two paper cups of coffee and a small bag that looked like it weighed nothing.

Timothy stopped a few steps away and looked at it the way he looked at machinery he did not own yet.

"You rented this," he said.

Hana handed him the coffee. "Borrowed."

"From who."

"You do not want to know," she said. "The point is we have twelve hours where nobody expects you to fix anything."

Timothy took the coffee, sipped, and made a face. "It is bitter."

"You are alive. That is enough."

He looked at Hana. She wore a plain jacket, jeans, sneakers. Hair tied back. No jewelry except a watch. She looked like someone going on an errand, not someone who had spent the last month taking calls from governors and school principals.

"You drove?" he asked.

Hana nodded. "I can. I just do not like doing it in Manila."

Timothy walked around the car once, checking nothing in particular. His hands stayed in his pockets.

"You trust me with this," Hana said.

He opened the driver door. "I trust myself more than you."

Hana rolled her eyes and got into the passenger seat.

The cabin smelled like leather and something chemical from detailing. The seat hugged his shoulders. The wheel felt thick, trimmed tight. He adjusted the seat, mirrors, and steering column without talking. Hana watched him, sipping her coffee.

"You look like you are about to fly a helicopter," she said.

"I do not like surprises."

"It is a car."

"It is still a machine," Timothy said.

He pressed the start. The engine came alive with a sharp bark that bounced off concrete and then settled into a smooth idle that sounded expensive in a way even people who knew nothing about cars could understand.

Hana nodded once. "Okay. That part never gets old."

Timothy eased out of the slot and followed the ramp up. The guard at the exit scanned their pass, glanced at the car, then at Timothy, then decided it was none of his business.

Once they hit the street, traffic grabbed them immediately. BGC in the morning was controlled chaos. Crosswalks, stoplights, delivery vans, motorcycles sliding through gaps that did not exist. Timothy kept the car calm. Light throttle. Long following distance. No sudden moves.

Hana watched his hands.

"You are driving like you are in a Camry," she said.

"I am not trying to die before breakfast," Timothy replied.

"Then why a Ferrari."

"Because you chose it."

"I chose it because you needed something that would force your brain to shut up," Hana said. "You cannot think about spreadsheets while managing throttle response."

Timothy glanced at her. "Challenge accepted."

They cleared the city after an hour. Skyway, then open stretches where traffic thinned. The car finally had space. Timothy pressed the accelerator gently at first, feeling how it responded. The engine note changed, sharper, pulling clean without effort. The steering stayed tight. The road noise came in low, controlled, like the car filtered the outside world.

Hana leaned her head back against the seat.

"You look less angry already," she said.

"I am not angry."

"You are always angry," she said, without heat. Just a statement.

Timothy snorted. "I am busy."

"You are angry because you are busy," Hana corrected. "There is a difference."

They passed toll gates and long stretches of concrete barrier. The horizon opened. A thin line of mountains showed through haze. Timothy kept the car in the middle lane, then moved right when trucks appeared. He did not weave. He did not show off. He drove the way he worked, controlled, deliberate.

Hana checked her phone once, then put it face down.

"No reception excuses," she said. "If you check emails, I will throw your phone out."

"You would not."

"I absolutely would," Hana said.

Timothy held up his cup. "I would like to keep my phone and my coffee inside the car."

"Then behave."

They stopped at a gas station outside the dense part of Luzon, not because they needed fuel, but because Hana wanted food that was not from a hotel kitchen.

Inside the convenience store, Hana grabbed buns, bottled water, and a pack of dried mangoes. Timothy stood near the window, watching the car like he was expecting someone to take it.

Hana placed the snacks on the counter.

"You are acting like this is your first expensive thing," she said.

"I do not like attention."

"You bought a ship," Hana said.

"That was a tool," Timothy replied.

She paid, then handed him a bun. "This is also a tool. Eat."

Back on the road, they took an exit that led into smaller highways. Less signage. More trees. More uneven pavement. The Ferrari’s suspension stayed planted, but the road reminded Timothy why most people did not use cars like this outside cities.

Hana noticed him scanning the road ahead.

"You are worried about potholes," she said.

"Yes."

"That is a valid fear in this country," Hana said.

They drove through towns that were awake early. People outside sari-sari stores. Kids in uniforms walking in groups. Tricycles loaded with sacks. The car drew eyes, but it did not stop people. The world kept moving.

At a roadside eatery, Hana made them stop. Plastic tables, metal roof, a small kitchen with steam pouring out. Timothy hesitated, looking at the parking spot.

"No one will touch it," Hana said.

"Everyone will touch it," Timothy replied.

Hana stepped out first. "Then you stop hovering and come eat."

Inside, the food was simple. Fried eggs, tapsilog, hot soup in a small bowl. Timothy ate quietly at first. Hana chewed and watched him.

"You look normal," she said.

"I always look normal," Timothy answered.

Hana raised an eyebrow. "You know what I mean."

He swallowed, then spoke. "It is quiet."

"You mean your head is quiet," she said.

Timothy did not deny it.