THE VELVET HAND

Makati never really sleeps, but at 5:41 a.m., it pretends to. The city is hushed, veiled in a lavender light as if even the skyscrapers are holding their breath before they resume their daily sermon on power. Julius Santillian III is already awake. Of course he is. He has been up since 5:00 sharp, as always, standing naked in front of his floor-to-ceiling mirror with the detachment of a museum curator inspecting a sculpture — cold, composed, clinical.

Today, he feels like wearing gray. Charcoal, not slate. A three-piece Canali suit that cost more than his secretary’s monthly salary. He irons it himself — not out of humility, but out of control. Control is the one real pleasure in his life, and he likes it best when it’s quiet, precise, and completely invisible.

He brushes his teeth while playing “Akap” from a curated playlist he calls Monochrome. The sonic atmosphere helps him think. He flosses, shaves, applies aftershave, and then examines himself in profile. The face that looks back is... symmetrical. Not striking. Not forgettable. A face designed for trust. Skin like pressed linen, jaw measured, eyes neither kind nor cruel. Just clean.

By 6:17, he’s seated at the marble kitchen island of his Legazpi condo, spooning sugar into his espresso while scanning the Nikkei and Bloomberg Asia. The pages aren’t for reading. They’re for appearing.

A woman named Celeste is in his bed, still asleep. He doesn’t remember what lie he told her, only that she believed it. Something about his father dying young. Or too late. Something touching, but vague enough to never come back to.

At 6:41, he places a single glass of water and two Panadol tablets by her side of the bed. Not kindness — protocol. It makes departure smoother. Fewer questions.

At 7:00, Jules is gone. Suit pressed, hair in place, keys in hand. On the elevator down from the 39th floor, he checks his reflection in the stainless steel. He smiles. It’s automatic — like starting the engine of a car.

By the time he steps into the valet lane of RCBC Plaza, the sun is gold and clean above the city.

The guard nods. Jules doesn’t nod back.

He’s already preparing for the first meeting of the day. A client with old money and no vision. Perfect. Easy to direct. Easy to bleed.

Inside the executive lounge, the air conditioning hums like a confession. Frosted glass glows with filtered daylight, casting a sterile sheen over the room’s understated opulence — leather, chrome, mahogany. Jules walks in without introducing himself. He doesn’t need to.

“Mr. Santillian?” the assistant says, rising from behind a desk that was designed to suggest power without actually owning any.

“Yes,” he says, with the kind of smile that looks warm but isn’t. “Has Mr. de Dios arrived?”

“He’s in Conference Three.”

“Good. Black coffee, please. No sugar.” Jules doesn’t wait for confirmation.

He enters the boardroom like it belongs to him, because functionally, it does. Mr. Roberto de Dios — late 60s, rotund, eyes like buttons sewn too tight — stands at the window, pretending to study the view.

“Roberto,” Jules says, extending a hand.

“Call me Bert,” the man replies, shaking his hand a beat too long.

Bert de Dios made his money in sugar and gambling and allegedly once tried to buy a provincial governor. Now he’s trying to buy dignity through a boutique private equity firm, which is why he’s here. Jules is the architect of appearances, the guy you hire when you want your sins rebranded as legacies.

“I looked over the preliminary numbers,” Jules begins, glancing at a leather folder he doesn’t need. “It’s viable. But viability isn’t enough anymore. You want respect. You want...what, old-world legitimacy? Institutional polish? We can do that.”

Bert nods, too eagerly. “That’s what I need, hijo. That shine. The foreign investors, they— they hesitate. They think we’re too provincial.”

“They don’t think,” Jules corrects him gently, almost kindly. “They react. Give them a polished façade, a strong pipeline, and the right kind of collateral, and they’ll bite. They always do.”

He lays out a proposal that is as elegant as it is predatory: a holding company with a shell fund parked in Singapore, a lifestyle rebrand with curated PR in three languages, and an advisory board full of retired diplomats who would sign anything for a retainer and a quarterly lunch at Old Manila.

Bert doesn’t understand the details. He doesn’t need to. Jules smiles, and that’s enough.

By 9:48 a.m., the contract is signed. A deal has been made — not unlike a sacrifice, though nobody here bleeds. Jules returns to his office, a minimalist chamber of steel and smoked glass. From the outside, it looks like a sanctuary. From the inside, it feels like a vault. He sits, loosens his tie — only slightly — and takes a breath.

He opens a drawer and removes a single Polaroid. The photo is old. It’s of a man lying on his side, in what looks like an alley behind a bar in Poblacion. His face is slack. His eyes are open. There’s blood — a lot of it — and Jules is smiling in the corner of the frame, like someone posing next to a famous painting.

He holds the photo like one might hold a prayer card. With reverence, but no guilt.

Then he slips it back into the drawer, closes it, and reopens his laptop.

Another meeting in twenty minutes. A venture fund. Younger clients. Easier prey.

At exactly 10:16 a.m., Jules steps into the sleek conference room reserved for the venture fund meeting. The glass walls reflect his sharp silhouette, immaculate and intimidating. Inside, two figures wait: a man and a woman, both barely in their twenties, dressed in the kind of casual luxury that screams “startup” but whispers “inexperienced.”

The man stands, extending a hand with a grin that’s equal parts hopeful and desperate. “Mr. Santillian, I’m Marco Reyes, and this is Elena Cruz. Thanks for seeing us.”

Jules smiles, a thin, practiced curve. His eyes flick over them—not with interest, but appraisal. Marco Reyes, the boy who thinks he’s king of his little sandbox. Elena Garcia , the polished pawn eager to prove she’s more than just an accessory.

He shakes Marco’s hand with deliberate strength, all the while his mind is a dark gallery of judgments.

Marco, I could ruin you in fifteen words. Strip you of every shred of your precious ambition. I could metaphorically rape your reputation, tear apart your fragile ego, and then kill the part of you that still believes you’re untouchable. And you’d thank me for it.

Elena, you smile too much. It’s a nervous tic, like a warning sign screaming, “I’m not ready.” I could dismantle your carefully constructed façade with a single question. Crush your dreams into dust while you’re still trying to understand what happened. But you won’t see it coming.

Jules seats himself at the head of the table, folding his hands neatly. “Let’s begin,” he says smoothly. “You’ve got an interesting pitch, but I’m not here to fund dreams. I fund realities. Tell me — what makes you think your little project isn’t just another vaporware fantasy?”

Marco swallows, his grin faltering. Elena clears her throat, eyes flicking to Jules like a startled deer.

Inside Jules’s mind, the commentary never ceases.

Watch them squirm. The way Marco tries to patch his confidence like a cheap suit. Elena’s too polite to interrupt, but her eyes are screaming ‘help me.’

“Your market analysis is... optimistic,” Jules continues, voice silk over steel. “The tech landscape doesn’t reward naivety. It punishes it. Harshly. Do you want me to tell you how this ends? Because I already know. Investors pull out. Your valuation crashes. And then, when you’re desperate, you come crawling back.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s when the real fun begins.”

The pair exchange nervous glances. Jules lets the silence linger—thick, suffocating.

He straightens, a mask sliding back into place. “But I’m feeling generous today. Impress me. Or don’t. Either way, I’m not here to make friends.”

As the meeting progresses, Jules’s words are carefully measured, each sentence a scalpel. Inside, he’s already dissecting their weaknesses, cataloguing their fears, and plotting how easily they’d snap under pressure.

Because beneath the polished suit and flawless facade, Jules Santillian thrives on breaking things — people, reputations, lives — all with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

Jules watches them fumble through their pitch—Marco’s voice cracks on the third slide, Elena’s fingers drum nervously on the table. They try to hide their insecurity, but it leaks through like cheap cologne.

Look at you two, Jules thinks, so eager to climb, so blind to the vultures circling overhead. I could devour you whole before you even finish your sentence.

When the slides end, Jules folds his hands and shifts tone, his voice smooth but cutting.

“Before we talk numbers, tell me about yourselves. Your history. What makes you think you’re the right people for this?”

Marco clears his throat. “We both graduated from De La Salle, summa cum laude. Studied business and computer science.”

Elena nods. “We started working on this idea during our senior year. We believed in it enough to quit our jobs and pursue it full time.”

Jules arches an eyebrow, voice calm, authoritative.

“Impressive. But it’s not just the degree—it’s what you do with it. I’m a graduate of Ateneo myself. And here’s the thing: “Ateneo taught me one thing,” Jules said. “Prestige only gets you a seat. Survival is earned.”

He leans back, eyes narrowing.

Prestigious universities, huh? Parading around diplomas like armor. I’ve crushed smarter men with less pedigree.

“Tell me,” Jules continues, “what lessons did you learn there that will keep you standing when the sharks circle? When the investors stop playing nice? When the headlines stop flattering you and start digging?”

Marco swallows. Elena’s smile tightens.

How adorable. They think education makes them untouchable.

Jules smiles thinly, voice dropping to a mockingly warm tone.

“Don’t get me wrong—I like your ambition. I almost envy your naïveté. But ambition without control is just a fast track to disaster.”

He taps the leather folder.

“I’ll consider your proposal—if you survive due diligence. Keep your heads down, learn fast, and maybe you’ll last longer than most.”

He stands, extending a hand.

“Good work today. Keep pushing. You might just surprise yourself.”

Marco and Elena exchange a relieved glance, trying to mask their nerves.

As they leave, Jules’s eyes flick to the door, already picturing the headlines, the fallout, the carnage to come.

Because for Julius Santillian III, business is war—and he’s always three moves ahead.