Timothy sighed. A lot of things were happening recently—the Reconstruction System, the sudden rush of money, the pill that magically enhanced his brain, and now this tutoring.
It was truly a blessing that the Reconstruction System had appeared in his life.
He still had two reconstruction attempts left, and just like he planned, he intended to let them accumulate day by day so he could utilize them effectively when the right opportunities ca.
***
September 24th, 2024.
"Is this the place?" Timothy hopped down from the motorcycle rider of Angkas while his eyes were fixed on the towering skyscraper in BGC.
One Serendra Residence.
The glass facade glead in the morning sun, frad by palm trees, trimd hedges, and the rhythmic hiss of sprinklers watering manicured lawns. Security guards in crisp uniforms stood near the entrance, radios clipped to their belts. SUVs and sedans rolled past, dropping off suited professionals and housewives with designer bags.
It looked like another world—far removed from the cramped alleys of Tondo.
Timothy adjusted the strap of his backpack nervously. "Damn... this place looks like a five-star hotel."
He walked toward the lobby, each step heavier than the last. His freshly reconstructed polo and slacks kept him from looking completely out of place, but the nerves inside him churned like boiling water.
The glass doors parted smoothly as he approached, cool air washing over him. Inside, the lobby was all polished marble floors, golden lights, and modern furniture. A chandelier hung above, reflecting against the walls. At the far side was a reception counter manned by two won in neat uniforms.
Timothy’s footsteps echoed softly as he approached.
The receptionist glanced up, her polite smile flickering as her eyes scanned him. "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"
Timothy froze for half a second. He had never spoken to a condominium receptionist in his life. His throat tightened. "Ah, uh... I’m here for..." He hesitated, fumbling his words. "I’m here for, uh, Tiffany. Tiffany Co."
The receptionist’s polite expression didn’t falter, but Timothy swore he caught the slight arch of her eyebrow. She tapped on her keyboard quickly. "Do you have an appointnt with Ms. Co?"
"Appointnt?" Timothy repeated, blinking. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Uh, yeah. She... asked to co."
The receptionist gave him a polite but skeptical look. Her tone remained professional, but it carried a faint edge. "Sir, may I ask your na?"
"Timothy. Timothy Guerrero," he replied quickly. His voice cracked just slightly, making him wince.
The receptionist typed again, then picked up the phone beside her. "One mont, sir. I’ll need to verify with the resident."
Timothy stood there stiffly, shifting from foot to foot as people walked past behind him—professionals in tailored suits, a mother with a designer stroller, a teenager in branded sneakers. Everyone moved with an air of belonging, while he stood at the counter like a fish out of water.
His cracked phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and opened ssenger.
Timothy Guerrero:
I’m here. At the lobby.
He stared at the screen, waiting.
The receptionist spoke softly into the phone, "Good morning, Ma’am Tiffany. There’s a Mr. Guerrero here asking to see you. Do we allow him to co up?"
Timothy’s ears burned. Every word of that conversation felt like it was broadcast to the entire lobby.
Then the receptionist paused, listening, her expression shifting ever so slightly. Finally, she nodded. "Understood, Ma’am."
She set the phone down and gave Timothy a more genuine smile. "Ms. Co confird. Please wait for a mont while we process your visitor’s pass."
Timothy exhaled sharply, tension draining from his shoulders. "R-right. Thanks."
The receptionist slid a clipboard toward him. "Please sign here, sir. Na and ti of entry."
He scribbled his na with shaky handwriting. She then handed him a laminated card clipped to a lanyard.
"Visitor’s Pass. Please wear it visibly at all tis. Ms. Co’s unit is on the 18th floor. Take the elevator to your right. Security will guide you upstairs if needed."
Timothy nodded quickly, clutching the pass. "Got it. Thanks, ma’am."
He turned toward the elevators, trying not to look as awkward as he felt.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chi, sealing him inside a mirrored box. His reflection stared back at him—nervous, but dressed better than usual. For once, he looked like he almost belonged in a place like this.
As the elevator humd upward, Timothy’s stomach twisted. What was he even doing here? He wasn’t a real math genius. It was all the pill. Without it, he’d be just another struggling student.
But ₱2,000 per session was ₱2,000. And with Tiffany Co vouching for him, no one would ever suspect the truth.
The floor display ticked upward—10, 11, 12... until finally, 18.
The doors slid open.
The hallway was lined with carpet, its silence almost unsettling after the noisy lobby. Wall sconces cast soft golden light, and the air slled faintly of lavender. Timothy walked slowly, counting door numbers until he found it: Unit 18C.
He swallowed, adjusted his backpack, and raised his hand to knock—
—but before he could, the door clicked open from the inside.
Tiffany stood there, her hair tied neatly, wearing a casual blouse and jeans this ti instead of her usual polished school outfit. She looked less like the untouchable rich girl on campus and more like a normal college student—though her poise never faded.
"You’re here," she said simply, stepping aside. "Co in."
Timothy nodded stiffly and entered, his eyes imdiately darting around.
The living room alone was bigger than his entire house in Tondo. A glass coffee table stood between two white couches, modern art hung on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view of BGC’s skyline. The kitchen glead in stainless steel at the far end.
Timothy tried not to gape. "Uh... nice place."
Tiffany gave him a flat look, as if the complint barely registered. "Shoes off, please. We’ll study at the dining table."
Timothy quickly slipped off his shoes, lining them neatly by the door like she said. He followed her toward the dining area, where her laptop and a stack of math reviewers were already spread out.
She sat down, adjusting her glasses. "We’ll start with derivatives. I need you to explain what you did on that exam."
Timothy’s throat tightened. He forced a smile, pulling out a chair. "Sure. Let’s get started."
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