January 8th, 2025 – Malacañang Palace, Manila.

The ceiling fans in the presidential study turned lazily, though the air was already chilled by the palace's air conditioning. President Ferdinand A. Farcos sat behind his ornate desk, papers stacked high, a glass of water resting on one corner. His Chief of Staff, Secretary Ramon Villanueva, stood opposite him with a slim folder in hand.

"Mr. President," Villanueva began carefully, "we've received a formal request for an audience. A CEO wishes to speak with you directly."

Farcos didn't look up immediately, his pen scratching across a document. "Another one of those businessmen looking for tax breaks? Who is it this time?"

Villanueva hesitated, then answered, "A Mr. Timothy Guerrero."

The president stopped mid-stroke, finally raising his eyes. "Guerrero?" He frowned. "I don't know that name. Some old-money clan?"

"No, sir," Villanueva said, voice measured. "Not old money. He's very young. Barely in his twenties, according to the file."

Farcos leaned back in his chair, chuckling under his breath. "A twenty-something CEO wants a meeting with the President of the Republic? And why, pray tell, does this boy think he deserves my time?"

Villanueva opened the folder and slid it across the desk. "Because, Mr. President… he says his company is going to build a gigafactory. In Subic."

The chuckle turned into a laugh. "A gigafactory? In the Philippines? Subic, no less? Do you have any idea how absurd that sounds?"

But Villanueva did not laugh. His expression remained grave as he tapped the folder. "With respect, sir… it appears to be legitimate. We were given the company profile. The holding company—TG Mobility Holdings—was incorporated in Singapore last year. Their Philippine arm, TG Motors Philippines, is fully registered with all clearances. No hiccups in their paperwork. They even have a complete organizational structure in place."

Farcos's amusement faded into a curious frown. He flipped through the documents—clean incorporation papers, executive profiles, and preliminary plans stamped by lawyers and accountants.

"And this… Timothy Guerrero?" Farcos asked slowly. "Who is backing him? Foreign firms? Oligarchs? Or is this another startup scam waiting to burn out?"

"Just him, sir. I think it's best if you entertain this one with a meeting. If he is sure that he has the capital to build a gigafactory to produce electric vehicles, then you can use the project to make your image stronger," Villanueva explained carefully.

Farcos raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "My image?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Villanueva replied. "Energy transition, electric mobility—these are buzzwords in the international community. If a Philippine-based gigafactory project really pushes through, you could present it as your administration's win."

The president tapped the folder with his knuckles, still skeptical. "You're saying I should let this boy stand next to me and claim he's about to transform the country's industry? I can't believe this. But seeing is believing, send him in."

Villanueva gave a short nod. "Understood, Mr. President. I'll have the Presidential Management Staff arrange the schedule. He's already in Manila."

Farcos leaned back, folding his arms. "Already here?"

Two hours later, a convoy of black SUVs rolled into the Palace grounds. Security men in barongs and dark sunglasses stood at attention, their eyes sweeping over the vehicles as they came to a halt at the front steps.

From the second SUV, Timothy Guerrero stepped out in a dark navy suit. Despite his youth, he carried himself with calm confidence, his gaze steady as he adjusted his tie. Hana followed closely, a folder in hand, her sharp professionalism making her look every bit the executive aide.

"Is this escort even necessary?" Timothy asked, looking over his shoulder where the SUVs and men stood. They were just a rental by the way.

"They do, it projects aura Mr. Guerrero. People tend to respect someone who comes in style."

Inside, they were escorted through the marble halls by a presidential usher. The grandeur of Malacañang, chandeliers hanging from high ceilings, oil paintings of past presidents lining the walls, was hard to ignore.

This was his first time in the Malacanang Palace and the experience was surreal. This is something he would never experience in his average life.

"Sir," she whispered, "remember, his first instinct will be skepticism. Speak clearly, show the numbers, and let the scale of the project speak for itself."

Timothy gave a short nod. "I know. This isn't about me—it's about what the factory means for the country."

Moments later, the double doors opened. President Ferdinand A. Farcos sat behind his ornate desk, looking up as Timothy and Hana entered. His expression was guarded, somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.

"Mr. Guerrero," Villanueva announced formally, "the President will see you now."

Timothy stepped forward, extending his hand across the desk. "Mr. President, thank you for granting me your time."

Farcos leaned back, studying the young man before him. He didn't take the hand immediately, instead letting a smirk tug at his lips.

"So… you're the one who claims he's going to build a gigafactory in Subic?"

"Yes Mr. President," Timothy confirmed. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm Timothy Guerrero and this lady next to me…"

"Seo Hana. I'm the personal secretary of Mr. Guerrero. I'm from South Korea, it's a pleasure to meet you," she bowed her head respectfully.

Farcos scanned the two for a moment before speaking.

"So young, I wonder how you will pull off your ambitious project," Farcos said.

Timothy couldn't help but feel inwardly disgusted at the president, he was after all a son of a previous dictator who plundered billions of money, and he has the audacity to even ask how he will pull off his project?

"Let me show you the documents, sir," Timothy shook off his thoughts and beckoned Hana to hand him the documents.

Hana stepped forward, sliding a neatly bound folder across the polished surface of the presidential desk. Timothy opened it halfway, turning it so that the President could see the first page clearly—a consolidated financial statement audited and notarized.

"These are the books, sir. My personal financials. Not projections, not borrowed capital, liquid assets under my control."

Farcos raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. His eyes scanned the numbers, and for a brief moment, the usual mask of political confidence slipped. The figure stared back at him in bold: $7.9 billion USD.

Villanueva cleared his throat, almost nervously. "We already verified the documents through secondary channels, sir. They're legitimate."

Farcos set the folder down slowly, his fingers drumming against the desk. His smirk was gone now, replaced by something harder to disguise: surprise.

"You're telling me," the President said at last, his voice low, "that this money is yours. Not some investor's?"

Timothy met his gaze squarely. "All mine, Mr. President. And I intend to use it here, in our country, to build something that will outlast both of us."

The study fell silent. For once, Farcos had no ready remark, no sardonic quip. He leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed against his chin, weighing the young man before him.

Timothy closed the folder with deliberate calm and slid it back toward himself. Then, with a faint but confident smile, he said,

"Now, Mr. President… let's talk business."

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