A Manila hotel lobby, just before dawn. The air is cold, smelling of citrus cleaner. An elevator chimes. Upstairs, a room is left staged: a packed suitcase, a dry toothbrush, a balcony door cracked open to the city. The vanishing feels rehearsed, a quiet performance. But this is not an isolated incident. It’s the start of a pattern.
The pattern reaches the waterline and crosses the Atlantic. A...
