By late afternoon, the newsroom buzzed like a hive. Reporters shouted updates across desks, screens glowed with looping footage of the red moon, and editors barked orders with cigarettes dangling from their lips. The Daily Tribune had gone all in—front page, banner headline, radio commentary.
Ulysses sat at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring at a blank document. For hours he had interviewed, recorded, scribbled notes. Yet the words refused to come.
His editor, a thickset man named Ramil, lumbered over. "Gonzalez, where's my story? We're running evening print."
Ulysses tapped the keys just to look busy. "Still polishing. I want accuracy."
Ramil snorted. "Accuracy? The whole country's losing its mind, and you're worried about accuracy? I need copy, not poetry." He slapped the desk and stomped off.
Ulysses closed his eyes. What could he possibly write? That the moon had turned red, unexplained, terrifying half the city into prayer? That priests were quoting apocalypse verses while vendors claimed the sky whispered their names? It would read like tabloid trash.
And yet—every witness carried the same trembling awe. Every account, no matter how bizarre, carried a rhythm that sounded less like rumor and more like warning.
He pushed his chair back, deciding to clear his head. Manila's streets were clogged as always, but tonight the usual honking and curses had a different edge. Jeepney drivers argued about the end of days. Tricycle riders swapped rumors about tidal waves. Even the street dogs barked incessantly, as though stirred by something unseen.
Drawn by instinct, Ulysses wandered toward the Baywalk. Manila Bay stretched black and endless, reflecting only fragments of the city lights. Families huddled on the seawall, pointing toward the horizon where the moon—still red, still swollen—hung like a curse.
Children clutched their parents. Old men stared with hollow eyes. A group of students prayed aloud, their voices trembling but insistent.
Ulysses sat on the concrete barrier, notebook open on his knee. He sketched the scene in words: the hush of the crowd, the thick smell of salt, the moon that refused to fade.
Beside him, a fisherman lit a cigarette, his skin weathered from years under the sun. "I've seen typhoons, anak," the man said softly, exhaling smoke. "I've seen storms that ripped our houses from the earth. But this…" He shook his head. "This is different. The sea is restless."
Ulysses followed his gaze. The waves were choppier than usual, tossing against the seawall with unusual violence though the night was calm. A hollow roar echoed from beneath the surface, as if the ocean itself was speaking.
The fisherman flicked his ash into the water. "Mark my words. Something's coming. The heavens don't bleed for nothing."
Ulysses wrote it down, though his hand trembled.
When he looked up again, the crowd had fallen silent. Every face turned toward the same horizon. The moon had shifted, no longer just red but pulsing—brightening, dimming, as though it had a heartbeat.
For the first time, Ulysses felt his skepticism falter.
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End of Chapter 3