The pulsing of the moon deepened until it painted the bay in crimson light. Gasps spread through the crowd. Some dropped to their knees, clutching rosaries. Others shouted into their phones, desperate to capture what their eyes could not comprehend.
Ulysses raised his camera, but his hand shook so badly the frame blurred. He lowered it again. This wasn't just a story. It was something that reached under his ribs and twisted.
The waves slammed harder against the seawall, spraying salt mist across the watchers. Children screamed. A man cursed, pulling his family back from the edge. Still, no one left. The air felt charged, like the breath before lightning strikes.
A priest, robe flapping in the wind, climbed onto the barrier only a few meters away. He lifted his arms to the sky and cried out:
"Stand firm! Do not be afraid! These are the signs foretold!"
The crowd murmured, torn between faith and fear.
Ulysses wanted to scoff. He wanted to call it hysteria. But the moon's pulsing quickened, a living drumbeat that seemed to sync with his own heart. Sweat rolled down his temples despite the cool sea breeze. He scribbled furiously: heartbeat moon, roaring sea, priest shouting prophecy.
Then, for an instant, the world went silent.
The waves stilled. The hum of traffic vanished. Even the cries of the children fell away, as though the earth itself held its breath. The silence pressed against Ulysses's ears until he thought he might go deaf.
And then—light.
Not lightning, not firework, not anything he knew. A white blaze cut through the sky, slicing the darkness apart. It radiated from behind the red moon, spilling outward in a halo that burned the clouds away. People screamed, shielding their eyes.
Ulysses forced himself to look. The light was terrible and beautiful, searing and magnetic. He wanted to run. He wanted to kneel. Instead, he wrote, words scrawled crooked across the page: a cloud forming behind the moon, a figure hidden inside the light.
The priest dropped to his knees, weeping. "The Son of Man," he whispered.
The spell broke. The waves roared back, higher, wilder. Panic scattered the crowd. Families fled toward the boulevard, some sobbing, some chanting prayers. A woman fainted near the seawall, her husband dragging her limp body through the chaos.
Ulysses remained frozen. The red moon still pulsed. The light still poured outward, brighter now, as though something immense strained to break through.
His notebook slipped from his hand, pages fluttering across the wet pavement. He didn't chase it. He could only stare.
For the first time in years, the skeptic, the journalist, the lapsed seminarian—Ulysses Gonzalez—felt the sharp edge of belief carve through his chest.
Something had begun.
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End of Chapter 4