By the time dawn broke over Manila, the city had already changed.
The moon had lingered through the night, swollen and crimson, refusing to fade with the rising sun. People crowded rooftops and highways, pointing, filming, whispering. Rumors flowed faster than traffic: the moon had cracked, the moon was falling, the moon was a sign of God's wrath.
Ulysses Gonzalez hadn't slept. He had sat on the floor of his small Quezon City apartment, back pressed against the wall, watching the glow outside his window. His notebook lay open beside him, pages smeared with frantic words: heartbeat, roaring sea, light behind the moon.
His phone buzzed endlessly—calls from his editor, messages from colleagues, even texts from his mother in Cavite. He ignored most of them until his mother's voice cracked through voicemail:
"Uly, anak, please call me. People here are panicking. The neighbors are saying the sea will rise again. Just… please come home. Don't stay in the city."
He clenched his jaw. Cavite was only an hour's drive, but part of him resisted the thought of leaving. Manila was chaos, but it was also the heart of the story. If he wanted truth, it was here.
Still, his mother's words scraped at him. He hadn't seen her in months, always promising to visit and always failing. His younger brother, Marco, had stayed with her after their father's death, and Marco never let Ulysses forget that he'd abandoned faith and family.
By midmorning, the newsroom demanded his presence. He walked through EDSA where billboards glowed with apocalyptic memes: END OF THE WORLD SALE – EVERYTHING MUST GO! Street vendors sold printed copies of the verse from Luke 21, laminated like talismans. Jeepney drivers hung crucifixes from their mirrors, muttering prayers as they swerved through traffic.
Inside the Daily Tribune building, chaos reigned. Ramil, the editor, barked orders. "We're dedicating the whole front page again! Ulysses, I want eyewitness detail, not just your flowery scribbles. The people want facts."
"Facts?" Ulysses muttered. "The fact is the moon hasn't set in twenty hours. What do you want me to call it, sir? A weather anomaly? A miracle? A curse?"
Ramil jabbed a finger at him. "Call it whatever sells papers. You think the readers care about science? They want drama. They want fear."
Ulysses bit back a retort. He wasn't here to feed hysteria, but even he couldn't deny the air thickened with dread.
By noon, the city swelled with protest marches and prayer rallies. Half the population demanded government answers. The other half demanded divine mercy. And above them all, unblinking, the blood-red moon watched like a predator.
Standing at a street corner, notebook clutched in one hand, Ulysses felt the strangest sensation: as if the moon itself was aware of him.
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End of Chapter 5