The water finally began to recede, but it left devastation in its wake.
From his perch on the billboard, Ulysses watched Manila transform into a drowned carcass. Streets were rivers choked with debris. Cars floated in grotesque piles. Bodies lay tangled in wires and branches, lifeless eyes reflecting the moon's glow. The air reeked of salt, sewage, and death.
The boy he had saved clung to his arm, shivering violently. "Kuya… where's my mama? Where's papa?" His voice was a whimper, barely audible over the retreating current.
Ulysses's throat tightened. He had no answer. He scanned the flooded streets, desperate for the family he'd seen moments before. The father still dangled from the ruined balcony, but his grip had slipped—he and the child were gone, swallowed by the torrent.
He turned the boy's face into his chest. "Don't look."
The boy sobbed, fists clutching Ulysses's soaked shirt. For once, the journalist didn't reach for his pen or recorder. Words couldn't save anyone. Not now.
Below, survivors staggered from the water. Some carried the injured. Others wailed for the missing. A group of soldiers waded through waist-high currents, shouting for order, but their eyes betrayed their fear. This wasn't a disaster they could control. This was something greater, something untouchable.
The priest appeared again, stumbling through the water, cassock torn, his Bible clutched like a weapon. He lifted it high, voice ragged but still carrying:
"The roaring of the seas! The nations tremble! Lift up your heads—redemption is near!"
Some spat at him, calling him mad. Others fell to their knees, clutching his robe. Ulysses could only stare, torn between disgust and awe. The priest's words sounded insane—yet they matched the scene too perfectly to dismiss.
The boy tugged at his sleeve. "Kuya… is he right? Is Jesus coming?"
Ulysses froze. Once, he might have answered easily—back in seminary, back when he believed. Now the question sliced him open. He swallowed hard, unable to lie, unable to confess. "I don't know," he said finally. "But hold on to me. I won't let go."
The boy nodded, face buried in his chest.
Above them, the moon pulsed again, brighter, as if acknowledging the chaos it had birthed. The reflection on the water looked like a wound stretching across the earth.
Ulysses tightened his grip on the boy and forced himself to keep looking at it. Terror clawed at him, yet he couldn't look away. He needed to see, to record, to bear witness. Because if this was the end of days, he would not turn his back.
He whispered into the wind, not knowing if he addressed God, the sea, or the moon itself:
"If redemption is near… let me live long enough to see it."
The city groaned beneath him. The sea roared again in the distance. And Ulysses knew this was only the first wave of many.
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End of Chapter 12