The air reeked of gunpowder and smoke. The crowd had scattered into smaller knots, some dragging the wounded away, others cursing the soldiers from the shadows of trees. A woman wailed over a bloodied body near the ration line. The boy buried his face against Ulysses's chest, refusing to look.
Ulysses's mind spun, equal parts fear and fury. He had seen protests turn violent before, but this wasn't about wages or elections. This was about the soul of a starving nation, and the cost was blood.
He pulled the boy deeper into the park, toward a cluster of toppled tarps that offered some shelter. Once hidden, he exhaled hard, trying to steady his shaking hands. His notebook was gone, lost in the chaos, but his recorder still hung from his pocket. He pressed it against his lips and whispered:
"Quezon Memorial Circle, day three. The prophet's words lit the camp like gasoline. The army opened fire. At least three dead, more injured. Authority fractures. Faith rises. The city trembles, and the world with it."
He clicked it off, heart pounding.
"Kuya," the boy said, eyes wide. "Why did God let them shoot people if He's coming soon?"
The question cut deep. Ulysses searched for words but found none. "I don't know," he admitted, voice hoarse. "I don't know."
Before he could say more, a shadow fell over them. Ulysses tensed, pulling the boy close. But it wasn't a soldier—it was the prophet.
His robe was torn, his cheek streaked with blood, but his eyes burned with the same unshakable fire. He knelt before them, and for the second time that day, their eyes locked.
"You," the prophet said, pointing at Ulysses. "I saw you writing. Recording. Bearing witness."
Ulysses swallowed hard. "I'm a journalist. That's my job."
The prophet's smile was faint but knowing. "No. It is your calling."
"I don't believe in callings," Ulysses snapped, though his voice shook.
The prophet leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Ulysses could hear: "You don't need to believe in it. The truth believes in you."
Ulysses's breath caught. For a moment, he felt exposed, as if the man could see through his skin into the raw uncertainty inside. He wanted to protest, to push him away, but words failed.
The prophet straightened, addressing the camp again, his voice echoing:
"The witnesses are among us! Not only the prophets but those who see, who write, who remember! When the Son of Man comes, their words will testify!"
Heads turned. Eyes followed the prophet's outstretched hand—toward Ulysses.
Heat surged through him. Fear, shame, anger, disbelief. He wanted to vanish into the dirt. He wasn't a prophet, wasn't even sure he was a believer. He was just a man with a pen, a recorder, and too much fear in his chest.
But now, the camp saw him differently. Some with reverence. Others with suspicion. And Ulysses realized, with a chill crawling up his spine, that the prophet had pulled him into the storm.
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End of Chapter 19