Rising Moon

Chapter 12

The house was unusually quiet for a morning that should have been full of noise.

Sandy had already left for the docks before the sun had properly climbed the horizon, his boots heavy on the porch boards, his voice gentle as he reminded the kids to behave and promised to bring back sweet buns if the sea stayed calm. Macaque had watched him go from the kitchen doorway, arms folded loosely, tail flicking once in a silent farewell before the door shut behind him.

The children were still inside, scattered like loose constellations across the living room and playroom blocks half-built, plush toys abandoned mid-adventure. It was a rare day where the world seemed to allow stillness.

Spring cleaning, Sandy had called it.

Macaque called it containment.

He moved through the house with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, ears angled to catch every sound. The broom glided across the floor, gathering dust and old petals tracked in from the yard. He hummed softly under his breath, not a tune, just a vibration, low and steady, something that grounded him while he worked.

Outside, the light shifted.

Macaque paused mid-sweep.

The air pressure dropped first. A subtle thing, but he felt it immediately, his ears twitched, fur along his spine prickling. The sunlight dimmed, clouds rolling in far faster than they should have. Wind pushed against the windows with impatient fingers.

"Hm," he murmured.

The children didn't notice. They rarely did.

He set the broom aside and crossed the living room, reaching for the remote. The television flickered to life just as thunder rumbled distantly, low and dissatisfied.

The broadcast cut sharply to Red Son.

Macaque's ears angled forward.

Red Son stood framed by fire-lit architecture, posture rigid, voice sharp with the practiced certainty of someone who had never truly been told no. He spoke of legacy. Of order. Of inevitability.

Macaque leaned against the counter, arms folding again.

"Tch," he muttered. "Still talking like power alone makes you right."

The screen shifted to surveillance footage now. Grainy. Distant. MK and Red Son clashed in a blur of movement and flame.

The children had migrated to the playroom by then, their laughter muffled by the walls. Macaque kept the volume low but his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, gaze sharp, analytical.

MK was fast.

Too fast.

"He's overcommitting," Macaque said quietly to the empty room. "Again."

Onscreen, MK lunged, reckless, momentum carrying him forward without an exit strategy. Red Son countered easily, exploiting the same opening MK kept offering.

"You've got technique," Macaque continued, almost absentmindedly. "But you keep making the same mistake."

He watched Red Son's footwork, the calculated spacing, the way his fire curved with intention rather than impulse. Macaque already knew how this fight would end.

"Red Son's not holding back," he said. "And you're still fighting like the worst that can happen is bruises."

The footage was cut to a wide angle. Sandy and his friend Tang, Pigsy and the Dragon Girl were seen trying to also help. But MK was not making any room for them to help in the fight, even though both Pigsy and Sandy have combat skills from their younger days.