Black
cat
chronicles
They felt it before they knew it. A prickle in the whiskers. A silence in the wind where birdsong should be. The full moon hung low too low. Then came the signs.
In a kampung house in Kelantan, a cat pawed open an old drawer. Inside, three black buttons lay in a perfect triangle on a batik cloth.
In a back alley of Johor Bahru, a familiar mural changed overnight. The stray cat usually painted grey now wore a freshly painted crimson collar.
In Chinatown, Singapore, a kopitiam table was mysteriously etched with fresh claw marks three slashes, forming a crescent. Only visible when the moonlight hit it just right.
And in Little India, a garland of marigolds was found scattered in a perfect circle around a sleeping cat who hadn’t aged in years.
Then came the whisper : no voice, just wind.
“Third moon. 3:33. The tower still stands.” No posters. No phone calls. No Telegram group.
But every black cat knew. The Calling had begun. Across Penang’s rooftops, across the Causeway, through the rain-drenched drains of Geylang, they stirred. Tails twitching. Eyes glowing.
They began the journey each in silence, yet part of something larger. Because when Code Black is activated, there's no time to waste. The mission is impossible.
The risk is everything. But the world needs its shadows. And only the black cats know how to walk in them.
“Third moon. 3:33. The tower still stands.” No posters. No phone calls. No Telegram group.
But every black cat knew. The Calling had begun. Across Penang’s rooftops, across the Causeway, through the rain-drenched drains of Geylang, they stirred. Tails twitching. Eyes glowing.
They began the journey each in silence, yet part of something larger. Because when Code Black is activated, there's no time to waste. The mission is impossible.
The risk is everything. But the world needs its shadows. And only the black cats know how to walk in them.
