chapter 5 — Among Glass and Steel
The first lesson the Ape King learned about humanity was simple.
They hid their fear behind noise.
The city roared—engines, voices, machines screaming over one another in a desperate attempt to feel alive. Towers of glass pierced the sky like fragile monuments to ego, each reflecting the sun as if begging to be noticed.
The Ape King stood at the edge of it all.
Not towering.
Not crowned.
Small.
Compressed.
Human form.
His form had shifted—muscle folded inward, bone density recalibrated, fur receded beneath engineered skin. Authority did not vanish; it condensed. His golden eyes dulled to brown, his presence muted to something forgettable.
This body was not weakness.
It was camouflage.
He inhaled.
The air tasted wrong.
Filtered. Processed. Dead.
"So this is where they hide from the world,"
he murmured.
No one heard him.
They never did.
New York City — Day Zero
The Ape King walked through a crowd that never looked up.
Humans collided shoulder to shoulder, yet never truly touched. Their eyes were glued to glowing rectangles—information slaves willingly chained. Their posture screamed submission, though they called it civilization.
He paused beside a street vendor.
The man shouted prices, voice hoarse with exhaustion. When the Ape King placed currency on the counter, the vendor barely glanced at him.
"Rough day?" the vendor muttered, handing over food.
The Ape King studied the paper-wrapped meal.
Cooked flesh. Artificial flavor. Nutrients stripped of spirit.
"Yes," he replied honestly. "For your species."
The vendor laughed, assuming sarcasm.
Humans laughed when truth frightened them.
The Language of Power
Within hours, the Ape King had absorbed more information than most humans did in a lifetime.
Screens fed him language, history, propaganda.
Museums fed him lies—curated narratives designed to flatter a species terrified of insignificance.
At the Gene Preservance Museum, he lingered.
Skeletons of apes lined one hall—primitive, hunched, framed as failures of evolution.
Children pointed. Parents nodded.
"Look how far we've come," a guide said proudly.
The Ape King stared at the bones.
"These were children," he thought.
"Murdered before maturity."
His fingers curled slightly.
Authority pressed against the city like a held breath.
Security Notices Something Wrong
At 14:26, an anomaly flagged.
Not biometric.
Not behavioral.
Hierarchical disturbance.
A low-level analyst frowned at his screen.
"Sir… I don't know how to explain this.
Crowd behavior keeps subtly adjusting around one individual."
A superior scoffed. "Influencer?"
"No. People aren't following him. They're… yielding."
Cameras zoomed in.
A man walking calmly through Grand Central Station.
No urgency.
No fear.
People unconsciously moved aside for him.
Like prey parting for a predator they couldn't see.
The Zoo Incident
The Ape King did not plan to go there.
His instincts pulled him.
The Bronx Zoo smelled of captivity long before he reached the gates.
Bars. Electric fields. Artificial environments pretending to be mercy.
He stood before the gorilla enclosure.
The massive silverback inside froze the moment their eyes met.
Time stretched.
The gorilla stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Knees bent.
It bowed.
The Ape King's jaw tightened.
"Do not," he whispered.
The gorilla trembled, confused, instincts screaming submission it did not understand.
Children laughed. Cameras clicked.
A keeper frowned. "That's… new."
The Ape King turned away.
If he stayed longer, the city would feel it.
Humans at the Top
That night, he entered a place humans believed untouchable.
A penthouse.
Steel, glass, guards armed with weapons designed for other humans.
The guards never noticed him pass.
Authority was not force.
It was permission.
Inside, powerful men argued.
Energy stocks. Military contracts. Genetic patents.
They spoke of apes as resources.
"DNA goldmines," one said. "If we crack behavioral obedience—"
The lights flickered.
Every man froze.
The Ape King stood among them, illusion dropped just enough for instinct to scream.
Golden eyes ignited.
"Sit," he said.
They sat.
No one remembered deciding to.
Judgment Without Mercy
"You dissect life to understand dominance,"
The Ape King said calmly.
"You enslave the world, then wonder why it resists."
A man tried to speak.
His voice died in his throat.
"You fear extinction," the Ape King continued. "Yet you manufacture it daily."
He leaned forward.
"You are not evil," he concluded. "You are inefficient."
One man wept.
Another smiled nervously. "W-what do you want?"
The Ape King straightened.
"Nothing."
The answer terrified them more than any demand.
"Remember this feeling," he said. "When the forest walks into your cities."
He vanished.
The room collapsed into chaos seconds later—men screaming, blaming one another, already rewriting the memory to survive it.
Above the City
A helicopter hovered near the skyline.
Inside, a familiar face watched live feeds with shaking hands.
Nicolas.
He had followed instinct more than orders.
And instinct led him here.
He saw the footage freeze on a single frame.
Golden eyes.
Looking directly at the camera.
At him.
Nicolas whispered, "You're not hunting us."
The feed cut.
"You're measuring us."
Return to the Roots
The Ape King stood once more beneath the ancient tree.
Rûkar awaited him.
"They know something walks among them," the General said. "But not what."
The Ape King removed the human form like a discarded thought. Gold skin returned.
Authority breathed freely.
"Good," he replied.
He placed his hand on the tree.
"Their cities are fragile," he said. "Their minds more so."
Rûkar grinned. "Then we strike?"
The Ape King's smile was colder.
"No."
A pause.
"We educate."
Far away, a city siren wailed for no reason at all.
TO BE CONTINUED.