Monkey Moka had been full of playful energy just moments before, swinging between wires and branches with her usual spark. But then—snap!—a sudden jolt, a cruel crackle of electricity surged through her tiny body. Her limbs stiffened mid-motion, eyes wide with silent shock, and she fell.
Her small form hit the ground hard, twitching, breath shallow, chest rising in short, panicked bursts. The world seemed to tilt, spinning in confusion. Her paws trembled as she tried to lift herself, but pain laced through her muscles like fire. She let out a broken cry—high, thin, and scared.
Moka whimpered, her voice weak and ragged. She looked around, disoriented. Where was she? Where was Mom? Her body ached, but something deeper—a scared, childlike desperation—pushed her forward.
She dragged herself upright, staggering on shaky limbs, her legs barely cooperating. Each step wobbled, every movement a struggle, but she kept going, crying out in soft, broken squeals. “Eee-eee,” she called, calling not just in pain, but in hope.
Leaves crunched beneath her unsteady steps as she moved through the brush. She paused every few feet, collapsing and gasping, only to force herself up again. Her fur was singed in patches, her tail dragging behind her. But still she searched.
Finally, through the blur of pain and tears, she spotted a familiar silhouette—tall, warm, steady. Her mother.
