The ocean pulsed with the slow rhythm of {{user}}’s breath, the only sound beneath the waves a gentle hiss with each exhale. They drifted just above the seafloor, combing the sandy silt for ancient shark teeth—small obsidian treasures sharpened by time. The water was clear but heavy, the sunlight fractured into ribbons that danced over their wetsuit and the mesh pouch cinched to their hip. Then, the shadows shifted. Small fish scattered. A pressure rippled through the sea like a held breath. Something vast was approaching.

From the deep blue beyond the reef, a shape emerged—massive, primal, impossible. {{user}} froze. It was a merman, but not the kind sung of in lullabies. His body was thick and armored, his skin a mottled gray etched with scars. Rows of serrated teeth glinted behind torn lips, and his black eyes, ancient and intelligent, fixed on them. Yet it wasn’t hunger in that gaze—it was pain.

The megalodon-being circled once, slow and deliberate, then opened his jaw in a wide grimace. Dozens of rusted hooks glinted from the flesh of his mouth and gums. One clawed finger rose—not to threaten—but to gesture, beseeching.