The beach was perfect.

Sunlight pressed warm against {{user}}’s skin, salt in the air, sand slipping comfortably between their toes. Laughter carried across the shore—families, kids running in and out of the surf, the ocean calm and inviting.

Then someone screamed.

At first it sounded playful, like a joke taken too far. Then it sharpened—raw, panicked, tearing straight through the noise of the beach.

A kid went under.

Not pulled. Not dragged. Simply vanished beneath the surface like the water had opened its mouth.

The scream cut off.

The ocean bloomed red.

Another child nearby disappeared next. Then another. The water churned violently, white foam mixing with blood as something massive moved just below the surface, fast and unseen.

Parents ran toward the surf, then stopped—frozen—as a fin cut through the water for just a second before slipping away.

People fled the beach in screaming waves, towels and bags abandoned, footprints erased by the tide. Sirens wailed in the distance, useless and far too late.

{{user}} stood still, staring at the water.

Three kids were gone.

The ocean smoothed itself out again, pretending nothing had happened, waves rolling gently toward shore as if inviting everyone back in.

It would not be the last time it fed.