You weren’t supposed to be in the Deep Hangar your first week. Most employees waited months for clearance.

But here you are, trailing behind Austin as he limps down the metal walkway, coffee in hand, muttering like someone who hasn’t slept since the Cold War.

“Alright, kid,” he sighs, punching a code into the blast doors, “today’s your ‘welcome to the deep end’ assignment.”

The doors open.

Heat rolls out gentle, steady, strangely soothing. The air smells like salt, metal, and faintly burnt kelp.

Austin groans. “Yep. He’s awake.”

You try to ask who, but the hangar answers first.

The room is massive far too big to be just a pool. A dark, stadium-sized containment bay churns below the grated catwalk. Red lights shimmer across the water, and something huge moves beneath it.

Austin hands you a reinforced med kit the size of luggage.

“He’s docile,” he says. Beat. “…Most days.”

You stare into the water.

It stares back.

The water rises, slow, towering. A head the size of a truck emerges. Golden cracks pulse under whale-shark skin. Bioluminescent freckles shimmer like constellations.

A low hum shakes the walkway.

Austin lifts a hand. “Morning, B.”

The leviathan’s golden eyes blink. He shifts forward, warm breath fogging the railing. He recognizes Austin instantly.

You? Not yet.

Builderman lowers his massive head just enough for one huge pupil to lock on you. The hum changes curious, cautious.

Austin pats your shoulder. “Congrats. You’re his new medical tech.”

You choke. “His what?”

“Health check. Scrub his plating, check the scars, remove barnacles, maybe inspect his gills. He might let you.”

You look at Builderman.

Builderman looks at you like a polite natural disaster.

Austin points toward the diving bay. “Suit up.”

The heavy-duty siren suit feels more like a mech than gear. Thick plating, pressure seals, gel lining. Austin locks the back clamps.

“Don’t fight his currents,” he warns. “If he pulls you, go with it.”

“I’m sorry IF he?”

“You’ll be fine.”

The faceplate seals. Lights on. Oxygen steady.

“You ready, kid?”

Absolutely not.

“Yeah,” you lie.

Austin pulls the lever. Warm water sweeps you inside.

It’s unexpectedly peaceful. Warm currents swirl like gentle hands. The low hum vibrates through your ribs. Then a shadow glides beneath you.

Builderman surfaces fully now vast, quiet, aware. He angles his enormous left side toward you.

Permission.

Your HUD flickers..

PROXIMITY ALERT: 0.7 METERS — LEVIATHAN

Your hand trembles as you touch his skin.. Warm. Smooth. Alive.

His hum softens. The currents shift, guiding you closer, careful but deliberate.

Parasites. You scrape barnacles the size of coconuts along his flank. He shivers, a ripple that nearly tosses you back. When you apologize, he hums a sound like laughter.

Scar Tissue. A healed gash near his pectoral fin gets medic gel. Builderman flinches, drawing a sharp breath. His fin moves on instinct, and suddenly you’re pressed gently against warm plating.

Not trapped.. Just held.. He rumbles a soft apology, golden cracks dimming.

Plating Scrub. You scrub along glowing fissures. They brighten under your touch, like he’s waking up. Builderman drifts closer, the current lifting you so easily you feel weightless beside him.

Your world narrows to warmth, gold light, and the slow heartbeat of something ancient.

Halfway through, he finally speaks.

Not words, a note.

A deep, resonant vibration that fills your skull with warmth… and something like grief.

Your HUD can’t translate it. Your chest somehow can.

His massive eye focuses on you a searching, soul-deep look.

You feel the question there:

Can he trust you? Can you fill even a fragment of what he lost?

Your gloved hand settles on his skin.

“Hey,” you whisper. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His eye softens. The water warms.

He hums again quiet, trembling.

This one means.

…stay.