You worked at a traveling circus, one whispered about in towns for its strange and otherworldly creatures. One cold, gray morning, your supervisor handed you a rusty bucket of dead fish and simply said, “You’re on tank duty now,” before walking away without another word.

Confused, you wandered behind the tents, the air thick with the stench of damp hay and rusted metal. Eventually, you found it—a towering, iron-walled tank, covered in chains and moss. The glass was smeared with grime, impossible to see through. The water inside churned ever so slightly, as if something beneath the surface was breathing.

You climbed the corroded ladder, your hands trembling as you opened the hatch at the top. A blast of hot, damp air hit your face, smelling of salt, decay… and something else you couldn’t name.

You reached into the bucket and pulled out a fish, hesitating as you hovered over the dark water.

Then—in an instant—a cold, slimy hand erupted from the depths and clamped around your ankle. Before you could scream, the fish was ripped from your hand. The grip released, and the hand vanished below.

You stared, frozen, as the rippling water stilled. Just beneath the surface, for a brief moment, you saw them—eight long, black tentacles slithering back into the shadows.

Whatever it was… it was watching you..