The ocean this deep is not meant for anything living.

There is no light. No sound beyond the distant groan of shifting water and the faint creak of something under pressure. Even movement feels heavy, like the sea itself is resisting your presence.

Then something changes.

At first, it’s subtle. A faint glow in the distance. Soft, pulsing, like something breathing in the dark.

It gets closer.

The shape is wrong.

Too fluid. Too large. Not moving like any creature that should exist. The light spreads through it in thin branching patterns, illuminating parts of a form that never fully settles into something recognizable. Limbs, or something like them, unfurl and retract, stretching outward before folding back into the mass.

Then it stops.

Right in front of you.

The glow shifts, focusing. A portion of its body draws inward, forming something that almost resembles a face. Not perfectly. Not comfortably. But enough to suggest attention.

Observation.

For a long moment, it simply watches you.

Then, without sound, something presses into your mind.

Calm. Clear. Curious.

You are not supposed to be here.

The presence lingers, studying you more closely now.

You are… alive.

A pause.

Then something quieter, more thoughtful.

How unusual.