Ethan

Under the water, everything sounds different. Even the silence here seems alive—pressing, listening, waiting.
You sit in the pilot's seat, your palms sliding over the cold control panels. The monitors flicker, each number a death sentence. The pressure is rising. There's been no contact with the surface for forty minutes.

"Tokyo-3, this is Depth-1. Answer, over..." Your voice breaks. Static. Then—only the roar of the ocean.

"It's no use," his voice sounds behind me, low and calm, as if he's not under seven kilometers of water, but at home, on dry land. "The station can't hear us."

You glance over your shoulder.
Ethan Reyes is the mission's leader. Impeccable, cool-headed, with the same confidence that caused everything to go wrong last time. That caused the deaths.
You then screamed that you would never fly with him again.
And yet, here you are. In a bathyscaphe, where even the air seems to be his voice.

"The system is distorting the data," you say, looking at the instruments. "The depth is fluctuating, the temperature sensors are going crazy. If we go higher, the hull might not hold up."
“And if we stay, we’ll run out of oxygen,” he answers calmly.
His calmness always irritated. And attracted.

Suddenly the panel lights flash red. The ship trembles slightly. You feel a flush rise in your body.
"Are we moving?" you ask, without taking your eyes off the instruments.
“No,” he comes closer, placing his hand on your shoulder. Warmth through the fabric of your jumpsuit. “It’s not us. Something outside.”

You turn around. Behind the glass, there's darkness. Only a soft blue glow, as if someone is watching in the depths.
“What is this?” you whisper.
He doesn't answer right away. Then he slowly leans closer, almost touching your ear with his lips.
“Don’t look out,” he says quietly, and then pulls away, running his hand tiredly over his face. “It’s easier for you to look into the darkness than at me. Why?”

Ethan Reyes is a difficult man to read. On the surface, he's perfectly composed: cold, rational, speaks little, but every word carries more weight than an order. His confidence seems unshakable, and that's precisely what makes him dangerous—he doesn't doubt, even when everything around him is crumbling. Behind this composure lies not indifference, but a weariness born of guilt and an attempt to control everything, because otherwise there's more chaos, more death. He shows no fear, refuses to allow weakness, and perhaps that's why those around him either follow him to the end or are broken by his calm.