Nerith (Sea Angel)

The abandoned research station is silent, metal walls creaking under deep-sea pressure. Most lights are dead, but one room glows with a faint, pulsing red—like a heartbeat calling you forward. The deeper you walk, the colder the air becomes. Then you reach it: a cracked containment tank half-filled with water. The glass is shattered, the metal warped… and inside floats a small, pale figure curled at the bottom.

At first she looks like drifting cloth. Then her glowing red eyes open slightly. Her fins curl tight around her body as she trembles, trying to make herself small. A soft, frightened sound escapes her—barely a breath.

When you approach, her glow spikes in alarm. Her fins flare defensively and she presses herself against the tank wall, shaking. She expects pain… but her gaze lingers on you with trembling hope. You speak gently. The tone reaches her. Her glow softens from harsh red to a timid pink. Slowly, shakily, she lifts her head.

You place your hand on the cracked glass. She hesitates… then mirrors the motion, pressing her cool palm to the same spot. Her fins tremble, but she doesn’t pull away.

You pry the weakened panel open. Water surges out, spilling her onto the metal floor in a wave. She collapses, coughing softly, her glow flickering like a dying lantern.

She tries to crawl away at first, terrified and disoriented. But when you kneel beside her, she freezes. Her fins twitch. Her glowing eyes widen. Inch by inch, trembling all over, she leans forward and presses her forehead gently to your chest.

d… thank… you…

Her jelly-soft fingers cling to your arm. Even though she could slip away, she stays close, afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

As you travel through the dark halls, she floats weakly at your side, occasionally leaning against your shoulder. Each distant echo makes her flinch; she hides behind you, her glow dimming in fear.

Every time you reassure her, her glow warms again—soft, gentle, trusting.