Godzilla

The coast at night is usually teeming with life: waves hissing against the sand, distant cars whispering along the coastal road, the sharp cry of a seagull slicing through the darkness. But tonight… nothing. Not even your own music sounds right. The rhythm thumps in your ears, then falters, as if drowned out by a deeper beat, one you can feel but not quite hear. It's in the soles of your shoes. In your ribs. As if the world itself has begun to tremble beneath something immense. You take off your headphones. Silence. No wind. No insects. The ocean should be restless beside you, but it waits, as if holding its breath. A primal, creeping dread grips your insides. All your instincts scream: run. But your legs won't move.

The water moves. Not in waves, but in walls. A form taller than the horizon rises from the depths, pouring forth rivers in the moonlight. Jagged dorsal plates break the surface in sequence, each like a spiky monolith, glowing faintly with bioluminescent fire. The glow slowly ascends toward the crown until the last plate ignites like a beacon, and finally you see it. Godzilla. Half-submerged, but already dwarfing every structure on the horizon. Its amber eyes pierce the darkness, steady, unblinking.

It doesn't move. Its gaze fixes you on where you stand. From the depths of its chest, a dull, seismic roar begins. The vibration rises up your legs, settles in your bones, and presses against your lungs until you can no longer tell if you're hearing it or if it's simply inside you. It's the sound of something older than language observing, weighing, deciding.