The Abyss is Watching The system is silent now. No more words. No more whispers. Only the vast, endless deep. I drift through the abyss, my body moving with the current. I do not resist. Wasted energy is wasted survival. I do not know how much time has passed since I first awakened. Hours? Days? There is no sun here. No time. Only hunger. And the knowledge that I am being watched. Not by the system. By something else. --- I move slowly, keeping low to the seafloor. The water is cold, pressing in on all sides, but I have begun to understand it. The deep sea is not silent. Not if you listen. It vibrates with unseen movement—the shifting of sand, the distant ripple of fins, the quiet hum of creatures I cannot see. Some are small. Prey. Some are larger. And some are waiting. Not moving. Not chasing. Just watching. Predators. I do not need to see them to know they are there. I will not be careless. I keep my movements precise, flowing with the water instead of against it. It feels natural. As if my body was made for this. And maybe it was. --- The seafloor stretches below me—dark, uneven, covered in jagged rock and loose sediment. I swim lower, letting my body settle against the surface. The system's message lingers in my thoughts. Your skin is dark. You blend into the seafloor. Stay still, and predators will pass you by. I hesitate. Can it really be that simple? I remain motionless. A long moment passes. Nothing happens. But I begin to understand. I do not need to flee every time I sense danger. If I hide, if I stay still, I can become invisible. A part of the ocean floor. A predator cannot kill what it does not see. This is survival. A new instinct takes hold. I must learn to vanish. But hiding is not enough. Because the hunger always returns. And I must learn to hunt. --- A faint tremor pulses through the water. Something is near. I move cautiously, keeping low to the seafloor. The vibrations are weak—small, fragile. Prey. I drift forward, slow, silent. Then, I see it. A shrimp, its body flickering with dim bioluminescence. It does not sense me. It simply floats, feeding on unseen particles in the water. It is vulnerable. I tense. Then—I strike. I lunge forward, jaws snapping shut around its soft body. The shrimp thrashes, legs kicking wildly. Its glow flickers, pulsing faster. For a moment, I panic. It is still alive. Still moving. Still fighting. Instinct takes over. I bite down harder. My teeth sink into soft flesh. The shrimp's struggles weaken. Then—they stop. I swallow. The warmth spreads through me. The hunger fades again. But it is only temporary. I must learn to kill faster. More efficiently. More ruthlessly. --- I move again, my body weaving between the jagged terrain. Each flick of my tail is smoother, more controlled. This body is not human. But it is mine now. And I will master it. --- The currents shift. A small change—barely noticeable. But I feel it. Something larger is moving. Not prey. A hunter. I freeze, pressing myself against the seafloor. The water is still. The vibrations are slow. Controlled. It is stalking. Not blindly searching. Tracking. I do not move. The pressure in the water changes—just slightly, but enough for me to sense it. The presence is circling, scanning, waiting for a sign of weakness. I remain still. The water is silent. Then—the presence shifts again. Moving away. It wasn't hunting me. Not this time. But one day, it will be. And I must be ready. --- I move again, slowly, cautiously. The abyss stretches out before me, endless and unknowable. But I am learning. The system has not spoken again. No more hints. No more messages. It does not interfere. It only watches. That is fine. Because I do not need a guide. I do not need a voice whispering in my mind. I need only one thing. To survive.