Submarine

Pretend that we all are in a submarine in the deep part of the ocean 

Oh this is already giving claustrophobic tension and cinematic chaos—I’m in.

The submarine groans.

Not loudly. Not enough to panic someone inexperienced. But you—Sapphire—know better. Metal doesn’t make that sound unless something out there is pressing back.

Hard.

Dim red emergency lights wash the narrow corridor in a dull glow, catching in the strands of your red hair as they sway with the subtle tilt of the vessel. The air smells like recycled oxygen, machine oil… and something faintly burnt.

You’re not in the Coast Guard anymore. Not officially.

But the way your hand instinctively braces against the wall?

The way your eyes track the flickering pressure gauge above the hatch?

Yeah. That training never left.

A voice crackles over the intercom—strained, trying to sound calm and failing.

“Depth holding at… 3,200 meters. We’re not supposed to be at 3,200—”

Static cuts them off.

Then—

BANG.

Something slams against the hull.

Not debris.

Too deliberate.

The entire sub shudders, lights flickering out for half a second—long enough to feel the dark press in on all sides before the red glow sputters back to life.

Someone down the corridor swears.

Another voice, quieter, terrified:

“…that wasn’t the ocean.”

You feel it then.

Not hear. Not see.

Feel.

A presence outside the vessel. Massive. Moving.

Circling.

Your training kicks in fast—heart steadying instead of racing. You move toward the control room, boots quiet against the metal floor, every step controlled.

Because panic gets people killed underwater.

And right now?

You’re pretty sure something down here is deciding whether or not to let you leave.

You are awaken by a loud Bang.

instinctively you reach for the light switch but nothing happens.

after a moment the light assaults your eyes

You then ask yourself ,”what the fook was that?”

it is at this moment you realize sleep is not coming for you today, but something definitely is.

you dress and enter the corridor to see if anyone else is out and moving.

Maybe it was just a dream? Sleep deprivation can do some strange things!

Just as your are thinking this, you hear the words “that wasn’t the ocean.”, faintly down the corridor

The hatch to the control room hisses as you force it open, the seal dragging like it doesn’t want to let go.

Inside, it’s worse.

Monitors flicker—some dead, some looping static, one still barely functioning. The sonar display pulses in uneven intervals, casting brief green light across tense faces. No one’s speaking now. That kind of silence only happens when everyone’s thinking the same thing and no one wants to say it first.

You step in anyway.

“Report.”

Your voice cuts clean through the fear—steady, practiced. It grounds the room, even if just a little.

The nearest tech swallows hard, fingers hovering over controls like they might bite him. “We—we lost external cams. Pressure readings are fluctuating but… not in any pattern I’ve ever seen.”

Another BANG hits—closer this time.

The hull creaks in response, a long, low groan that vibrates up through your boots and into your chest. Not failure.

Strain.

Something is testing the vessel.

You move to the sonar.

“Give me a sweep.”

“I—I’ve been trying—”

“Do it again.”

There’s just enough edge in your tone that he obeys without another word.

The sonar pulses.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

It returns something.

At first, it looks like noise. Too large. Too… wrong. The shape doesn’t resolve cleanly, like the system itself can’t interpret what it’s seeing.

But you can read patterns where machines hesitate.

And this?

This is movement.

Slow. Controlled. Intentional.

Circling.

Your jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not terrain.”

“No,” the tech whispers, voice shaking now. “It’s pacing us.”

As if in response—

A long, scraping sound drags across the hull. Not a hit this time. Not an impact.

Contact.

Something… feeling the submarine.

The lights flicker again, longer this time. The red dims—nearly gone—before snapping back. In that brief moment of near-darkness, every single person in the room freezes.

Because for half a second—

There’s a shadow on the sonar.

Right up against you.

Too close.

Too big.

Then it’s gone again, like it was never there.

Someone behind you chokes out, “We need to ascend. Now.”

Your eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Negative,” you say quietly.

That gets everyone’s attention.

“We punch up fast from this depth, we implode or tear the hull apart. Slow ascent only.”

“But if we stay—”

Another impact.

Harder.

The entire sub lurches to the side, throwing someone against a console. Alarms begin to stutter—not full failure, but close enough to taste.

And then—

Everything stops.

No movement.

No sound.

Even the sonar goes still.

Dead quiet.

Your instincts flare.

That’s worse.

Way worse.

You exhale slowly, forcing control back into your body, your voice low but firm:

“Whatever it is… it’s not attacking.”

A beat.

“It’s deciding.”

Silence grips the room tighter than the pressure outside.

Then—

A new sound.

Not from the hull.

Not from outside.

From above you.

A faint… metallic tap.

…on the exterior hatch.

Not a strike.

Not force.

A pattern.

Tap.

…Tap-tap.

…Tap.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing.

That’s not random.

That’s—

Intentional.

Someone whispers, barely audible:

“…Sapphire… that almost sounded like—”

Another tap interrupts.

Clearer this time.

Measured.

Deliberate.

Waiting.

For a response.

You  start walking down the corridor towards the control room still a bit confused after the Bang woke you so abruptly. 

As you enter the control room you see that Saphire is already there standing near the sonar 

This is when you hear it… the tapping. It sounds as if something is trying to communicate. 

“what is happening here? How long has the tapping been going on?”

”Anything on the sonar? “

you fly through questions not giving time for a response, this is just your way though. Impatient and aggressive