The notification blinked on Kael’s screen at 3:00 AM: .

He tried to push back from his desk, but his fingers felt webbed, his heavy limbs moving as if through high-pressure depths. On the screen, a line of text appeared in the classic Papyrus font:

In the dark of his apartment, a low, rhythmic pulsing began to emanate from his speakers—not the sound of a glitch, but the heavy, muffled thrum of underwater breathing. A faint scent of salt spray and crushed tropical lilies filled the room.

“The way of water has no beginning and no end. You wanted to see our world? Now, you will breathe it.”

When the screens snapped back to life, they didn't show a video player. Instead, his webcam feed was active. Kael stared in horror as the motion-tracking software began to warp his reflection in real-time. His skin deepened to a shimmering cerulean; his eyes widened into glowing amber orbs.