Ayame's vision flickered, her internal systems flashing an overload warning.
The shark's bloodshot eyes glared at her through the cracked glass of the tunnel, the fractures spiderwebbing wider with each thrash. Water surged across the floor, small fish flopping helplessly at her feet. Ayame drew a deep breath—or rather, mimicked one, her programming emulating human habits to steady her thoughts in a crisis. A humanoid didn't need to breathe, but the gesture helped her focus.
"Priorities first," she muttered. "Animal safety, structural integrity, and… finding the cause."
Her fingers flew across the device strapped to her arm. Though the external signal still interfered with her systems, she tapped into the aquarium's partially functional network and activated an emergency lockdown protocol. Steel barriers began descending around the shark tunnel to contain the creature's rampage. But before they could fully close, the shark made one final, desperate charge.
The glass shattered, unleashing a torrent of water into the corridor.
Ayame braced against the flood, her waterproof frame holding steady under the pressure. The real threat was the shark. Now free, it surged through the corridor, jaws gaping, teeth glinting as it bore down on her. Her programming forbade harming the animals, but self-defense was permitted. She darted back, grabbing an emergency net gun from a nearby wall.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the shark. "I don't want to hurt you."
She fired. The net enveloped the shark, tangling its thrashing body and slowing it momentarily. But the creature's strength was immense, and the net began to tear. Buying herself seconds, Ayame sprinted toward another corridor, the eerie voice still echoing in her mind.
"Set them free, Ayame. They're trapped in cages."
"Shut up!" she snapped. "Are you the one doing this?"
Her words were swallowed by the aquarium's reverberating chaos.
She decided to head back to the control room. The root of this madness lay in that external signal. If she could block the hack and reboot the system, she might stop the animals' frenzy. But the corridors were a nightmare—jellyfish floated through the air, shrimp skittered across the floor, and in the distance, the octopus's tentacles slithered free from its tank.
It was as if the entire aquarium had risen in revolt.
Reaching the control room, Ayame dove for the main console. But the monitors displayed something impossible.
Not the familiar tank feeds, but a vision of a dark, endless ocean floor.
Massive shadows writhed in the depths, an unseen force pulsing through the scene. Ayame's systems flagged another error—an image her database couldn't identify. It was as if someone had hijacked her visual module directly.
"What… is this?" she whispered, frozen.
Then, the console's speakers crackled, and the voice returned, clearer now, laced with a mocking edge.
"They heard the ocean's call, Ayame. You wouldn't understand, but they've remembered what freedom feels like."
"The ocean's call?" she shouted. "What are you talking about? Fix them—bring them back!"
She slammed commands into the console, reinforcing the system's firewall and tracing the external signal. It wasn't coming from within the aquarium. The source was external, likely near the sea. She pulled up a map, narrowing down the signal's origin. But before she could pinpoint it, a deafening bang shook the control room door.
She spun around. Beyond the door, the octopus's massive tentacles writhed, pounding against the frame. It had escaped its tank entirely, slithering through the flooded corridors to reach her.
Ayame locked the door, but the tentacles' force began to buckle the metal. She worked faster, activating the aquarium's emergency traps. A surge of electricity coursed through the corridor, stunning the octopus into stillness—for now. Her time was running out.
The signal trace completed.
The source was hundreds of meters offshore, deep on the ocean floor. Her database held no record of any structure or transmitter in that location. But Ayame knew. Something inexplicable was out there, driving the animals to madness.
"I have to go," she said, hesitating. "But… how?"
She was an aquarium management humanoid, not designed for operations beyond these walls. Yet to save the animals, she had to confront the source directly. She rummaged through the control room's emergency supplies, pulling out a waterproof suit and a compact diving apparatus meant for human staff. Her frame could handle them.
As she suited up, preparing to exit through the aquarium's rear door to the sea, the lights flickered violently, and every monitor went black. In the darkness, her sensors detected a new tremor. The shark had torn through the net and was closing in on the control room. Ayame's grip tightened on the diving gear, her resolve hardening.
"I won't give up," she said, her voice steady. "I'll save them."
With that, she ran for the rear exit. The dark, waiting sea loomed ahead.