The local flora is aggressive. Tube corals pulse with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat—or maybe they’re setting it. I built a small habitat on a thermal vent, using the ship’s emergency fabricator. Each night, I hear singing. Not whales. Not machines. It’s a chorus of vowels that don’t exist in human language, rising from the volcanic trenches.

The crash wasn't an accident. Something pulled us down. The black box screamed for 4.7 seconds about a mass displacement under the hull, then went silent. I ejected in the last hard-pod. The last thing I saw was the V67816 ’s stern, twisted like wet paper, spiraling into an abyss that had no bottom.

We found it.

I choose the deep.

The first thing you learn about 4546B is that the ocean doesn’t care about your survival plan.

My name is Dr. Aris Thorne. Three weeks ago, I was the xenobiologist aboard the research vessel V67816 . We weren't colonists or military. We were scientists, chasing rumors of a life form that could photosynthesize in absolute darkness. A biological miracle.

Now, I float in a sea that breathes.