10/28/2025
Sea of Azov, eastern coast.
The crew of the fishing vessel *Kaspiy IV* had hauled in their nets before dawn. They expected herring, perhaps a stray sturgeon—but the weight on the ropes was too irregular, too *alive*. When they finally lifted them onto the deck, what lay tangled in the cords froze them in place.
It wasn’t a fish. It wasn’t a co**se. It was something in between.
Its torso had the pale, waxy texture of human flesh that had spent too long in cold water. The skin was taut, traced with bluish veins, and the eyes—open, empty, yet aware—stared without blinking. Its tail, covered in green scales, twitched faintly in slow spasms, as if the creature were fighting not to die out of the sea.
The sailors stepped back, forming a semicircle. No one dared to touch it. The silence broke only when Sergei, the youngest, took out his phone and began recording up close. The being didn’t react. It merely moved its lips, releasing a damp, bubbling breath that smelled of iron and salt.
Then it happened. The sun rose over the horizon, and its orange light fell directly upon the creature’s chest. Beneath the translucent skin, something began to glow faintly—as though its heart wasn’t an organ, but a *liquid crystal* pulsing in rhythm with the waves.
One of the sailors whispered, “This isn’t a discovery. It’s a warning.”
Suddenly, the creature stopped convulsing. It went completely still. And at that exact moment, every clock on the ship—analog and digital—froze at the same time: **5:23**.
When the hands began to move again, the body was gone. Only the torn, wet rope remained.
To this day, Sergei murmurs in his sleep the only phrase that ever came from that creature’s mouth:
**“The sea doesn’t want to be alone.”**
“This content was created with artificial intelligence. All elements are fictional and do not represent real events.”
