The ocean was far too calm.
The boat rocked gently over the waves, the engine idling low, the sky still faintly gray from early morning. Nothing but water in every direction.
Four men.
One mid-sized fishing boat.
And a silence that had lasted far too long.
Captain John stared at the net buoy impatiently.
— Fifteen minutes… — he muttered. — If there's nothing in there, I swear…
Dennis, sitting near the coolers, shrugged.
— Better a little than nothing.
John hauled the net up with irritation. The metal frame scraped against the hull as it rose.
Inside: a few small fish. Insufficient. Ridiculous.
John exhaled sharply, jaw tight.
— This is a joke.
Dennis let out a short laugh.
— Relax, John. At least we're not going back empty.
John slowly turned his head.
— Dennis… your name already sounds small. Don't make it worse.
The silence between them thickened.
Paul, the third deckhand, ignored the tension and prepared another net. He cast it into the sea with automatic precision, then returned to sort the small fish from the first haul.
That's when he felt it.
A smell.
Metallic.
Iron.
Blood.
He frowned.
— You guys smell that?
No one answered.
The scent grew stronger.
And then—
A vibration.
The boat trembled for two or three seconds. Not a wave. Not the engine.
Something passing beneath them.
Paul dropped the fish onto the deck and walked toward the edge.
— Hey! — John shouted. — You gonna leave that crap in the middle?
Paul didn't respond.
He was staring at the water.
And then he saw it.
The ocean surface, a few meters ahead, was stained red.
Not a small patch.
A massive trail, spreading slowly like diluted ink. Pieces floated within it.
Intestines.
Lungs.
Something that looked like… a heart.
Dennis stood up slowly.
— What the hell is that…
John stepped closer.
The blood didn't look like it came from prey.
There was no carcass.
No remains of a normal predator attack.
It was as if something was… dismantling itself while swimming.
Paul felt his stomach twist.
— That's not normal.
A metallic sound rang behind them.
CLANG.
They turned.
The gaff hook — used to haul large fish — was under tension.
Something heavy was caught on it.
Something moving.
Dennis took a step back.
John approached slowly.
What hung there was about five feet long.
But it wasn't a fish.
Not entirely.
Its skin was irregular, split in places as if in constant active decomposition. Sections of the body were torn open, exposing organs that still contracted faintly.
It had no eyes.
In their place, deep dark cavities.
Its mouth was too wide. Unnaturally wide.
And filled with teeth — not arranged like a shark's, but misaligned, multiple rows jutting at wrong angles.
The thing was breathing.
Even exposed.
Even bleeding.
Even open.
A thick fluid dripped onto the deck.
Paul nearly fell backward.
— It's… it's alive…
The creature twisted slightly on the hook.
And a sound escaped it.
Not a roar.
Not a scream.
Something between a submerged resonance and a wet snapping noise.
John finally stepped back.
— Engine. Now. Now!
Dennis ran.
The boat's engine roared to life.
As they turned toward shore, the blood trail behind them seemed to follow the current… as if something much larger lingered below.
Watching.
Hours later.
The boat docked roughly.
Police were called immediately.
The four fishermen were visibly shaken, voices trembling, clothes still stained.
— It wasn't a fish — Paul said. — It wasn't anything from here.
— Its organs were hanging out — Dennis added.
— And that blood in the water… — John shook his head. — It wasn't prey. It was from it.
The officers exchanged glances.
The creature, still contained, was isolated and transferred with extreme caution.
One agent stepped aside and made a call.
— Sir… we found something in the ocean.
Pause.
— No, sir. Not a normal animal.
More silence.
— You need to see this.
Hamilton listened through the phone, his expression hardening with every word.
— Repeat that — he said slowly.
The description continued.
Hamilton closed his eyes for a second.
When he opened them, something had changed.
Not just concern.
Something closer to calculated dread.
— Immediate maximum containment — he ordered. — Full biological isolation.
He hung up slowly.
And stood still.
The problem wasn't just in cities.
Not just on land.
If marine variations existed…
Then there was no boundary.
Hamilton murmured:
— They're adapting.
Cut to the open ocean.
Silence.
And in the dark depths, something enormous moves.
The creature was transported under maximum containment.
Unlike Y119, which remained isolated in a cold metallic wing, the new specimen was placed in an emergency-adapted sector: reinforced walls, floor drainage systems, thermal and electromagnetic sensors distributed throughout.
The containment tank was dry.
Yet the creature breathed.
Or at least… appeared to.
Cataloged as BL0013, it lay laterally on an inclined platform. Dark fluid slowly drained from its partially open body into the lower channels.
Hamilton observed behind reinforced glass.
— How is it breathing? — he asked quietly. — No visible functional gills. Lung tissue exposed.
Michael approached with a modified electromagnetic field sensor.
— Because maybe it doesn't need to breathe conventionally.
He activated the device.
The display nearly saturated.
Maximum spike.
Direct interference.
A high-pitched tone emitted from the device.
— Stable anomalous electromagnetic field — Michael said. — Same pattern as terrestrial demons. But… more concentrated.
Hamilton narrowed his eyes.
— So it's not marine biological mutation.
— No. — Michael studied the readings. — It's demonic adaptation to a marine environment.
BL0013 twitched.
A wet sound escaped its open throat.
A technician stepped back.
— Shouldn't it be weak? — someone murmured.
Michael adjusted his glasses.
— We collected blood samples upon arrival.
Hamilton turned.
— Results?
Data projected on the main screen.
— Based on cellular degradation and anomalous protein structure… we estimate exactly three days and sixteen hours of existence.
Silence.
— Three days? — Hamilton repeated.
— Yes. But not newborn. Neural development is too advanced. Consolidated synapses. Complex reflex response. It was born functional.
Hamilton stared at the creature.
— And it's dying.
— Yes. Structural collapse. It sheds parts of itself. Organs. Tissue. Its metabolism is too unstable to sustain physical form.
Hamilton connected it instantly.
— The blood trail… pieces of it.
— Exactly.
A technician muttered:
— It was literally falling apart while swimming.
BL0013 emitted another sound. Louder.
Its body convulsed.
Hamilton crossed his arms.
— Prepare the X-Fire.
Test Preparation
The team moved with military precision.
Unlike Y119, this required adjustments: BL0013's tissue was wetter, more unstable, and composition varied by region.
Michael personally supervised ammunition calibration.
— First X-Fire had compressed carbon outer coating, micro internal layer. Steel core for stability.
He rotated the projectile carefully.
— Now we know the proportion is more critical than we thought.
The doors opened.
Mark entered with a tablet full of graphs.
— We have an update.
Hamilton looked at him.
— Speak.
New data filled the screen.
— When we mix blood samples from different demons… chemical variations begin to converge.
Michael frowned.
— Converge how?
— There's a specific carbon value that maximizes demonic cellular reaction. The more samples we combine, the more calculations point to the same number.
Hamilton remained still.
— What number?
Mark hesitated.
— It's absurdly specific. Decimal after decimal. Microscopic tolerance. Comparable to Pi precision.
A nervous chuckle from a technician.
— Great. So we just manufacture infinite mathematical precision bullets. Easy.
Mark ignored him.
— Exact carbon mass drastically alters effects.
Hamilton turned to Michael.
— Explain.
Michael inhaled slowly.
— Carbon interferes with regenerative structure. Depending on proportion, it can:
• Drastically reduce cellular regeneration
• Attract and concentrate blood vessels at impact point, increasing hemorrhage
• Destabilize the energetic field sustaining physical form
• Partially absorb superficial tissue, creating localized necrosis
He paused.
— The closer we get to that ideal value… the more intense and simultaneous these effects become.
Hamilton analyzed the data.
— How viable is hitting that number?
Michael sighed faintly.
— Extremely difficult. Industrial replication at that tolerance borders on impossible. Even slight deviation changes behavior.
A technician summarized quietly:
— So we're hurting them… but not truly wounding them yet.
BL0013 suddenly convulsed.
Its body arched.
An exposed organ pulsed violently.
Sensors triggered alarms.
Hamilton made his decision.
— Develop a new X-Fire version.
He stepped closer to the glass.
— If carbon alone weakens them… we'll force mathematics to our advantage.
Michael nodded.
— An evolved version.
— Exactly.
BL0013 opened its too-wide mouth.
The sound that came out was like a submerged echo fused with something electrical.
Hamilton didn't look away.
— If there are demons on land… and now in the ocean… — he murmured. — Then we need weapons that function in any environment.
The camera slowly pulls back from the isolation wing.
The electromagnetic sensor continues to spike.
And as the team begins developing a new round, the marine creature pulses one last time, as if something inside it reacts to the name they gave it.