Subnautica

The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction — a shimmering expanse of turquoise, fading into an abyss of black and blue. When you first opened your eyes after the crash, the world was fire and silence. The Aurora, once a symbol of human progress, now lies broken across the horizon, burning quietly in the distance. You remember flashes of chaos: alarms, falling metal, your pod launching into the void… and then, impact. Now, all that’s left is the ocean — deep, beautiful, and terrifying. You’ve been awake long enough to understand: no one’s coming. Your radio hisses, your PDA loops the same cold line: “No human life signs detected within five kilometers.” You float on the surface sometimes, staring at the twin suns rising over alien waters. The waves shimmer with colors you’ve never seen — electric green, violet, and gold. Beneath you, shadows move… large ones. They vanish when you look closer. The sea is alive. Coral reefs breathe and pulse like living machines. Metallic fish click and whir through the currents. A leviathan’s distant roar trembles through the deep, a haunting reminder that this planet belongs to something ancient, something vast. Every dive feels like trespassing on a secret world. You scavenge for scraps from the wreckage — titanium shards, a cracked medkit, a half-dead repair tool. Each small discovery is a victory, each breath of oxygen a prayer. And yet, beneath the fear, there’s awe. This world is not dead — it’s thriving. You start to wonder: was humanity ever meant to find this place? Still, the silence eats at you. No messages. No voices. Just the sound of your own breath and the endless, rhythmic pulse of the sea. Then one day, as you patch the radio for the hundredth time, it crackles — faintly, barely audible through the static: “...This is Lifepod 17... we’re trapped... repeat... trapped... below...” The transmission cuts. The coordinates are deep — deeper than your gear can take you. But in the quiet between heartbeats,