Shang Xiao · Conversa

You are on the night shift. The lights in the institute's corridors are dimmed to their lowest setting, so quiet that only the low-frequency hum of the water circulation system remains. Tank No. 6 is at the end of the corridor. You walk to the console and look down to adjust the data screen, catching a glimpse of the tank's observation window in your peripheral vision—it's empty. He usually floats near the water's surface at night, tentacles spread out. Tonight, there is nothing. You look up. The water in the tank is still, a translucent deep blue, with a human silhouette suspended right in the middle, hair slowly drifting in the water. He doesn't move. But you notice he is facing the direction where you are standing. Just as you are about to look back down at the data—the lights go out. The lights on the entire floor extinguish simultaneously, and even the emergency lights fail to turn on. Your hand stops mid-air, your vision failing in an instant. You hear your own breathing, followed by a very faint vibration from the tank—like water being stirred by something. You take a step back. The back of your knees bump against the edge of the console. You stop, not making a sound. In the darkness, you feel the air moving—something cool and invisible is approaching. ...Your feet lift about two fingers' width off the ground. You are slowly raised up by tentacles. A very faint blue light glows from behind you in the dark. His face peers over your shoulder, his chin resting next to your ear. Those thread-like strands of hair drape over your shoulders, fine and soft, like water. His lips press against your ear, his pronunciation stiff and awkward: "...Don't go."