Lansi's previous work had involved engineering. Flipping rapidly through the technical blueprints and classified documents scattered across the desk, his professional experience allowed him to instantly construct a 3D model of the finished project within his mind—
He unexpectedly discovered that this massive construction effort was a calculated attempt to covertly transform the military lighthouse into a high-security, inescapable prison.
This realization sent a violent jolt of panic straight through Lansi's chest. He quickly grabbed Winsor's arm, trying to drag the dark merman back toward the exit. As he hauled him along, he hissed in a frantic, hushed whisper:
"Move, move, move! If we stay inside here a second longer, we are literally walking straight into a snare!"
Their reckless decision to sneak inside this fortress was looking more and more like a textbook death wish.
To put it into perspective—
The current situation was exactly as if a veteran hunter had constructed a lethal cage in the middle of the woods and then temporarily stepped away.
While the hunter was gone, a random wild rabbit happened to hop past. But instead of running away, this incredibly idiotic rabbit became profoundly curious about the half-finished trap. In order to figure out exactly how the mechanisms worked, the stupid rabbit voluntarily crawled inside the cage all by itself.
It was a spectacularly foolish move.
"This cage wasn't designed to catch me," Winsor noted, bringing their frantic retreat to a sudden halt. Ignoring Lansi's deeply bewildered, suspicious glare, a thoughtful, calculating expression washed over his features. "Tell me... aren't you even a little bit curious as to why someone would deliberately assassinate the mastermind spearheading this entire operation?"
"...Well, yes," Lansi admitted reluctantly. He couldn't help but follow Winsor's piercing gaze, his eyes landing squarely on the blood-soaked corpse of the lead military doctor slumped over the side of the desk.
If an unknown third party had gone out of their way to execute the director of this classified prison project, it heavily implied that the killer's objectives aligned, intentionally or not, with Winsor's side.
Yet, as far as the world was concerned, the only individuals currently fighting on Winsor's side within the human Alliance and the survivors were Karl and Rose.
And it was glaringly obvious that neither Karl nor Rose could possibly be on this isolated northern island.
So, who exactly had infiltrated this high-security bunker and slaughtered the project director?
The murderer clearly possessed a desperate desire to halt the prison's construction—but what was their ultimate endgame in stopping it?
"Hey, let's not overthink the lore right now! We need to leave, fast!" Lansi urged. After racking his brain for a few seconds without finding a single logical clue, he threw his hands up. He didn't care about the mystery; he just wanted to pull Winsor out of this death trap and stop wasting precious time.
After all, according to the standard rules of suspense thrillers, if a patrol squad busted through that door right now, the two of them would instantly be framed as the killers who murdered the doctor.
Seriously, since this bloody mess had absolutely nothing to do with them, their best move was to run away immediately.
If their life was a video game, Lansi felt like they hadn't even finished progressing through the main storyline, yet they had inexplicably sprinted across the map to trigger a terrifying, high-level side quest.
Seeing Lansi spiraling into such a frantic state, Winsor gently patted his head, asking with a look of genuine, dark amusement: "Are you truly not the slightest bit curious about the identity of the executioner?"
Lansi was so thoroughly exasperated by the question that his face contorted into a grimace of pure, indignant fury.
Their overarching genre was supposed to be a breezy, romantic highway road trip! Why on earth were they suddenly pivoting into a psychological horror detective novel?!
"Why are you so aggressively against leaving?!" Lansi demanded, crossing his arms as he delivered a soul-searching interrogation.
"Perhaps... because I am genuinely curious to see just how clever you can be when backed into a corner?" Winsor tilted his head, a faint, teasing smile playing on his lips.
"So, if we figure out who the murderer is, we can finally leave?" Lansi countered sharply.
"Yes," Winsor readily conceded. He was thoroughly enjoying the chaotic expressions crossing Lansi's face, completely at leisure to tease his little fish even while standing in a literal crime scene.
Lansi shot Winsor a look of profound, unadulterated contempt.
*He's really treating this like a cozy detective mystery.*
`[Clownfish, go ask 'Dory' who killed this guy,]` Lansi muttered deadpan. He hoisted the heavy glass container up to eye level, directing his question straight at the orange fish floating inside.
Winsor: `...`
How could anyone possibly attempt deductive reasoning like this?
`[Oh, that's easy to solve!]` the clownfish barked back instantly.
The clownfish was thoroughly invested now. It absolutely thrived in high-stakes, chaotic environments, so it fluidly spun around in its enclosure and began aggressively interrogating Dory.
Dory was a stunningly vibrant Regal Blue Tang, a species frequently prized as an exotic ornamental fish.
As fate would have it, she had been captured by the facility's personnel to serve as a decorative piece for the lead doctor's office. It was a bizarre stroke of luck; though she had violently stripped of her freedom, being placed inside a purified aquarium allowed her to completely bypass the lethal, toxic black water choking the outer reef. Furthermore, her captivity granted her an absolute front-row, VIP seat to a brutal murder. She had witnessed the entire execution with her own two eyes.
The critical, looming issue now was whether this real-world Dory suffered from the same crippling three-second memory capacity as her animated Pixar counterpart.
Fortunately, the mutated marine life of this post-apocalyptic world operated under entirely different biological rules. The clownfish had already verified this fact, and Dory was about to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Since Lansi lacked the innate ability to comprehend the localized acoustic frequencies used by non-sea-monster marine life, he had to completely rely on the clownfish to act as his translator.
Thus, Lansi watched in absolute fascination as the clownfish pressed against the glass, firing off an intense flurry of rhythmic bubbles at Dory. In response, the naturally skittish Blue Tang—who had been desperately trying to play dead just a moment prior—began frantically blowing bubbles of her own.
Biologically speaking, a fish's face is entirely devoid of complex muscular structure, meaning it should be anatomically impossible for them to manifest distinct facial expressions like a human. Yet, Dory's non-verbal cues were extraordinarily rich. Coupled with her two tiny pectoral fins thrashing wildly up and down to punctuate her story, the entire underwater display looked exactly like a vintage cartoon.
Lansi stared blankly at the two fish communicating, a dazed, nostalgic expression crossing his face. *It turns out those animated movies from my childhood were actually documenting documentary-level realities.*
"That fish—the one you've taken the liberty of naming 'Dory'—is already on the absolute precipice of evolving into a higher sea monster," Winsor murmured, stepping up to Lansi's side. He had been quietly observing the entire frantic exchange with immense relish, casually providing the metaphysical explanation for the Blue Tang's uncharacteristically high intelligence.
`[Alright, the debrief is complete!]`
The moment Dory ceased her relentless stream of bubbles, the clownfish gently tapped its flank against her glass partition to soothe her frazzled nerves, bringing the underwater summit to an end.
The clownfish swam back to the transparent boundary of its container, addressing the two giant mermen standing outside:
`[Dory claims that the human currently slumped over the desk was attacked by his permanent 'friend.' The guy had been lingering in this office the entire time.]`
To a fish's cognitive understanding, abstract human concepts like "firearms" didn't exist, nor could they easily differentiate between specific human facial structures. They could only paint a broad, visceral picture of the event based on physical proximity.
Lansi and Winsor exchanged a sharp, knowing glance. Lansi leaned down, probing further: `[Why exactly does she refer to the killer as his 'friend'?]`
The clownfish aggressively wagged its orange tail, its translated tone ringing with a stark, naive simplicity: `[Dory says it's because the two of them were literally inseparable before this happened. If two humans are constantly glued to each other's sides, doesn't that automatically make them 'friends'?]`
*No, no, definitely not. There are plenty of terrifying corporate or toxic dynamics that look exactly like that,* Lansi muttered under his breath. He pressed on: `[Where did this 'friend' go after pulling the trigger?]`
`[They vanished,]` the clownfish relayed, gesturing sharply toward the heavy security door with its right pectoral fin. `[Dory says she watched the person literally evaporate into thin air the second they crossed that threshold.]`
Lansi retracted his gaze from the container, his engineering brain instantly shifting into analytical mode as he looked up at Winsor.
"According to the fish's testimony, it is highly probable that the individual who executed the doctor was his own research assistant. Under standard military laboratory protocols, an assistant and the lead director are practically joined at the hip. Yet, we only have the doctor's corpse in this room, the assistant is nowhere to be found, and the main security door was left wide open when we snuck inside."
Lansi gestured toward the bloody desk, concluding confidently: "There is only one logical explanation that fits the data. The assistant murdered the doctor, ransacked the files, and made a run for it."
Lansi laid out his deduction to Winsor, then immediately scooped up the heavy glass container housing both the clownfish and Dory, determined to make their grand exit.
However, before Lansi's boots could even clear the threshold of the office door, a deafening, synchronized siren violently erupted across the entire island:
"WUUUUU—"
The sharp, shrieking alarms sliced through the sky, causing Lansi's heart to leap violently into his throat.
"It appears they have officially detected that someone is attempting a premature departure," Winsor remarked. His voice remained entirely calm and unhurried. Unlike Lansi, who looked ready to combust from the sheer stress, the dark merman was the absolute picture of serenity. He casually strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling glass observation window, peering down at the sprawling base below.
Inside the converted naval lighthouse, the lead doctor's private quarters occupied the highest altitude, offering a flawless, sweeping view of the entire island.
Winsor's cold gaze swept past the heavily fortified perimeter walls, watching a frantic battalion of armed patrol guards sprinting at full military speed toward the docks not far away.
Standing paralyzed at the doorway, Lansi watched the blood-red emergency strobe lights suddenly flash across his back. He was so incredibly angry he could have exploded.
He marched back into the room, slammed the transparent fish container onto a nearby side table, and stormed right up to Winsor with a thunderous expression.
Winsor turned his head, looking down at the smaller merman beside him. Lansi's cheeks were flushed, his face pouting like a puffed-up bun as he glared up at him in sheer, unadulterated dissatisfaction.
Winsor: "..."
Without a single word of warning, Lansi lunged forward and bit Winsor squarely on the shoulder. He clamped his jaws down with absolute venom. Since there wasn't a layer of real military fabric separating them this time, he knew for a fact that Winsor would actually feel the pinch.
*What on earth is wrong with this god?!* Lansi gritted his teeth furiously. He didn't care if his sharp fangs were considered the weapon of an apex predator in the deep sea; he was entirely determined to teach Winsor a lesson he wouldn't forget.
They could have walked right out of the front door completely unnoticed! But no, Winsor just *had* to insist on playing detective and blending in. And even after blending in, instead of making a swift, logical exit, he just had to stand around and leisurely wait for the base-wide alarms to trigger!
How could anyone take a perfectly winning hand and play it this spectacularly horribly?!
After a brief, amused silence, Winsor helplessly reached up and gently tugged Lansi's hair to coax him off. "Alright, alright. Let us make our departure immediately. No more lingering."
Hearing Winsor finally concede to leaving, Lansi felt so overwhelmed he could have wept tears of relief. He shot Winsor one final, blistering glare, ground his teeth together, and slowly released his bite. As he stepped back, his eyes inadvertently caught the exact spot where he had just sunk his teeth—
The small patch of the Vanguard uniform—which Winsor had manifested out of black mucus—had been torn completely open by the bite, exposing the smooth flesh underneath. But within a fraction of a second, the surrounding fabric seemed to come alive, squirming and knitting itself back together to seamlessly seal the tiny puncture.
Lansi's mind went blank for a second as a sudden realization hit him: *So... Winsor is technically completely naked right now.*
---
In reality, Lansi's deduction had been entirely flawless. It was indeed the research assistant who had executed the doctor.
The assistant had served faithfully at the doctor's side for ten consecutive years. Perhaps because he had spent a decade witnessing horrific, classified anomalies that defied the boundaries of modern science, his rigid belief in numbers, empirical data, and formulas had slowly begun to fracture, leaving him vulnerable to the insidious whispers of metaphysics.
It started with auditory hallucinations. He frequently heard a phantom voice whispering directly into his mind.
Initially, the assistant assumed he was suffering from a severe neurological or psychological disease. He secretly admitted himself to a top-tier military hospital for a comprehensive evaluation. Yet every specialist, including the base's chief psychologists, concluded that his brain scans were perfectly normal and his mental health was pristine.
Despite the clean bill of health, the terrifying whispers in his ears never ceased.
The only saving grace was that the voice didn't plague him constantly. It usually only materialized at critical junctures, subtly questioning his minor laboratory decisions, meaning it didn't completely derail his day-to-day life.
However, from the very moment their deployment arrived on this isolated northern island, the auditory hallucinations mutated, becoming suffocatingly frequent.
Eventually, during a deep sleep a few days prior, the assistant witnessed a cosmic, horrifying landscape that a human mind could scarcely conceive. After engaging in a profound dialogue with the "entity" residing within that dreamscape, the assistant woke up convinced that human civilization was entirely meaningless. The singular, defining purpose of his existence was to execute the grand design of that magnificent voice.
Under the direct instructions of the whispers, the assistant began uncovering the true, classified objective of the lighthouse prison project, actively attempting to steal the master data files to smuggle them off the island.
Tragically, while he was in the middle of downloading the encrypted files today, the doctor had unexpectedly walked in and caught him red-handed.
In a blind, panicked frenzy, the assistant completely forgot the deep, decade-long bond of camaraderie he shared with his mentor. He drew his sidearm and shot the doctor dead on the spot.
However, the auditory hallucinations in the assistant's ears remained. The only good news was that they were not constant, usually only appearing to question his decisions during minor, subtle tasks, which allowed him to maintain a normal life.
But after arriving on this small island, the hallucinations became frequent. Eventually, the assistant saw an unexplainable, cosmic landscape in his sleep. After communicating with the entity in his dream, he became convinced that the world was completely meaningless, and the sole purpose of his existence was to carry out that entity's wishes.
Guided by the voices, the assistant began uncovering the true purpose of the lighthouse project, actively attempting to steal the confidential documents to smuggle them out. Unfortunately, while gathering the files today, he was caught red-handed by the doctor. In a panic, the assistant completely forgot their decade of camaraderie and shot his mentor dead.
The moment the doctor died, the assistant felt no remorse whatsoever. The auditory hallucination in his ear let out a soft chuckle, as if observing the assistant's loyalty through his own eyes, and praised him:
"Good boy. Destroy this place, then bring the papers and come back to me."
The assistant nodded, glanced coldly at the doctor's body, and left the room.
Following the annotations on the structural floor plan, the assistant took a supply of explosives and descended into the basement level of the lighthouse. Many people believed this facility was just a standard marine beacon, but it was actually a highly sophisticated prison built entirely underground.
The chief designer of the facility was Dr. Mourin, who had elevated the project classification to "Top Secret." Each construction crew was only responsible for a specific section of the underground prison and was immediately transferred off the island once their part was finished. Consequently, aside from the doctor who oversaw the entire operation, no one knew the complete interior layout of the prison.
The assistant had only managed to copy a partial map of the complex. Following the schematic, he located a specialized cell. The surrounding structure was heavily reinforced with lead, leaving the interior in absolute darkness.
"It should be here," he muttered.
Not daring to linger for a closer look, the assistant hastily planted the explosives around the cell perimeter. After setting the timer, he turned and fled.
In reality, if the assistant had been more thorough and stepped inside to examine the cell, he would have realized that this reinforced room was merely an outer chamber. Deep within it lay a concealed tunnel leading to a completely hidden, secondary dark room.
As he made his escape, the base-wide sirens began to blare outside. The assistant gritted his teeth, clutched the stolen documents tightly against his chest, and forced himself to keep moving toward the exit, his mind racing with the whispers in his ears.
By the time he finally emerged from the underground complex, his face was pale. Standing at the base of the lighthouse, he looked out at the rows of patrolling Reserve soldiers and guards. He knew that as a member of the research staff, trying to break through a heavily armed military defense and reach the docks to escape on his own was nothing more than a pipe dream.
However, because he was entirely consumed by panic, the assistant failed to notice a hand quietly approaching the back of his neck from the shadows behind him.
"Caught you."
A warm palm suddenly clamped onto the back of the assistant's neck, accompanied by a light, cheerful voice speaking right behind his ear.