The interior of the black submarine felt less like a vehicle and more like a pressurized throat, swallowed whole by the Pacific. The walls, sheathed in a matte-carbon finish, vibrated with a low-frequency hum that vibrated the very teeth in Maya’s jaw. Every flicker of the dashboard's blue HUD reflected in Arkan’s eyes—eyes that remained fixed on the crushing abyss outside the viewport.
“Arkan, stop. Stop the ship. Stop everything!” Maya’s voice was high, frayed by the edge of insanity. She clutched the back of Arkan’s pilot chair, her knuckles bone-white. “What did you say back there? I don't have a sister! I’m an only child! You’re losing your mind, the bunker—the blast, it fried your brain!”
Arkan didn't turn his head. He didn't even blink. His fingers moved across the glass controls
