Strawberries. Everyone loves them. You love them, the sea lions beg for them, and even your colleagues steal them from your massive zip-lock bag in the lunchroom fridge, not bothering to hide their snacking from you.
"I just don't understand how she can live so far away yet still manage to breathe down my neck," you mutter, absentmindedly throwing Sam another piece of cut-up strawberry.
He catches it effortlessly with his mouth, and you lean your elbows on the slab of cement as you look down at them. The other sea lion, Ila, watches you with pleading eyes, and so you toss her a piece as well.
"I guess I shouldn't complain too much; without her, I wouldn't have gotten to know your pretty faces." Sam makes a sound you've come to recognize as pleased, and you almost think that he understands and appreciates your compliment.
You smile towards him, but that smile soon falters as a strange feeling creeps up your spine.
It's been a few weeks since you, undoubtedly thanks to your mother, landed the internship at Namjoon's lab, and you honestly couldn't be happier. When she mentioned that the handsome son of one of her colleagues had a spot open at his marine lab, you understandably jumped at the opportunity.
You didn't know the man, but apparently, you shared an interest in marine life even if he turned out to be a bit more successful, owning a highly regarded research and rehab center, and you... well, you enjoyed watching documentaries about the deep blue from the comfort of your couch.
Still, Namjoon prioritized your easy-going personality and your willingness to learn over actual experience and welcomed you with a warm smile. And you certainly don't regret applying!
It's a thousand times more interesting than you could've ever imagined, and the creatures kept in the large building fascinate you beyond belief.
Your duties include cleaning and assisting the keepers and scientists, and about once a week, give a class of visiting kids a tour of the place. It's not too long ago that you were cleared to hold the tour yourself, but it has quickly become one of your favorite things to do. Besides, it's pretty straightforward; show a few of the predetermined tanks and enclosures, stop by a lab, and inform the wide-eyed kids of the importance of keeping trash out of the oceans.
And although the days are long, you don't mind it, more often than not staying later than you need to. On top of everything, you've also made a few really good friends! Namjoon you don't see much of, but Hoseok, Taehyung, and Jimin already have their own designated place in your heart—Hoseok especially.
He's a scientist, like a real one, and he usually keeps himself busy in the lab lab, doing experiments and other things you assume scientists do. He even wears a fancy white lab coat.
Taehyung and Jimin are responsible for the animals' daily care, flexing their degrees in biology and zoology to feed them, make sure they're happy and healthy, and keep their homes clean.
They aren't the cuddliest, you have to admit, but there's always a sense of calm embracing you as you observe the fish through the glass. The same reason there's always fish tanks at the dentist, you guess.
And some creatures speak to you more than others. There are two sea otters and three seals, all of which were seized from neglecting civilians and which were either too old or not healthy enough to be let back out into the wild.
Some of them are pretty curious and fun to be around, but your favorite place in the entire building is by far by the sea lion's enclosure. Sam and Ila are retired entertainers who came to the lab from a marine theme park where they used to perform at shows. They're the most social out of the animals, having been raised and trained by humans.
In fact, you love them so much that everyone could have gone home—your own shift having ended hours ago—and yet you'll stay behind, talking to Sam and Ila. You've discovered that they like it when you sing to them, your quiet melodies traveling through the empty premises.
You aren't actually allowed inside any enclosures when you stay behind like this, so you settle for leaning on the concrete wall to look down at them.
Tonight, when you've once again stayed behind and are tossing Sam and Ila some strawberries for listening to you vent about your smothering mother and how distant and busy your colleagues have been lately, the feeling creeps up your back.
Someone's watching you.
You look around, but there's no one in sight. The last person left an hour ago, and the cleaners don't arrive until early morning. Sam and Ila have been in front of you, and the other enclosures aren't close enough for you to see them. Or, well, for them to see you.
Except one.
The lab is basically a colossal circle: two half-circle rooms back-to-back in the middle, a broad hallway around them, and countless doors and fences on the outer perimeter.
Behind the doors are storage and lab rooms, as well as a lunchroom next to the main exit, and the different types of fences (mostly concrete semi walls or glass) lead into the animals' enclosures, most of them lowered into the ground.
Some of the wide enclosures are beneath a retractable roof, which means that the animals inside get to breathe fresh air during the day, a fact that makes you feel better about them being in captivity. It's almost as if they're outside, and there's a high barb-wire fence around the building, protecting it from intruders.
The lights that illuminate the corridors are run by sectional sensors. Make no movement for half an hour, and the light will flicker off, something that goes practically unnoticed during the busy days. They only read the corridor, and every small section has its own, which means that the animals don't trigger them, and if you remain in one place for a long time and you're the only one in the facility, you'll be surrounded by dark sectors.
Like you are now.
You turn your head to look behind you. The location of the sea lions' enclosure puts you right out of the next sensor's reach, and thus, you're right at the edge where light meets dark. But the existing light is enough to show you something you'd missed when you arrived with your bag of strawberries.
The door to one of the middle rooms is open, its foldable door stopper down and keeping it ajar. Through the opening, and thanks to the angle, you're able to discern a large, dark mass.
The tank.
It's the biggest one that the building has. Since it's inside one of the middle rooms, and not on the outer part of the circle, it isn't built into the ground, and the roof isn't retractable. It's enormous, appearing to be made out of glass—however, you know it's something a lot more robust. You've only seen it once, briefly shown to you during your welcome-tour of the place, and no one ever speaks about it since it's supposedly void of anything living.
You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the unnerving feeling. Nothing's in the tank, you know that, but it's still filled with water, just like when you first saw it all those weeks ago.
Back then, you remember there being so much water that you couldn't see through it. It was kind of dirty, left that way since its last inhabitant moved out. No one ever talked about it, just told you to stay away, so you figured it wasn't weird that it hadn't been drained yet. After all, trying to imagine how many liters of murky water contained there only made your brain hurt, so emptying it must be a hassle.
The thing is that you're not supposed to be able to see the tank. The door, through which you currently observe a sliver of it, should be closed. Locked.
To get inside the room, you need a keycard—which you have. You assume that the tank used to house a dangerous animal—you'd heard the talks—and when you came along and the animal was already gone, no one bothered to double-check that your card couldn't access it.
Or at least that's what you tell yourself as you stand at the open door, keycard held against the green-flashing monitor.
You could have simply walked through the propped-up door, but if you're really going to do this, it feels better to know that you actually have access—even if it's a faulty one.
Peering inside the room for the first time in weeks, you realize that you hadn't remembered much, opting to memorize more essential things during your first tour than a room you'd never be in again.
It's dark; the only real light is the one trickling in from behind you and turning your form into a long shadow on the floor. Most of the space available is used up by the tank due to the size of it, but the walls around it are occupied by white shelves, cabinets, sinks, and lab equipment.
Stepping closer, it becomes apparent that you're already at the bottom of the tank; it doesn't venture below the floor like the sea lions' and seals' enclosures do. It's more like an aquarium in that sense, you suppose. You can, however, walk around it, up some stairs that twist around the incredibly large, somewhat circular tank, and onto a platform that meets the surface.
You also notice that a partial reason as to why the water seems so dark, except for the sheer magnitude of it, its murkiness, and the lack of light, is that the walls are only partly see-through. The opposite side—the part of the wall that's underneath the platform—is covered by tarp, probably to hide the structure needed for the stairs and platform itself.
The eerie feeling of being watched remains as you step inside the room fully. You don't know if the temperature in the room is lower than outside it or if it just feels colder, but goosebumps break out on your skin, and a chill runs down your spine. It's certainly a fitting room to house a dangerous animal simply for the creepy atmosphere, and you avoid looking at the water through the glass, half expecting some glowing eyes to appear and scare you shitless.
You can't help but wonder what the tank is made for, if it's made for something specific or just a general kind of tank. Your wide eyes flicker over the mass of water and upwards to what you see of the surface, which isn't much.
The tank has to be four times your height, water-filled to the platform at three fourths. It at least calms you to see that the water is entirely still, confirming your guess that it is most likely void of any living thing. If there was something alive in there, it would cause waves and ripples.
You know that you should probably turn around and leave, but you don't know when the next opportunity will arise. Sure, you have your keycard, but you don't know if someone can tell which cards have opened which door, and you've used yours already. Maybe the access will have been revoked by the time you arrive tomorrow?
So you do what you shouldn't and look around just to be absolutely sure before you walk around to the stairs.
With one hand on the railing, since it is kinda dark, you ascend the steps one at a time until you've reached the platform. Your feet stop before it, not actually stepping onto it in case it's not even functional, and you end up in the water to drown, leaving whoever arrives first in the morning to find you.
Instead, you stay on the last step of the stairs, hand never leaving the steel banister as your eyes gaze over the water. Crazy how you're unable to see deeper than probably a few centimeters, darkness taking over completely.
Suddenly there's movement.
Something is moving in the water, enough to cause small waves. Frozen, you stare at the surface, heart beating erratically as your brain circles through all kinds of scenarios where you get eaten by marine carnivores before you finally turn on your heel to almost throw yourself down the stairs and out of the room.
Most likely, you're being ridiculous, but you've also seen an insane amount of scary movies, enough to feed your paranoia for three lifetimes. Yeah, there probably isn't a shark in the tank or some sort of monster that could jump up and grab you, but it could be something like... an alligator? Gosh, that one hadn't even crossed your mind. You're lucky to still be alive, you guess, as you lock up and leave the building to head home.