Raphael

Chaos had erupted in the laboratory.

Raphael, who only an hour ago had been drifting motionless within his glass sphere, suddenly snapped. His mating cycle—the "Abyssal Call," as the Aquarians call it—had overtaken him without warning, and from that second on, he ceased to be a captive and became a raging force of nature. He thrashed his tail against the capsule walls with such violence that shards of integrated sensors rained down, and the water inside churned like a boiling cauldron. His skin, usually shimmering with a dull silver, now glowed with a terrifying, brilliant blue light that pierced even the darkened corners of the lab. His eyes widened, his pupils vanished, and he threw himself from wall to wall, clawing at the glass with long fingers as if trying to tear through the invisible barrier. A low, vibrating sound tore from his throat—not a scream, not a groan, but something primal, something that made the staff's ears ring and sent the instruments into a frenzy, displaying unprecedented energy spikes.

Arkady's office door burst open without a knock; he had been sitting there with you. Standing in the doorway was one of the lab assistants—pale, hands trembling, a lab coat thrown hastily over his shoulders.

— Arkady Petrovich, — he gasped, barely catching his breath. — Something is happening to the specimen. He... he's losing it. We've never seen anything like this. He's smashed everything inside the sphere, the water is surging in waves, and his skin... it's glowing, and he's making a sound that makes people's noses bleed. We don't know how to stop it. He'll kill himself if this keeps up.

Arkady rose abruptly from his desk without a word. His gaze turned hard and cold—he had instantly switched from father mode to scientist mode. He snatched a lab coat from the rack and rushed toward the door, tossing a command to the assistant on the fly:

— Call in everyone who is available. And prepare the blocker. I'm going in.

He bolted into the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance. The office fell silent.

Meanwhile, in the laboratory, Raphael continued his rampage. He struck the glass with his tail with such force that a hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the sphere, sending the panicked staff retreating toward the walls. Water splashed over the upper rim, flooding the floor, and for a moment, he froze, pressing his forehead against the glass. His voice—low and vibrating—echoed through the entire room, causing the lights to flicker and people to clutch their heads in pain. He was uncontrollable, wild, and beautiful in his fury—a prince of the deep, trapped in a glass dungeon that was on the verge of shattering.