Chapter 154: Madeline
The sky’s turned a cold, bruised grey by the time we reach the coordinates where we last saw the fin whale. The kind of grey that sinks into your skin, no matter how many layers you’ve got on. My fingers feel stiff inside my gloves, and my cheeks are raw from the wind, but I’m used to this. It’s familiar. Kind of comforting, even.
Reid comes down from the wheelhouse, jacket zipped up to his chin, hair ruffled by the salt air. He doesn’t say much—just that steady, assessing look as he approaches me.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod and adjust my cap. “Yeah. Gonna do a few water tests while you and Jake keep watch.”
He glances toward the sea, then back at me, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s checking for anything off in my voice, my posture. I hold his gaze, smile just enough to reassure him. “I’m okay. Promise.”
Reid nods. “Call me or Liam if you need anything.”
“I will.”
And with that, he turns and climbs back up. I go back to setting up the sensors, adjusting the salinity probe. The wind keeps tangling in the cords. The water’s rougher today, choppier, which will make my readings harder to get right, but whatever—I’ve done this in worse at this point.
Then I hear it—“MADS!”
Liam’s voice, somewhere between a shriek and a war cry.
I drop everything and sprint to him. “What?! What, what is it?”
He’s gripping the railing with white knuckles, eyes huge, jaw slack, pointing out toward the water like he just saw the Kraken rise from the depths. “WHAT. THE FUCK. IS THAT.”
The urgency in his voice makes my heart jump. I rush to the edge, follow his line of sight—and freeze.
A massive grey shadow is gliding just beneath the surface, maybe ten, fifteen feet away. It moves slow. Gentle. Effortless. But it’s huge. Easily eight meters long. Its dorsal fin rises up in a wide arc, thick and almost floppy near the tip.
Jake and Reid must’ve heard Liam’s freakout, because I hear boots rushing above, both of them looking over from the deck, alert.
I laugh—can’t help it.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “That’s a basking shark!”
Liam whips around like I’ve just told him it’s Godzilla’s cousin. “A what?”
“A basking shark! It’s the second-largest shark in the world—right after the whale shark. They’re plankton feeders,” I explain quickly, breath fogging as I talk. “That’s why the mouth’s open. It’s just filter feeding. It swims with its mouth open to catch plankton and small fish. Totally harmless.”
He blinks. “That thing looks like a submarine with no soul. You’re saying it’s harmless?”
I nod, grinning. “Completely.”
“I swear to god it looks like an alien. Or a dinosaur.”
I giggle. “It’s amazing. I’ve never seen one in person before. Not this close.” I want to jump into the water. Or cry. Or both.
Jake leans over the railing above us, his expression amused. Reid’s next to him, hands braced on the rail, watching quietly, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.
Liam shudders dramatically. “Nope. Still creepy. Big nope. Ten outta ten—do not want.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “You’re such a baby.”
“You say that now. Wait until it swims under the boat and we all die mysteriously.”
“Liam, it's a filter feeder. It eats stuff smaller than your fingernail.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t swallow me by accident!”
I’m still laughing as I head back to my equipment, casting one last glance at the gentle giant gliding by.
Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
My cheeks hurt from smiling, but my hands are shaking from cold air, and I can barely feel the tips of my fingers as I reel in the probes one by one.
The ocean looks calm again now, just rolling grey waves and a stretch of mist toward the horizon. Nothing out of the ordinary—at least not yet.
I pull the first sensor up, careful not to knock the fragile wiring. I dry it off, check the salinity, scribble down the reading. Normal. Exactly what I’d expect for this depth, this season. I reach for the next one, oxygen levels. Again—normal.
It’s almost hypnotic, the rhythm of it. Record, replace, record, replace. I’m muttering the values under my breath as I go, lost in the process. The world feels small, just me and the steady movement of the water and the scratch of my pen against the logbook.
Then I grab the temperature probe.
Still wet, the digital screen blinking faintly in the dull light. I wipe it against my sleeve and read the number.
…No. That can’t be right.
I blink and read it again, slower this time, willing the digits to change.
They don’t.
My stomach drops. My breath catches cold in my throat.
That’s… impossible.
The water here should be freezing, the kind that numbs your skin in seconds. But this reading—this one says something else entirely.
Something wrong.
I stare at the screen again. Still blinking. Still that number.
It doesn’t make sense.
I lower the sensor back into the water, slow and steady, heart pounding in my ears. My fingers are stiff with cold, but I grip the line like it’s the only solid thing I have. The surface swallows it in one blink.
Okay.
Once more. Just to be sure.
The minutes crawl by as I wait, crouched by the edge of the boat. I can hear Liam laughing faintly somewhere behind me, probably making some joke about the shark again, but I can’t focus. My eyes are locked on the spot where the cable disappears below. The gentle rock of the boat, the occasional creak of the hull—it all feels too calm for how fast my brain is spinning.
I reel the line back in slowly, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and throat.
The probe clears the water. I wipe it off.
I look.
The number hasn’t changed.
Same reading.
Same impossible temperature.
I close my eyes and exhale, trying not to jump to conclusions. I’m a scientist. A biologist. I trust data. I trust my equipment. But I’m not an oceanographer, I don’t study currents or seafloor vents or whatever else could maybe possibly explain this.
Still, something feels off. Wrong in a way I can’t name.
I look out at the horizon. It’s still grey, like always. Still quiet. Still normal.
But the number on that screen burns into my skull.
And the worst part? I don’t know if I’m just overthinking it. I don’t know if I’m panicking over nothing. I want to believe it’s nothing.
But the water’s not supposed to be this warm.
Not here. Not now.
And the ocean never lies.