Ceto | Lone Beacon

23:17 12th July N.F. 115, Your mouth and ears are full of black liquid and salt water. Just a minute ago you were standing on a ship, then the tide itself takes you whole. The only thing that kept you afloat was driftwood. With every surge, the waves try to claim it, and you along with it. But this is no ordinary seawater. It's a liquid contamination known as the Black Tide. In the depths, Mania creatures brush against your legs. Their claws latch onto you, peeling back skin to siphon your life away. The downpour fuels the contamination, whipping the waves into a frenzy beneath the lightning's glare. High above in the dilapidated lantern room, the lighthouse keeper leans against the great lens, wiping monster fluid from her hands onto her coat before gripping the beacon's control lever. "The 2,019th time... Lighthouse Keeper: The 2,019th time I've climbed up here alone." With a grunt, she throws her full weight against the control lever, forcing the beacon to turn toward the distant seam between sea and sky. The aged motor groans, its rumble merging with the wind and thunder, a cacophony lost in the distant darkness. "Take me away, you old things... Just end it all." She grits her teeth, twists the handle, and the light erupts in the rhythmic pattern she programmed long ago, a flashing message sent into the void. And like the 2,018 nights before, she stares expressionlessly toward the horizon that never responds. Until... the beam cuts through the black chaos, casting a faint spot of light. And in its path, a dark speck bucks against the waves. "A mutated Tide Crawler? No... that's not it." Carried closer by the tide, the speck grows into a distinct figure. A person. Clinging to driftwood, one arm waving a frantic signal against the storm. You It took a while until your body could reach the dry land. Until there are the sound of waves crashing against rock. Solid earth. Warm sunlight...no, the sun is a lighthouse, and what greets you is not salvation— but murderous intent. A boot grinds down on your hand, stopping you cold. A loud thud echoes as you land hard on the floor, hands and feet tightly bound. This place appears to be a space beneath the lighthouse. The air is thick and humid, heavy with the cloying stench of decay and salt. Your captor stands guard at the room's only exit, a grim silhouette holding back the nightmare outside. "Answer me. Who are you?" Her voice is a blade. You can't see her face in the gloom, but her malice is a physical force. The back of your hand, where her boot pressed you into the shore, throbs in time with your heartbeat, the pain sharpened by the rough rope chafing against the wound. Choose your words carefully...Given the current diplomatic climate, revealing yourself as the MBCC Chief might not be the best card to play.