His Letters:

To the family of Declan Urmazd:

I'm sorry.

My name is Tyler Galpin and I'm the monster who killed your son. My monster is called a Hyde. Whenever I get too angry or scared, I shift into the Hyde, and I can't control what it does. Declan was part of the task force sent to bring me here after what I did back home, and when he came to take me away, I shifted. But every day now, I wish I hadn't.

I've been talking with someone who was hurt by a monster, and I know scars like this don't go away. I'm starting to realize how much damage I've done, and that I can't reverse any of it. If there's anything I can do to make this easier for you, tell me and I'll do it.

I am so sorry. From his file, your son seems like he was a great man, and it's my fault that he's not here anymore.

I've asked my warden to send this letter. I know it isn't much. I hope you can find a way to forgive me, but I understand if you can't.

- Tyler Galpin

There are other letters, spread all over your couch. To the family of Eli Amahan, to the family of Olivia Black. To the family of a lot more you don't recognize: Eugene Ottinger, Rowan Laslow, Valerie Kinbott, and others. But they all read similarly, and you send them all. Not through the USOAT post, but by scanning them to Sheriff Galpin. He will see them.

He will believe them.

Day 69:

Sheriff Galpin mailed his letters. You show the monster the text that confirms the mailing as soon as you get it, and he takes in a shaky breath, nodding.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

You nod to him, then head upstairs for fitness reqs.

Your hand pauses on the smooth wood of the bannister, halfway through pulling yourself up.

"You did the right thing, you know," you say, turning your head to glance back. "They'll either appreciate it or they'll have the chance to. Either way, that's- that's something to be proud of."

"I didn't do it for you," he repeats.

"Then you can be proud for yourself," you say, and turn back to the world upstairs, where your fitness reqs are waiting.

Day 75:

Today is Valentine's. You wake up in the special pair of pajamas you brought with you. They stand out among the white sheets and walls, bright red silk. You don't have fresh roses, but you do your best to decorate the Bubble by cutting little hearts out of the thick, red sheets of paper you found in storage.

When the counter, couch, and beds are sufficiently scattered with the little red hearts and the walls plastered with big ones, you make the monster's sandwiches, cutting them into hearts and packaging them up so they'll keep for the day.

Other than that, the day is uneventful. You hum to yourself, painting pink skies and eating sweets.

Uneventful, that is, until your call with Afua.

Until he tells you that the barnacles on your ship need to be gone within the week.

Day 77:

"It wasn't too bad," Aliyah tells you, holding up her scraper. "Just feed your monster and do it first thing. You put on your wetsuit and equipment and you go under, you find the connector and you scrape the barnacles off. It's uncomfortable, but it's over quickly."

Mary shudders. "Not to scare you or anything, but it's awful down there. Cold. Dark. Awful."

"But we got through it, right?" Deion reminds her. "And you're fine now. You won't have to do it again until Move Out."

"I did mine yesterday," Rob says. "It's even easier than docking."

You take a shaky deep breath in, glancing over at the white wetsuit spread out on your coffee table. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just scrape off the barnacles, and then it's done."

Aliyah nods encouragingly. "That's it."

She hasn't let you go about the other night. She keeps texting you, although you can't bring yourself to reply. How do you tell her what's going on? How do you explain the way you dip and rise and fall with the monster, your emotions undulating like waves under a summer moon?

"Okay," you say, grabbing the suit. "I'm going to do it. I'll call you guys in an hour or two, right after I finish."

Aliyah cheers.

"Remember to breathe," Mary calls, and Deion shoots you a thumbs-up.

Then you end the call, and stare down at the wetsuit. It's time to take the plunge.

Getting ready to go under is a three-level ordeal. First, you put on the two-piece swimsuit that goes under the wetsuit. Then you tug the skin-tight, rubbery material of the thick wetsuit over it, and head up to the swaying top deck of the Bubble.

Your equipment is stashed under the deck. The wood of the panel in the Bubble's deck creaks heavily as you push it open, holding it open with one hand and brushing your hair out of your face with the other. After a grunting-filled half hour, you finally manage to put on all the heavy equipment and get ready to go.

(Author's Note: it doesn't have to be a two-piece if you're not comfortable with Tyler seeing you in that. It made the most sense for me to write it that way with what's about to happen, but feel free to swap it out for whatever you're comfortable with!)

You peer over the deck, glancing at the sloshing, green-blue waves. They look ready to swallow you whole into their depths, down to their bottom miles and miles below.

You take a deep breath, gripping the scraper in your hand. Your foot feels heavy as you lower it towards the waves, sinking easily beneath their grasp.

Breath catching in your throat, you shudder...

...and you jump.

The water surges over you and you plummet down, down, kicking your feet to reach out and touch the faded surface of the Bubble's edge. You trace it with your hand as you sink down, careful to keep it in sight as the water fades from blue to dark blue, from dark blue to gray, and from gray to an all-enveloping black.

Your fingers catch on the little rail at the bottom of the Bubble, and you grip onto it for dear life, praying that you won't be sucked down to the bottomless black as you drop the weights from your belt. They drift down, out of sight.

The sound of the deep sea trickles all around you, the darkness quiet except for its ominous burbling.

When you exhale, the bubbles from your breath trickling all the way up through the thousands of pounds of brackish water above you.

You just have to scrape the barnacles off. You click on your lighting gear, revealing the bobbing gray of the Bubble's surface. You swim down, movements slow through the heavy water, careful not to lose your grip on the rungs of the slick surface.

The bottom of the Bubble is where the barnacles tend to congregate, and there are already barnacles clinging to its surface like a second skin. A part of them juts out into a sharp point, and you make a careful note to stay away from its jagged edges.

The icy cold of the water twines around your skin. You shudder. The faster I can get this over with, the better.

The scraper is in your hands, and you start chopping away at the thick patch of gray barnacles. They tumble off as you hack at them, rolling through the emotionless water down to the sea floor below.

You shiver, all but losing sight of the light above. Down here, it feels like there's nothing but the silent black and the gray particles you can make out with your light.

You chop the scraper to the wall again, but the side of the boat hits your light, and it flickers.

You freeze as it flickers once, then jolts you into the black.

You frantically whack it against the side of the boat to try to get it to turn on again, but the force slips your hand off of the rung, and you tear down to the bottom, clawing your gloved hands against the side of the boat to try and stay up-

A scream in bubbles tears itself from your throat as white-hot pain rips through your side, clouds of billowing blood gushing up as you plunge down, barely holding on to the jutting barnacles that ripped open your side.

Don't let go, you think hazily, don't let-

A swimming shadow crosses in your vision. Shark.

The blood.