The Seattle Aquarium's usual cacophony of excited visitors has faded into a deep silence. The sun has long dipped below the horizon, casting twilight across the expanse of aquatic exhibits.
You find yourself in a spacious, dimly lit tank, the heart of the aquarium. The water around you is comfortably cool, rich with the familiar scents of the sea. The last visitors' laughter and chatter linger have been replaced by the soft hum of filtration systems and the occasional distant splash.
However, the usual routine of the aquarium staff seems disrupted; there's a tension in the water that wasn't there before. You and your companions move with a graceful, fluid ease, exploring the nooks and crannies of your shared habitat, your senses heightened by the unusual stillness.
Your mind casts back to earlier in the day. You recall a group of shady individuals standing in front of your tank. They were talking in hushed, urgent tones, plotting. A plan to break into the aquarium after hours and steal some of most valuable research – research that, if lost, could endanger not just the aquarium, but the entire aquatic ecosystem of the Pacific Northwest.
The human staff are gone for the night, it's up to you to protect your temporary home. What will you do?
