The rain had not changed.
But the water had.
Brian noticed it the moment he stepped back onto the edge of the rooftop, fishing gear in hand, his eyes scanning the surface below with the same precision he had applied the previous days. At first glance, everything appeared identical—the same dark, reflective mass stretching between buildings, the same slow, almost imperceptible currents shifting debris from one place to another.
But there was a difference.
Not visual.
Behavioral.
The water felt… quieter.
Brian adjusted his grip on the fishing rod, his posture slightly lower than usual to compensate for the slick surface beneath his feet. The rain had been constant for days, and even the reinforced sections of the rooftop had developed a thin, treacherous layer that reduced friction just enough to matter. One mistake—one miscalculation—and the fall would not be survivable.
He cast the line with controlled precision, the hook cutting cleanly through the air before disappearing into the water below.
Then he waited.
This time, the wait felt different.
Not longer.
Heavier.
The first few minutes passed without incident. No minor tremors, no exploratory bites, no erratic pulls from the mutated fish he had become accustomed to.
That alone was unusual.
Brian's gaze narrowed slightly.
"Reduced surface activity…" he murmured.
Then it happened.
The line snapped tight.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Brian's entire body reacted on instinct, his muscles locking as the force transmitted through the line surged far beyond anything he had previously encountered. The pull was violent, continuous, and far more stable than the chaotic thrashing of the mutated fish.
This was not aggression.
This was strength.
His foot slipped slightly on the wet concrete, his balance shifting dangerously toward the edge.
Brian adjusted immediately, dropping his center of gravity, bracing his weight backward while tightening his grip on the rod.
"Too strong…" he muttered through clenched teeth.
The line stretched to its limit.
But it didn't break.
Not yet.
The force increased again.
A steady, relentless pull that felt less like resistance and more like being dragged forward by something that did not need to struggle to overpower him.
Brian took a step back.
Then another.
The edge of the rooftop was dangerously close.
Too close.
He shifted his stance sideways, redirecting the force rather than opposing it directly, using the angle to reduce the strain on both the line and his own body.
"Control… not force…"
The line moved.
Not upward.
Sideways.
The thing below wasn't just pulling.
It was repositioning.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The strain never decreased.
Brian's arms began to burn, his grip tightening to the point where his fingers ached under the constant pressure. Rain ran down his face, mixing with sweat, blurring his vision just enough to force him to blink more often than he wanted.
Still, he held.
"Thirty minutes…" he whispered, though time had lost most of its meaning.
Then, without warning—
The tension vanished.
Brian stumbled backward as the sudden release of force threw his balance off completely. His foot slipped again, this time more violently, and he fell hard against the rooftop, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs as the fishing rod clattered beside him.
For a brief moment, he didn't move.
Then he inhaled sharply.
Forced himself up.
The line hung loose.
Broken?
No.
Released.
Brian pulled it back slowly, his movements more cautious now, more deliberate.
Something was wrong.
When the hook finally emerged from the water, it wasn't empty.
What remained of a fish was still attached to it.
Brian froze.
It was a Pseudorasbora parva.
Or what used to be one.
Half of its body was gone.
Not torn randomly.
Not damaged by impact.
Bitten.
The wound was clean in a way that made it worse. Massive. Deep. The edges crushed inward, flesh shredded but not scattered, as if something with overwhelming force had closed its jaws and removed an entire section in a single motion.
Brian crouched slowly, his breathing still uneven from the fall, his eyes fixed on the remains.
"…Predator."
The word came out quietly.
Almost instinctively.
But this wasn't a normal predator.
The size of the bite alone was enough to confirm that.
Brian examined the marks more closely, his fingers hovering just above the surface without touching it. The spacing of the impressions, the depth, the pressure distribution—everything pointed toward a jaw structure significantly larger and more powerful than anything he had encountered so far.
And if it had been strong enough to overpower what he had just fought…
Then it wasn't just part of the ecosystem.
It was above it.
Brian stood slowly, his gaze returning to the water below.
For the first time since the rain had begun—
He did not see it as something to study.
But as something that was watching back.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
"…Was it a big one?"
Brian turned sharply.
The children.
Again.
He hadn't heard them approach.
"That was not a fish you should be near," he said immediately, his tone sharper than intended.
They froze.
One of them stepped forward slightly, hesitant.
"…There are worse things now."
Brian's expression shifted.
"What do you mean?"
The child hesitated.
Then continued.
"People are trying to break into the higher floors."
Silence.
"They go at night," another added. "Groups. Not just gangs… normal people too."
"Desperation threshold rising…" Brian murmured.
"They say the ones at the top still have food," the first child continued.
"And tools. And power."
Brian didn't respond immediately.
"They're getting more violent," the child added quietly.
"Even with kids."
That made Brian pause.
"…Explain."
"They don't care anymore," the child said.
"They take whatever they can."
Brian's grip tightened slightly on the broken fish.
Human behavior was changing.
Accelerating.
Just like the water.
Just like the fish.
Everything was escalating.
Brian turned back toward the edge of the rooftop, his gaze drifting once more to the dark surface below.
Somewhere beneath it—
Something stronger had already appeared.
And above—
Humanity was starting to follow.
Brian exhaled slowly.
"…I need more data."
But for the first time—
The word data didn't feel as stable as it used to.