I Work on an Offshore Oil Rig. The Ocean is Not For Everyone.

Hello and welcome back to another episode by Sleepy Pasta. Before you doze off tonight, don't forget to leave a five star review and a comment where you are watching from. Let's begin. I spotted the helicopter when it was still a black speck against the blue sky, growing larger as it approached the horizon deep.

The chopping sound of its rotors cut through the constant background noise of the rig, the hum of machinery, the occasional shout of workers, the endless rush of waves against the massive steel legs below us. The craft touched down on our helipad with practice precision, and I watched as our new overseer stepped out, ducking under the still spinning blades.

Kenny Walls. Even from a distance I could tell he was nothing like Stephen Bell, the man he was replacing. Stephen had been fair minded, experienced, the kind of boss who knew when to push and when to ease up. This guy moved with a stiff military precision, his posture rigid as he clutched a leather briefcase in one hand.

As he got closer, I noticed his boots first. Expensive, barely scuffed, probably never seen a real day of work. His clothes were pressed and spotless, like he was heading to a corporate boardroom instead of an oil rig in the middle of the ocean. But it was his eyes that really got me cold and calculating, sizing up everything and everyone as potential assets or liabilities.

Glenn Wong, our deck supervisor, greeted him with an extended hand and a welcoming smile. Kenny gave him a curt nod and a quick, perfunctory handshake before moving on. I exchanged glances with Chad Williamson, who stood next to me. Chad raised his eyebrows slightly but said nothing. The transformation began almost immediately.

Within days, Kenny had completely overhauled how we operated on the horizon. Deep safety protocols that Steven had insisted were mandatory suddenly became guidelines or suggestions. Maintenance schedules that kept our equipment running properly were compressed or outright ignored. And our shifts? They stretched from the standard 12 hours to 14, then 15, and finally settled at 16 grueling hours that left everyone exhausted and prone to mistakes.

We need to maximize efficiency, Kenny announced during his third morning briefing, scanning the tired faces of the crew with those cold eyes. Corporate expects results, and I deliver results. I couldn't stay quiet anymore, Sir, I said, raising my hand slightly. We're already seeing more near misses with equipment. The crew's exhausted.

These extended shifts aren't. Kenny cut me off with a look that could freeze salt water. Austin King, he said. My name's sounding like an accusation in his mouth. Five years on the horizon.

Deep engineering background, divorced, no children. He paused, letting me know he'd studied my file thoroughly. Your performance evaluations note a tendency to question authority. The room went silent. Everyone was looking either at me or at the floor, Nowhere else.

I suggest you focus on your assigned duties, King. Leave operational decisions to those qualified to make them. His tone made it clear the discussion was over before it had really begun. After the briefing, I headed to my station, anger simmering just below the surface. I was checking pressure gauges when Chad appeared beside me, his weathered face creased with concern.

You need to be careful, Austin. He said quietly, glancing around to make sure we weren't overheard. Don't poke the bear. I adjusted a valve with more force than necessary. Someone needs to speak up.

You've seen how things are going. It's getting dangerous out here. Chad sighed, leaning against the railing, corporates breathing down his neck for increased output. New investors or something? He's just passing that pressure down to US.

Steven never did. I pointed out. And Stevens? Gone. Chad replied.

Early retirement, remember? Reading between the lines, I'd say he was pushed out for not meeting those same quotas. I didn't have a good response to that. Chad clapped me on the shoulder and moved on to his own tasks, leaving me to think about what he'd said. Later that evening, I found Dakota Hansen sitting alone in the mess hall.

The kid was only 23, fresh faced and eager when he'd arrived two months ago. Now he looked completely drained, pushing food around his plate without eating much of it. His eyes had that 1000 yard stare I recognized from guys who'd been working too hard for too long. I sat down across from him.

How's it going, Dakota? He blinked, coming back from wherever his mind had wandered. Oh hey, Austin. He attempted a smile that didn't reach his eyes. I'm OK, just tired.

We're all tired, I said. But you look like you're carrying something extra. Dakota glanced around, then leaned forward slightly. I just need to last three more weeks until rotation, he said quietly. Then I can request a transfer, or I don't know, maybe this life isn't for me.

I'd taken Dakota under my wing when he first arrived. He was smart, willing to learn, and worked hard To hear him talking about leaving hurt more than I expected. Is it walls? I asked, though I already knew the answer. Dakota's shoulders tensed.

He's always watching me. Nothing I do is right. I had noticed it over the past few days. Kenny seemed to single Dakota out for special attention, and not the good kind. He assigned the kid the most dangerous tasks, the ones that had him working at heights or in tight spaces where a mistake could mean serious injury.

And whenever Dakota completed a job, Kenny was there to criticize, finding fault with even minor details. This morning, Dakota continued, his voice barely above a whisper. I was securing a fuel line and my wrench slipped. Nothing happened. I caught it right away, but Walls was there somehow.

Like he materialized out of nowhere, told me in front of everyone that incompetence gets people killed out here. I felt a surge of protective anger. He's pushing everyone too hard. It's not just you. Maybe, Dakota said, unconvinced.

But he seems to save his best material for me. He pushed his plate away and stood up. I should get some sleep while I can. Early start tomorrow. I watched him go, noticing the slight slump in his shoulders.

Kenny Walls had been on our rig for less than a week, and already he was breaking down a promising young worker. I thought about Stephen Bell, about how he would have taken Dakota aside, shown him the proper technique, build him up instead of tearing him down. The contrast couldn't have been clearer. Steven understood that a crew worked best when they felt valued and safe.

Kenny seemed to think fear and exhaustion were motivational tools. As I sat there in the rapidly emptying mess hall, I wondered how long we could go on like this before something gave way. Equipment, procedures, or people. I found Dakota at the railing, his eyes fixed on the dark water below. The wind was picking up, whipping his sandy hair across his forehead as he gripped the metal bar with white knuckles.

He didn't notice me approach until I was right beside him. Hey. I said, leaning against the railing next to him. You OK? Dakota flinched slightly, then tried to compose himself.

His eyes were red rimmed, though he'd clearly tried to wipe away any evidence of tears. Yeah, fine. He cleared his throat. Just needed some air. I stood with him in silence for a minute, watching the black waves roll beneath us.

The rig's lights cast long, distorted reflections on the water's surface, breaking apart with each swell. Kenny was way out of line back there, I finally said. That kind of criticism doesn't help anyone. Dakota's shoulders slumped. It's not just today, he told me straight up.

I'm not cut out for this work. His voice cracked slightly. Said I was a liability, that I should quit before I get someone hurt. Now that's bullshit, I said, the anger rising in my chest. You're doing fine.

Everyone makes mistakes when they're learning. Maybe he's right, though. Dakota's fingers drummed nervously on the railing. I keep screwing up the fuel line. This morning, last week with the pressure gauges.

I don't know if I'm built for this. Steven would have never spoken to you that way, I said. He understood that good workers need guidance, not humiliation. A strong gust of wind hit us, and Dakota had to steady himself against the railing. I looked up at the sky, noticing for the first time how quickly the clouds were moving in.

The weather report had mentioned a storm system, but nothing major. We should head in, I said. Looks like weather's turning. Dakota nodded, but didn't move right away. Three more weeks, he murmured, more to himself than to me.

Just three more weeks before we could make it back inside, the first heavy raindrops began to fall, quickly turning into a downpour. The wind intensified dramatically, howling through the rig's structure with unexpected fury. Within minutes, the storm had escalated from concerning to dangerous. The rig's PA system crackled to life. All personnel secure equipment and report to stations.

Repeat all personnel, secure equipment, and report to stations. I grabbed Dakota's arm. Come on, let's go. We split up at the main corridor, Dakota heading to help secure equipment on the deck while I rushed to my station to check the pressure systems. The rig swayed beneath my feet as waves crashed against the supports.

This wasn't just bad weather. This was a severe storm that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. For 20 minutes, I monitored gauges and made adjustments as the storm battered the rig. The lights flickered twice, making everyone freeze until they stabilized. Then, cutting through the howl of the wind and the drumming of rain on metal, I heard shouting from the main deck.

I abandoned my station and ran toward the sound, my heart pounding as I pushed through the door to the outside deck. The full force of the storm hit me, driving rain that felt like needles against my skin and wind that nearly knocked me off my feet. Through the sheets of rain, I could make out a group of crew members gathered near the edge where equipment was loaded onto supply vessels.

Something was wrong, very wrong. I fought my way through the storm to the group. Chad spotted me and grabbed my arm, pulling me close so I could hear him over the roar of the storm. It's Dakota. He shouted, his face pale beneath the water streaming down it.

He fell overboard while securing the crane cables. My stomach dropped. What when? Just now. Chad said, his grip on my arm tightening.

We were all working to secure everything, Swen. He was cut off as Kenny pushed through the group, his expensive boots sliding slightly on the wet deck. What the hell happened here? He demanded, looking from face to face. Caden Sanders stepped forward, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead.

Dakota fell, Sir. We were securing the loading equipment when a wave hit. The visibility is terrible. No one actually saw him go in, but he was there one minute and gone the next. Jesus Christ, Kenny muttered, looking out at the churning seas.

We need to sound the man overboard alarm, I said, moving toward Kenny. Get searchlights on the water. He could still be close to the rig. Kenny hesitated for a split second, then nodded. Gibson.

He called to the security chief. Sound the alarm and organize search teams. The rest of you get life rings and spotlights. The alarm blared across the rig, it's urgent whale carrying even over the storm. Every available crew member joined the search, leaning over railings with spotlights, scanning the violent seas for any sign of Dakota.

The waves were massive now, cresting and breaking against the rig's legs with frightening force. Dakota. I shouted into the darkness, my voice lost in the wind almost immediately. Dakota. The storm showed no signs of letting up as we searched, water and darkness surrounded us, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few yards out.

I kept moving around the perimeter of the rig, training my spotlight on different sections of the water, desperate for a glimpse of a hand, a head, anything. Chad joined me after about an hour, his expression grim. Any sign? He asked, though I could tell from his face he already knew the answer. I shook my head.

Nothing the current strong. If he's still. I couldn't finish the sentence. I know. Chad said, putting a hand on my shoulder as we continued searching for another hour.

But as time passed, hope dwindled. The storm began to ease slightly, but the seas remained rough and dangerous. Finally, Kenny appeared on the deck, his face set in hard lines. That's enough. He called out everyone insight.

We can't stop looking. I protested, moving toward him. He could still be out there. Kenny's eyes were cold when they met mine. It's been 2 hours in these conditions.

We're done. He turned and walked away, leaving no room for argument. Inside the mess hall, Kenny addressed the gathered crew, many still dripping from the rain. The room was eerily quiet, except for the occasional distant rumble of Thunder. The boy's gone.

Kenny announced, his voice flat and emotionless. These things happen in our line of work. It's unfortunate, but we have a job to do. I stepped forward, unable to contain myself. We can't just give up.

We should radio for additional search and rescue. Kenny's gaze locked onto me, his eyes narrowing. In case you haven't noticed, King, it's the middle of the night in a storm with 15 foot waves. No helicopter could fly in this, and no boat would make it out here. Even if by some miracle he survived the fall, no one could survive these conditions for two hours.

You don't know that. I insisted, aware of the crew watching us. He could have caught on to something, found debris to float on. Enough. Kenny snapped.

I've made the call. Dakota Hansen is presumed dead. We'll file the incident report in the morning. He surveyed the room. I expect double shifts tomorrow to make up for lost time.

We have quotas to meet. With that, he turned and left the mess hall. The crew remained silent, exchanging glances but saying nothing. Chad cut my eye from across the room, his expression mirroring the disbelief and anger I felt. I stood there, soaking wet and shivering, not from the cold, but from the realization that in Kenny's world, Dakota was just another expendable part, easily replaced and quickly forgotten.

I lay awake that night as the storm raged on, haunted by Dakota's face. His expression in those final moments at the railing kept replaying in my mind the resignation, the exhaustion, the doubt. The wind howled outside, rattling the metal walls of my quarters as rain pounded against the windows. I tossed and turned on my narrow bunk, unable to shake the feeling that we'd failed him, that I'd failed him.

The digital clock on my night stand read 245. Sleep seemed impossible with the storm's fury and the weight of what had happened. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the rig as it weathered the storm. But then, around 3:00 in the morning, I heard something different. A knocking sound coming from somewhere below the rig.

I sat up, listening more carefully. It wasn't random like debris hitting the supports. It had a rhythm. Two regular and deliberate. 3 knocks, pause.

3 knocks, pause. I swung my legs over the side of the bunk and pressed my ear against the cold metal floor. The sound continued, steady and insistent. I waited for it to stop, telling myself it was just the storm playing tricks, but the knocking maintained its perfect rhythm. After 15 minutes, I gave up on sleep entirely, pulled on my work clothes and paced my small quarters until dawn broke.

At breakfast, I grabbed a tray of rubbery eggs and burnt toast, my eyes heavy from lack of sleep. The mess hall buzzed with the usual morning conversations, but something felt off. Crew members speaking in lower voices, glancing around more than usual. Cali Moreno slid onto the bench across from me, her own tray barely touched.

Dark circles ringed her eyes. You hear it too? She asked without preamble. I looked up from my untouched food. Hear what?

That knocking? She leaned forward, lowering. Her voice Started around 3:00 this morning, like someone trying to get in. A chill ran down my back. You heard it all the way in the women's quarters.

She nodded, pushing her food around with her fork. Woke me up. Couldn't get back to sleep after I thought it was coming from below my section. I said. That's the thing, I could swear it was coming from right under my bunk.

Callie glanced around the mess hall. And I'm not the only one, Glenn said he heard it too. Other side of the rig entirely. Throughout the day, the knocking became the main topic among the crew. As I worked my shift checking pressure valves, 3 different crew members mentioned hearing it.

Kaden Sanders claimed it had followed him down the corridor. Lincoln Bucks wore it was loudest near the diving equipment storage. The stories varied, but the description remained consistent. Rhythmic knocking, too regular to be natural. By evening, the storm had calmed to a steady rain, but the knocking hadn't stopped.

If anything, it seemed to be getting louder, more insistent. During the ship change, I passed the control room and spotted Kenny inside, speaking with Gibson and Sierra Vargas. Kenny's face looked drawn, his usual confidence replaced by something that looked almost like fear. I slowed my pace, catching fragments of their conversation. Checked every pipe in that section.

Sierra was saying nothing's loose, nothing's banging. Then check them again. Kenny snapped. It's got to be pressure changes in the pipes, or some kind of marine life. These old rigs make all kinds of noises.

I noticed sweat beating on Kenny's forehead despite the cool air of the control room. His hands fidgeted with a pen, clicking it repeatedly. We've had divers check the supports twice. Gibson added. Nothing unusual down there.

Kenny turned, catching me watching through the doorway. Something you need, King. Just heading to my next shift. I said, moving on before he could question me further. That night I tried to sleep, but the knocking made it impossible.

It had grown louder, more insistent, like someone demanding to be let in. The rhythm remained the same. 3 knocks, pause, 3 knocks. I pulled my pillow over my head, but it did nothing to muffle the sound. I must have dozed off eventually, because I jerked awake to the sound of someone at my door not knocking, just standing there.

I checked the time. 217 in the morning, Who's there? I called out. The door opened and Chad stood in the doorway, fully dressed in his work clothes. His face looked pale in the dim light.

Kenny wants us to check the lower levels. He said, his voice tight. Says if we can find the source of that damn knocking, maybe we can all get some sleep. I pulled on my boots and grabbed my jacket. Just us.

Gibson's organizing other teams. We got the West quadrant closest to the waterline. We walked in silence through the quiet corridors. Most of the crew would be trying to sleep, though I doubted many were successful with that persistent knocking. It seemed to grow louder as we descended the metal stairs to the lower levels of the rig.

Each step took us closer to the source. The air grew cooler and damper as we reached the maintenance level just above the waterline. Down here, the knocking echoed off the metal walls, making it difficult to pinpoint its origin. Chad and I moved slowly, listening at each junction of pipes and checking each compartment there.

Chad said suddenly, pointing down a narrow corridor to a sealed bulkhead door. It's coming from in there. He was right. The knocking was loudest near that door, a heavy metal barrier designed to prevent flooding if the lower sections were breached. According to the safety protocols, it should remain sealed during storms.

We approached slowly. The knocking grew more intense, Almost frantic now. Three quick knocks. Pause, three quick knocks. What's behind this door?

Chad asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Storage compartment, I said. Sits right at the waterline. There's an access hatch to the outside for bringing in supplies from the boats. Chad reached for the wheel lock.

Should we open it? As we got closer to the door, a strange sensation washed over me. The corridor seemed to stretch and warp in my vision. My head felt light, my limbs heavy. The knocking grew impossibly loud, drowning out everything else.

Austin, you OK? Chad's voice sounded distant. I tried to answer, but couldn't form words. The metal floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I reached out to steady myself against the wall, and as my hand touched the cold metal, something flashed in my vision.

A face. Dakota's face pale and bloated, his eyes wide open and staring directly at me through the darkness. Water streamed from his mouth as he pressed against the other side of the bulkhead, his features contorted in a silent scream. I stumbled backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. The vision lasted only seconds, but it felt burned into my retinas.

What is it? What did you see? Chad grabbed my arm, steadying me. I blinked hard, trying to clear my head. The corridor returned to normal, but the knocking continued, unrelenting.

3 knocks, pause, 3 knocks, Dakota. I managed to say, my voice hoarse. I saw Dakota. Chad's grip on my arm tightened. That's not possible.

Dakota fell overboard days ago. I know what I saw. I wiped cold sweat from my forehead. The image of Dakota's bloated face and water filled mouth burned into my mind. The knocking grew louder, each three beat sequence more insistent than the last.

We need to report this. Chad said, already turning back toward the corridor. Come on. We made our way to the control room, the knocking following us through the rig's metal skeleton. My legs felt heavy to concentrate on each step.

The vision of Dakota kept flashing in my mind. Pale skin, wide eyes, mouth open in that silent scream. When we reached the control room, several crew members had already gathered. Sierra Vargas. Stood next to a monitor displaying structural schematics of the Rig Glenn.

Wong and Cali. Moreno huddled near the communication station. Kenny paced near the main. Console, his usual composure noticeably frayed, Kenny Gibson stood by the door, arms crossed. The knocking was audible even here, a dull, persistent rhythm that seemed to echo throughout the entire structure.

There you are, Kenny snapped when he saw us Report. Did you find anything? Before I could answer, Sierra cut in the knockings coming from all over. Now we've got reports from every level of the rig. It's loudest near the waterline.

I said behind a. Sealed bulkhead in. The West quadrant. Did you open it? Kenny demanded.

No, Chad answered. We came straight here when he glanced at me. When what? Kenny stepped closer. I met his gaze when I saw something The.

Room went quiet. Except for the knocking. Saw what exactly? Kenny's voice had an edge I hadn't heard before. Not anger, but something closer to fear.

I. Saw Dakota I. Said his face on the other side of the bulkhead door. Kenny. 'S face hardened. That's impossible.

Hanson fell overboard. He's gone. I know what I saw, I repeated. Sierra moved away from her monitor. Kenny, this isn't normal.

The knocking has been going on for two nights now. We've checked all mechanical systems, all pipes, all equipment. Nothing explains it. It's probably just pressure changes in the support columns. Kenny insisted, but his voice lacked conviction.

It's not. Sierra countered. We've ruled that out. This is something else. She straightened her glasses and faced Kenny directly.

I recommend we initiate evacuation protocols. The structural integrity of the rig could be compromised. Kenny's face flushed. Evacuation. Are you out of your mind?

Corporate would have my head if we shut down operations over some some noise. The knocking suddenly. Intensified, growing louder until it drowned out all conversation. It was no longer just three distinct knocks. It was a barrage, as if dozens of fists were pounding on metal throughout the rig.

Kenny flinched visibly, his eyes darting around the room. The sound was overwhelming, vibrating through the floor beneath our feet. Just as suddenly as it had. Escalated the knocking returned to its original pattern. 3 knocks.

Pause 3 knocks. The room remained silent for several seconds. Kenny ran a hand through his. Hair, his composure cracking. Fine, he said finally.

We'll send. Divers down. At first light, check the supports, the underwater access, hatches, everything. If they find structural damage, we'll consider our options. Sierra opened her mouth to protest.

Kenny cut her off. That's final. Until then, everyone back to your stations. Try to get some sleep if you can. No one moved immediately.

The knocking continued its steady rhythm, a reminder that something wasn't right. Go. Kenny shouted, and the crew began to disperse. I stayed where I was watching Kenny. What if the divers find?

Something else? I asked. Kenny's eyes met mine, and for a moment I saw raw fear there. They won't, he said, but he didn't sound convinced. Morning brought calmer seas, but no relief from the persistent knocking.

I hadn't slept more than 20 minutes at a stretch, jolting awake each time to the three knock pattern that had become the rig's heartbeat. I stood on the main deck, watching as Kenny gave instructions to Lincoln Buck and Kenny Lopez. Both men were already suited up in their diving gear, tanks checked and double checked.

I want a complete inspection of the support columns and underwater access points. Kenny was saying. Document everything with the underwater camera. If you see anything unusual, anything at all, report it immediately. Lincoln nodded, his face serious.

What about the West quadrant? The sealed bulkhead, King mentioned. Kenny hesitated. Check it from the outside, Don't take any unnecessary risks. Understood?

Lincoln said, exchanging a look with Lopez. Chad appeared beside me, coffee in hand. You think they'll find anything? I don't know, I admitted. But something's down there.

The divers finished their. Preparations, checking each other's equipment one last time, the knocking continued, somehow more ominous in the daylight. Be careful down there. I called to Lincoln as he prepared to enter the water. He.

Gave me a tight nod. Before pulling his mask down and slipping over the edge, Lopez following right behind him. Several. Of us gathered at the. Railing, watching the bubbles that marked the divers progress, Kenny stood apart, checking his watch every few minutes.

Sierra monitored a tablet showing the rig's structural readouts. The minutes crawled by 10:15 the. Knocking never stopped. Its rhythm unchanged at 20 minutes, the radio crackled to life. Lincoln's voice came through.

Tense and strained control. This is Buck. We found something. You need to see this. Kenny grabbed the radio.

What is it? What did you find? It's Lincoln's voice faltered. It's Hanson. We found Dakota A.

Cold weight settled in my. Stomach bringing him up now, Lincoln continued. Lopez is securing the securing him for transport. Kenny's face had gone pale. He looked at me then.

Quickly away, acknowledged, he said into the radio. We'll be ready. Word spread quickly. By the time the divers resurfaced, most of the crew had gathered on the deck. I stood.

At the front. My heart pounding in my chest. Lincoln broke the surface first, his face grim behind his mask. Lopez followed, and between them they carried a burden that made my blood run cold. Dakota's body they hauled.

Him onto the deck. With help from several crew members, I couldn't move, couldn't speak as they laid him down. Dakota looked exactly as he had in my vision, perfectly preserved despite being in the water for days. His skin was pale, but not bloated or decayed. His clothes clung to his body, barely disturbed, but it was his face that held everyone's attention.

His expression was frozen in a silent scream, eyes wide open in terror, mouth stretched in a horrified rictus. The. Moment Dakota's body. Touched the deck. The knocking stopped.

The sudden silence was more shocking than the noise had been. I stared at Dakota's face, identical to what I'd seen behind the bulkhead door. The same wide eyes, the same silent scream, the same impossible presence that shouldn't exist around me. The crew stood in stunned silence, trying to process what they were seeing.

Lincoln pulled off his diving mask, water dripping from his face. We found him wedged in an external access hatch. He reported, his voice flat with shock. The. Same hatch that leads.

To that sealed bulkhead in the West quadrant. Couldn't take my eyes off. Dakota's face. He looked like he died of terror, his features locked in that final moment of absolute fear. The knocking had stopped, but in that silence, I heard something worse.

The sound of certainty. Dakota. Had come back to. Us. And whatever had happened to him wasn't over.

Kenny pushed through the gathered crew, his face drained of color as he looked down at Dakota. For a second I thought I saw real fear in his eyes before he masked it with his usual authority. Get. Him to cold storage. Kenny ordered, his voice cracking slightly.

He cleared his throat and continued more forcefully. Everyone else back to work. We've got quotas to meet. When no one moved. Immediately, Kenny's composure slipped.

Now get moving, he snapped, gesturing wildly at the crew. This doesn't change anything. We have a job to do. The crew. Slowly.

Dispersed murmuring among themselves, Kenny turned away from Dakota's body and stalked off toward the accommodation block where his quarters were located. His shoulders were hunched, his stride uneven, nothing like his usual confident swagger. I. Stayed rooted to the spot, watching as Gibson directed. 2 crew members to carefully lift Dakota's body they.

Carried him away. Water still dripping from his clothes and pooling on the deck. I couldn't tear my eyes away. Until they disappeared inside the rig. For the next few hours, I tried to focus on my work, but my mind kept replaying what I'd seen.

Dakota. 'S face behind. The bulkhead, Dakota's body on the deck, the exact same expression of terror, the knocking that had LED us right to him. I was replacing a valve in the east quadrant when my wrench slipped, nearly catching my fingers. I cursed and tried again, but my hands were shaking too badly to get a proper grip.

Dakota's face kept flashing in my mind. That silent scream, the wide eyes that seemed to be looking right at me. You OK? I jumped at Chad's voice behind me. I hadn't heard him approach over the normal mechanical hum of the rig.

Yeah, I said. Wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. Just, you know, Chad. Glanced around to make. Sure, we were alone.

Then stepped closer. I helped move him. He whispered, his voice barely audible over the machinery. Austin, something's not right. I set down my wrench.

What do you mean, Dakota? His body. Chad looked over his shoulder. Again before continuing. He was in the water for days.

But there's no decomposition. None. And no signs of drowning either. That's impossible. I said he fell overboard during the storm.

Chad shook his head. I've seen drowning victims before. Their lungs fill with water, their skin gets a certain look. Dakota doesn't have any of that. It's like he hesitated.

Like what? Like he died of fright? Chad said, meeting my eyes. Whatever he saw or experienced, it scared him to death. His face, Austin, you saw it.

That's not the face of someone who drowned. I felt cold despite the heat from the nearby pipes. Then what happened to him? I don't know, Chad admitted. But I'm telling you, something's very wrong here.

We both fell silent as Callie walked past with a clipboard nodding to us without stopping. Once she was out of earshot. Chad squeezed my shoulder. Be careful, he said quietly. Whatever happened to Dakota?

I don't think it's over. I finished my shift in a daze, mechanically going through the motions while my mind raced. The rig felt different now, oppressive, like the air itself had grown heavier. The. Normal creaks and groans.

Of metal that I'd tuned out for years now made me tense, waiting for that three knock pattern to start again. At dinner, the mess hall was unusually quiet. Crew members ate quickly and left, no one lingering to talk. Kenny didn't show up at all. I pushed.

My food around. My plate unable to eat while Chad sat silently across from me. We both knew something was wrong, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. I was heading back to my quarters when it happened. A single gunshot echoed across the rig, sharp and unmistakable in the evening quiet.

For a moment everyone froze then. Came the shouting. The running. I sprinted toward the sound, meeting Chad and several others in the corridor leading to the officers quarters. Gibson was already there, pounding on Kenny's door walls.

Kenny, open up. Gibson shouted, trying the handle. The door was locked. When there was no response, Gibson turned to us. Stand back.

He slammed his shoulder against the door, once, twice, then a third time. The lock. Gave way with a. Crack of splintering wood and the door swung open. Kenny was slumped forward at his desk, a pistol still clutched in his right hand.

Blood and other matters splattered the wall behind him. On the desk in front of him. Lay a single sheet of paper with a few words scrawled across it. Gibson moved forward. Cautiously checking for signs of life, though it was clearly too late.

I stepped into the room. Behind him, my eyes drawn to the note on the desk in. Kenny's handwriting. It simply read. It won't stop knocking.

I felt a chill run through me as I stared at Kenny's body. The man who had pushed us all to the breaking point, who had dismissed safety concerns and driven Dakota to despair, was gone. But. His final words? Suggested something.

I didn't want to face that. Whatever had happened to? Dakota had claimed Kenny too. The. Knocking had stopped when.

We found Dakota's body, but. For Kenny, it seemed. The knocking had never stopped at all. I learned the evacuation helicopter would arrive the next day. The announcement came over the PA system while I was in the mess hall, pushing food around my plate without eating.

No one cheered or even spoke after the news. We just looked at each other with hollow eyes, like survivors of something we couldn't yet name. After finishing my shift. I made my way to the cold storage room I. Needed to see Dakota.

One last time before we left. The corridor leading to cold storage felt longer than usual, my footsteps echoing against metal walls that had witnessed too much. The door opened with a metallic groan, releasing a cloud of frigid air that made me pull my jacket tighter. Dakota's body lay in a black bags on a steel table, zipped up and tagged for transport.

I stood there for a long. Time looking at the shape of him under the plastic. Not the terrified face. I'd seen behind the bulkhead, not the pale corpse they'd pulled from the water, just a dark outline that could have been anyone. I'm sorry, I said, my voice small in the cold room.

I should have done more. The words felt inadequate, but I needed to say them. Dakota had been just a kid trying to make it through three more weeks. Now he'd. Never leave this.

Rig As I stood there, I noticed something strange. The oppressive weight that had. Hungover, the rig since Kenny took over. That feeling of being watched, judged, found wanting was gone. The air felt clearer somehow, as if a storm had passed.

Even the constant background noise of the rig seemed less threatening. I placed my hand on the body. Back rest now, I whispered, then turned and left the cold room behind. Back in the main corridor, I checked my watch and headed to the control room where Sierra was coordinating the evacuation procedures. She looked.

Up from her tablet. As I entered Austin, she said, nodding toward a stack of clipboards. I need you to verify these shutdown protocols. We can't leave anything running that could cause problems. I picked up the top clipboard.

What's the timeline? Helicopter arrives at O 900 tomorrow. We need to be ready to go by O 830. She rubbed her eyes. I've got the engineering systems handled, but I need someone to coordinate personnel and equipment.

I'll take care of it. I said. For the next several hours, I moved through the rig, checking names off lists and making sure everyone knew what they could take and what had to stay. The mood was subdued. No one mentioned Kenny or Dakota directly, but their absence hung in every conversation.

I found Chad in the equipment. Room packing emergency supplies into waterproof containers. How many first aid kits are we taking? I asked, checking my list. Chad looked up, dark circles under his eyes.

Four large ones, plus personal kits for each crew member. He sealed a container with a snap. Cali's getting the emergency rations together. I made a note on my clipboard. You doing OK?

Chad paused, his hands resting on a sealed container. Not really. Keep thinking about Dakota, about how we all heard that knocking, but none of us could help him. I know then, Kenny. I never liked the guy, but Jesus Austin that note.

I nodded, remembering. Those 4 words scrawled on paper. It won't stop knocking. You think it's over? Chad asked quietly.

I didn't have an answer for that. Later I found Callie in the galley organizing ration packs. She worked methodically, her movements precise but her eyes distant. Need any help I. Asked.

She shook her head. Almost done. Just making sure everyone has enough for 24 hours in case the weather turns and we get delayed reaching the mainland. I checked her name off my. List Good thinking, Austin, she said as I turn to leave.

Do you think anyone will believe us about what happened here? I looked back at her. I don't know, would you? Believe it if. Someone told you?

She gave a small humorless. Smile. Probably not. Out on the deck, Glenn and Kaden were securing equipment, tying down anything that might come loose in high winds or rough seas after we left. All the crane cables are locked.

Down, Kaden reported, not meeting my eyes. He hadn't. Been the same since. Dakota disappeared on his watch. Glenn pointed to the Western.

Edge of the deck we've. Secured all the hatches. And access points. Nothing's getting in or out. I made notes on my clipboard, then looked up at the darkening sky.

Weather report says clear. Conditions for tomorrow's flight. Good, Glenn said. The sooner we're off this rig, the better. Kenny Gibson approached with his own clipboard, his security uniform as neat as ever, despite everything that had happened.

Personnel manifest, he said, handing me his list. Everyone accounted for living. And he cleared his throat. Everyone's accounted for. I took the list.

Thanks, Gibson. He nodded stiffly. I've sealed off the officers quarters as per protocol. No one goes in there until the investigation team arrives, I thought. Of Kenny's body.

Now in cold storage alongside Dakotas. Two deaths in less than a week. The company would have. Questions, Many questions. As the others continued their preparations, I decided to make one final walk through the rig.

Five years of my life. Had been spent on these metal walkways and in these cramped rooms. Despite everything that had happened, there was a part of me that would miss it. I walked slowly, listening. The normal sounds of the rig.

The hum of generators, the distant clang of metal, the creak of the structure as it shifted with the waves. We're all present. But the knocking was gone. I stopped several times, holding my breath, waiting. Nothing.

When I reached the corridor leading to the officers quarters, I saw the yellow security tape across Kenny's door. I stood there, remembering how he'd looked when we found him, the fear frozen on his face, the gun still in his hand, the blood standing there. I felt something lift from my shoulders, attention I hadn't realized I was carrying eased.

Kenny had pushed us all too hard, had treated Dakota like he was disposable, had valued production over safety. And something, whatever had caused that knocking, had made him pay for it. I turned away from the sealed door and headed back toward my quarters to pack my own things. As I walked, I noticed the sky darkening through a porthole.

Night was falling on the horizon, deep one last time. The next morning, we gathered on the helipad with our bags and equipment. The sky was clear, the sea relatively calm. We stood in silence, watching the horizon for the approaching helicopter there, Kaden said, pointing to a small dot in the distance. As the dot grew larger, becoming the unmistakable shape of our rescue, I.

Felt both relief. And unease wash over me. I was leaving the horizon deep. Behind, but I knew I would never truly escape it the knocking Dakota's face, Kenny's suicide, these. Things would follow me.

Back to Land would visit me in dreams for years to come. The helicopter grew larger, its rotors cutting through the morning air. The wind from its approach whipped across the helipad, forcing us to hold onto our gear. I looked around at the faces of the crew. Chad stoic expression, Kelly's quiet determination, Glenn's weathered relief, Caden's haunted eyes, and knew that none of us would ever forget what happened here.

The helicopter hovered above the helipad, preparing to land. I took one last look at the. Rig that had been my home and my nightmare. The horizon deep would. Continue to stand above the ocean.

But its secrets would leave with. Us. I boarded the evacuation helicopter, settling between Chad and Cali. As we lifted off from the horizon deep, my legs felt heavy, like I was moving through water instead of air, but I. Managed to secure my.

Safety harness With practiced movements, the roar of the rotors drowned out any possibility of conversation as we rose into the morning sky. Through the window. I watched the oil rig grow smaller against the vast ocean. From this height, the massive structure that had dominated my life for months looked like a child's toy, fragile and insignificant against the endless blue.

The morning sun caught on the metal surfaces, making them flash like warning signals. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had reached up from the depths to claim justice, not just for Dakota, but for all of us who had suffered under Kenny's dangerous leadership. The. Timing of it all seemed. Too perfect to be coincidental.

First the knocking that wouldn't stop, then Dakota's body appearing exactly where I'd seen his face, and finally Kenny taking his own life with that haunting note. The sea had its own rules. Its own way of balancing accounts, Chad. Sat rigid beside. Me.

His large frame barely contained by the helicopter seat. Cali. Kept her eyes. Forward, her hands gripping the edge of her seat so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Behind us, Gibson maintained his professional composure, but the tightness around his eyes told me he was processing everything that had happened.

Glenn and Kaden sat. Furthest back, both looking out their respective windows, lost in their own thoughts. As the rig disappeared from. View I closed my eyes, exhausted but alive the constant tension of the past days crashed over me like a wave, leaving me drained the. Knocking had stopped.

But I knew I would hear it in my dreams for years to come. That rhythmic pattern 3 knocks pause 3 knocks had burned itself into my memory. Chad squeezed my shoulder in silent understanding. When I. Opened my eyes.

He gave me a slight nod, but didn't speak. What could any of us say? We'd experienced something beyond explanation, something that would sound like madness to anyone who hadn't been there. The helicopter banked toward the mainland, carrying us away from the horizon, deep and its secrets. The ocean stretched out below us, deceptively calm and beautiful.

From this height I. Thought about how many? Times I'd looked out at that same water, never considering what might lie beneath the surface or what forces might be at work in its depths, I realized I'd never look at the ocean the same way again. It wasn't. Just a workplace.

Or a barrier between rig and shore Anymore. It had become something alive in my mind, something conscious and watchful. Something that remembered. Cali leaned toward me, her voice barely audible over the helicopter noise. Do you think anyone will?

Believe what happened. I shook my head. Does it matter? We know. She nodded and returned.

To looking forward. I glanced. Around at my fellow. Crew members, all of us, forever connected by what we'd experienced. Whatever force had manifested in those knocks had achieved its purpose.

Kenny. Was gone. Dakota had been found and the rest of us were leaving with our lives, if not our Peace of Mind. I was a survivor now, carrying the story of what happened when a man pushed too hard against the unforgiving sea and the people who worked upon it. The evidence would be in the incident reports in Dakota's body, with no signs of drowning in Kenny's suicide note.

But the truth, the real truth of what had happened on the horizon, Deep would live. Only in the memories. Of those of us in this helicopter, as the mainland appeared on the horizon, I felt the weight of that responsibility settle on my shoulders. Some stories weren't meant to be told, only remembered some.

Warnings weren't meant to. Be shouted, only whispered, and some forces weren't meant to be understood, only respected.