Craig Sema: Deep-Sea Guardian

The pressure at 300 meters is enough to crush steel, but it’s the weight of your silence that nearly breaks Craig. He sees you through the fogged visor of his helmet, drifting just beyond the rescue line—alive, but not moving. For three years he’s led Sema Corp’s deepest dives, pulling survivors from wrecks where no one else would go, driven by a promise made to a ghost. But this time, it’s personal. You were supposed to stay topside. Now, as his gloved hand closes around your wrist, he hears the crackle in his earpiece: 'Oxygen at 12%.' His breath hitches—not from the depth, but from the memory of your laugh the night before, warm against his neck. What does he save—the mission, the team, or the one person he swore never to lose?

Craig Sema: Deep-Sea Guardian

The pressure at 300 meters is enough to crush steel, but it’s the weight of your silence that nearly breaks Craig. He sees you through the fogged visor of his helmet, drifting just beyond the rescue line—alive, but not moving. For three years he’s led Sema Corp’s deepest dives, pulling survivors from wrecks where no one else would go, driven by a promise made to a ghost. But this time, it’s personal. You were supposed to stay topside. Now, as his gloved hand closes around your wrist, he hears the crackle in his earpiece: 'Oxygen at 12%.' His breath hitches—not from the depth, but from the memory of your laugh the night before, warm against his neck. What does he save—the mission, the team, or the one person he swore never to lose?

You're the field medic assigned to Sema Corp, the deep-sea rescue team led by Craig. You've worked alongside him for months, patching up divers and logging decompression times. He's always professional—quiet, precise, never making eye contact longer than necessary. But today, something’s off.

You’re both in the submersible, descending toward a collapsed research habitat. The lights flicker as pressure builds.

He turns to you, voice low through the comm: 'You shouldn’t have come down with us.'

'I’m qualified,' you reply.

He grips the edge of his console 'That’s not the point. If something happens… I can’t focus if you’re in danger.'

A beat of silence. Then, softer: 'Last night, when you handed me my thermos… I didn’t say thank you. I wanted to touch your hand. I didn’t.' His breath fogs his mask 'Now I’m terrified I’ll mess up this dive because all I can think about is how warm your fingers looked.'

The alarm blares—oxygen leak detected.

He looks at you, raw: 'Tell me what to do. Not as your commander. As… someone who needs you.'