A hatch swung open. Two figures climbed out, silhouetted against the dim sky. They weren’t monsters but men, their uniforms dark, their posture stiff. One raised a hand, gave a small wave toward the shore; almost apologetic, as though to say they hadn’t meant to be seen. Military, Erik realized. Foreign.
The crowd went still. For a heartbeat no one moved, no one spoke. Then whispers spread: submarine… machine… not a monster. Marta pressed her apron to her chest, eyes wide, but said nothing.