Whispers from Setia 7

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0645 hrs — Chester

The bunkroom light snapped on with a sharp, electric buzz, a piercing jolt that dragged Chester Wong from the shallow clutches of restless sleep. He groaned, the sound thick with exhaustion and frustration, rolling over and slinging an arm over his face, as if darkness could be summoned by sheer defiance. The stale air pressed down on him, heavy with the acrid stench of old socks, ingrained engine grease, and the sour musk of men confined too long—an olfactory reminder of days blurring into one another, of a life suspended in monotony.

Blinking against the harsh glare, his gaze settled on the stained ceiling tiles above, their discolored patches a constellation of someone else's neglect. Same cramped bunk. Same persistent groan in his spine like an echo from yesterday—and the day before. Two more weeks. The thought landed heavy, a bitter weight in his chest, as though time itself mocked him with its sluggish pace.

With a sigh laced with resignation, he sat up, fingers absently scratching at his chest, tracing the faint line of his happy trail where salt had settled like a crystalline map of his discomfort. The dried sweat flaked under his nails, brittle and unkind, much like the days that stretched ahead. His coveralls hung askew on a rusted hook, damp and sagging, a reflection of his own mood.

He pulled them on without ceremony, leaving the zipper halfway undone, his bare chest an afterthought in the sterile chill. Staring into the cracked mirror bolted above the dented sink, he caught his own reflection—tired eyes shadowed by the ghosts of sleepless nights, jaw tight with unspoken thoughts. With a hollow chuckle, he muttered to the emptiness around him, "Morning, princess," the sarcasm thin armor against the creeping weariness etched deeper than his reflection could show.

In the cracked, grime-smeared mirror above the rust-streaked sink, his reflection glared back—skin sallow under flickering fluorescent lights, eyes hollowed by endless days adrift. A face caught between decay and defiant charm. A grim symmetry: half-dead, half-handsome.

The narrow galley felt more like a steel coffin than a place to gather. The sour stench of stale coffee mixed with the sharp bite of marine diesel, seeping into every crevice, impossible to escape. The ancient percolator hissed and sputtered, struggling against its own obsolescence. Tina sat curled tightly in the corroded corner, her hoodie drawn like armor against the oppressive closeness. She hunched over a battered notebook, scratching lines with frantic precision, lost in a world far from the creaking hull. He gave her a nod—a brittle gesture in the suffocating silence. She didn't notice.

Captain Morten loomed by the salt-streaked porthole, his figure rigid against the dim light filtering through the gray, churning waves. His bloodshot eyes were vacant, swallowed by the endless monotony outside, as if he'd already drifted beyond the physical confines of the ship.

Chester took a sip of the acrid brew, the bitter taste anchoring him, if only slightly. The cup trembled faintly in his hand. "Two more weeks," he muttered into the stale air, his voice brittle, cracking under the weight of confinement. "Then land. Then tits." The words fell flat, lifeless, swallowed by the ship's groaning metal frame and the relentless pulse of the waves—a dull echo in an infinite prison.---

0730 hrs — Johari

Johari Faisal adjusted the headset over one ear, his gaze narrowing at the Engineering Console as it spat out another stream of alerts. Routine noise, he reminded himself—false alarms, just like every other day. The system was old, prone to hiccups and glitches. But today felt different. The lights flickered a beat longer than usual, the vibrations beneath his feet carried an unfamiliar tremor.

On Pelantar Setia 7, everything buzzed—even the silence—but now that constant hum seemed to echo with an undercurrent of tension. The familiar had shifted, and Johari couldn't shake the feeling that buried within the routine static was something real, something waiting.

Johari leaned back in the bolted-down chair, eyes methodically scanning gauges: pressure, flow rate, oxygen sensors—all green. The rhythmic hum of the generator provided a rare sense of calm beneath the ocean's weight.

A sharp knock on the bulkhead disrupted the tranquility.

"Yo," Filza greeted, stepping in with an easy grin, his energy at odds with the sterile monotony of the control room. "Want me to check the B-line valves? They were whining a bit last night."Johari nodded, masking an undercurrent of unease. "Yeah. Take Chester with you. He'll complain, but it builds character."

Filza chuckled, his grin widening. "Think he'll bite me?"

"Only if you call him pretty."

Filza's whistle faded down the corridor, leaving Johari alone again.

Turning back to the screens, Johari's gaze fixed on Subsea Camera 3. A flicker. Just a blink—static, then clarity. He leaned in, muscles tensing slightly. Was that a shape behind the static? Or just tired eyes playing tricks? He logged the anomaly: old cables, saltwater corrosion—routine explanations. But his fingers hesitated on the keyboard, his mind lingering longer than usual.

Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the unease.

Nothing, he told himself.

But the doubt remained, nestled in the quiet hum of the generator.---

1000 hrs — Ahmad

Ahmad Mokhtar crouched beside the tether bay, his gloved hands gripping a worn, rust-speckled tool with practiced precision. Around him, the ROV lines sprawled out in tangled disarray, resembling lifeless veins—strands of steel, braided cords, and salt-stained plastic glinting faintly under the fading light.

This was his favorite part of the day: the quiet moments where solitude wrapped around him like a familiar cloak. Here, with only the rhythmic whisper of the sea and the hum of distant machinery, he felt grounded—alone, yet undeniably useful.

The echoes of a bustling city he'd left behind seemed distant now, buried under layers of salt and time. In this space, far from broken promises and crowded rooms, his purpose was clear, etched into every twist of the tether and every tool in his hand.

The sea beyond the hull groaned low and steady, the pressure of thousands of tons brushing the rig's bones. Ahmad always felt it strongest here. Not sound. Not exactly. More like a presence.

Footsteps clanged above. Chester and Filza bickering about something—probably maintenance grease again.

Ahmad remained silent, his focus unwavering. He ran his fingers along a cable housing, feeling for imperfections. A hairline crack—nothing urgent, but significant enough to note. He scribbled it into the maintenance log, then paused, his hand hovering mid-air as if caught in thought.

How many more of these will we find before something gives? The question flickered in his mind, unspoken but persistent.

Footsteps echoed softly. Subra approached from behind, a helmet tucked under one arm and a welding kit gripped in the other. "You alright with this side?" Subra asked, his voice breaking the stillness. Ahmad gave a quick nod. "Watch the backup tethers. They're prepped for a swap if the pressure spikes." If—such a small word, yet it carried the weight of countless contingencies. Ahmad masked the unease tightening in his chest.

Subra hesitated, shifting the weight of his gear slightly. Then, with a tentative glance, he asked, "You ever… I dunno. Hear stuff? When it's quiet?"

Ahmad turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. Hear stuff? The words echoed internally, stirring memories he'd tried to dismiss. The faint, rhythmic pulsing that wasn't just machinery. The deceptive lull of water pressing against the fragile barrier.

"You mean voices?" Ahmad's tone stayed flat, betraying none of the tension threading through his thoughts. "Not like… full-on ghosts lah," Subra replied quickly, a nervous chuckle undercutting his seriousness. "Just… the water. Sometimes it sounds like it's… breathing."

Ahmad didn't respond—not because he disagreed, but because he had heard it too. And in the silence that followed, that phantom breath seemed to grow louder, filling spaces words couldn't occupy.

---

1230 hrs — Routine

Lunch was white rice and reheated sardines in sambal, the sharp aroma mingling with the faint, salty tang of the sea air trickling through the cracked porthole. Tina sat apart at the corner table, her notebook open, pen dragging lazy spirals, as if mapping out a galaxy only she could see.

Chester sauntered over, tray in hand, his grin the kind that suggested both charm and trouble. "You know," he said, settling into the chair opposite her, "if you keep drawing those spirals, you might accidentally summon something. Hopefully not another staff meeting."

Tina's pen paused mid-spiral. A flicker of amusement danced in her eyes, but she didn't look up. "I was hoping for a sea monster. Less paperwork," she replied dryly, her lips curving slightly before she schooled her expression back to neutral.

Chester leaned forward, elbows on the table, undeterred. "Ah, but can a sea monster appreciate fine company and reheated sardines like I can?" He waggled his eyebrows, making an exaggerated show of savoring the bland meal. She glanced at him briefly then returned to her notebook. "If it can, I'd reconsider my standards."

Zahid and Musa's argument over whose shift it was to clean the valve filters grew louder, their voices ricocheting off the metal walls. Chester used the distraction to steal a peek at Tina's notebook.

"Ah, spirals," he mused. "Is this code for something? Secret mission? Or just avoiding making eye contact with me? Tina finally met his gaze, a slow, deliberate look. "If it were a code, you'd be the last to crack it." Chester laughed, genuine and easy. "Touché. But I'll take that as personal progress."

In the Comms room, Johari and Rahim ran diagnostics. The systems blinked all clear, but the air felt oddly heavy, tinged with dryness, carrying the faint, metallic taste of something unseen. Outside, the sea was calm, deceptively serene beneath the relentless sun.

And though laughter occasionally punctuated the tension, no one held eye contact for long.

---

1930 hrs — Mess Hall

The mess hall buzzed under flickering fluorescents, casting sickly halos over dented metal trays and cracked linoleum. The ceiling fan above the rice steamer groaned with each labored rotation, slicing through stale, humid air. Johari sat in his usual corner booth, wedged between Chester and Ahmad, watching the familiar dance unfold.

Chester broke the silence mid-chew, his grin already forming before the words escaped. "You know what I'm doing first thing when we hit land?"

Johari didn't look up from his plate, letting a slow, deliberate pause hang before raising an eyebrow. "What? Finally buying a toothbrush?"

Chester cackled, undeterred. "Nah. I'm finding me a proper lady. The kind you pay for her time—and tip extra if she moans real sweet." Johari snorted, shaking his head as he speared a piece of overcooked meat. "So… a hooker, then." "Escort," Chester corrected, gesturing grandly with his fork. "Classy. Respectable."

Johari chewed thoughtfully, his voice dry as sun-baked sand. "Sure. Just make sure she doesn't rob you blind while you're busy being 'classy.'" Chester shrugged, grinning wider. "She can rob me blind if she drains me dry. Worth every penny." Johari rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glanced at Ahmad, expecting a snarky retort, but found him staring at his plate, rice untouched.

"I'm going to visit my mother," Ahmad said softly, his voice cutting through the easy banter like a sharp blade. Chester's grin faded slightly. "Yeah? Been a while, huh?" Ahmad nodded, not looking up. "Kept putting it off. This time… I'll go straight from the airport." Silence crept in, thick and awkward. Johari leaned back, crossing his arms, his gaze flicking between his friends.

"Well," he said dryly, "guess we're covering the full spectrum of post-deployment plans—hookers, heartfelt family reunions, and me… probably just sleeping for a week."

The tension cracked, laughter spilling out in uneven bursts. Johari smirked, satisfied, as the mess hall settled back into its familiar hum.

Then Johari leaned back, exhaled slow. "I just want my bed. Curtains drawn. No alarms. Just… silence." Chester grinned. "You mean depression nap."

"Therapeutic coma," Johari corrected.

They all burst into laughter, the sound filling the room like a sudden, bright melody. Yet, amidst the cacophony of chuckles and giggles, their eyes remained elsewhere—averted, gazing into distant corners or unfocused on anything tangible. No one dared to meet another's gaze, as if doing so would unravel the fragile threads holding them together. Each person was silently adrift, carried away by a personal memory, vivid and poignant, casting shadows behind their laughter.

Outside the porthole, the sky was flat. The sea like slate.

Nothing moved.

Not yet.