Into theabyss.
Follow Lumi, a moon-jelly no bigger than your hand, eleven kilometres down — through light, twilight and the endless dark — to the deepest point on Earth.
Where the light still reaches.
Ninety percent of ocean life crowds into this thin, sunlit band. A school of sardines wheels around Lumi — then scatters as she sinks past the last of the sun.
The twilight begins to glow.
Blue fades to black. Lanternfish blink their photophores in code, and Lumi's rim lights up for the first time — down here, you make your own light.
Something is watching.
A lure bobs in the dark. The anglerfish drifts closer — and Lumi fires her burglar alarm: a spinning ring of blue light that calls in bigger predators. The angler thinks better of it.
A forty-metre string of lights.
A siphonophore — thousands of clones moving as one — trails past like a city seen from a plane. Marine snow falls forever. Lumi just keeps sinking.
The trench breathes heat.
The walls close in. Hydrothermal vents pour black smoke at 400 °C, tube worms sway in the warmth, and a ghostly snailfish keeps Lumi company at the bottom of the world.