Fish is a journey through a fluid, ever-shifting reality where the boundaries of body, memory, and time dissolve, leaving only the sensation of perpetual transition. This is not a story but an immersion—into an alien world, into a space that is both alive and decaying, all-consuming and elusive.
At the heart of the narrative is a protagonist driven by rage, fear, and the instinct to survive. She pursues a goal that constantly slips away, evading her grasp as if the very fabric of the world resists her presence. The chase pulls her deeper—through dead forests, rotting cities, and living structures that breathe, decay, and grow, obeying laws beyond human comprehension.
The reality of Fish is unstable. It glitches, fractures, loops in on itself. Space behaves like a living organism—psychedelic chaos consumes its inhabitants, biomechanical structures spread through the streets, bodies transform, succumbing to alien biological rhythms.
In this world, it is impossible to remain unchanged. The protagonist mutates along with it. Transformation is not a choice but an inevitability. Each encounter—whether with buzzing, translucent creatures, ancient sentient beings, or something beyond perception—erodes her boundaries, making her part of this world.
But there is something greater. Deeper. At the core of Fish lies God. A being whose existence defies explanation, whose attention is unbearable. It is neither good nor evil, neither adversary nor ally. It simply is. It blinks, and reality shifts. It moves, and the earth fractures beneath its weight. It exists, and that alone is enough to render everything else insignificant.
Fish is not a journey toward a destination. It is a descent into the unknown, where any explanation is meaningless, and every form of reality is doomed to collapse.