Leviathan (2026) – First Trailer | Dwayne Johnson, Charlize Theron | Concept Trailer

The storm did not arrive suddenly.

It had been building for days, a low pressure coiling beneath the horizon, invisible yet heavy, as if the ocean itself were holding its breath. The research vessel Aegir cut through the blackened water like a blade, its reinforced hull groaning with every swell. Waves rose higher than expected, not wild, but deliberate—slow, massive, and unnervingly rhythmic.

Evelyn Ward stood at the bow, fingers white around the railing, her eyes fixed on the sea. She had sailed through storms before—cyclones, rogue waves, nights when the stars vanished and survival became instinct. But this felt different. The water beneath them wasn’t just angry. It felt… awake.

Behind her, Edward Hale adjusted the harpoon rig, checking the tension cables for the third time. He was a seasoned ocean hunter turned deep-sea tactician, a man who trusted preparation over prayer. Yet even he couldn’t ignore the way the compass needle jittered, spinning as if confused by something far below.

“It’s bigger than anything we imagined,” Evelyn said quietly, not turning around.

Edward followed her gaze. The sea ahead pulsed with a faint, unnatural glow—deep blue, almost bioluminescent, spreading beneath the surface like veins of light. The waves trembled, not crashing, but vibrating, as if something colossal shifted beneath them.

“The sea itself is reacting,” he said. “Which means it’s close.”

A low sound rolled through the water. Not thunder. Not wind.

A resonance.

The Aegir shuddered.

Evelyn felt it through her boots, up her spine, straight into her chest. “We can still turn back,” she said, though she knew they wouldn’t.

Edward met her eyes. “I face death in every storm, Evelyn. But this…” He exhaled slowly. “This is on another level.”

They had known the legends. Sailors whispered of it in broken languages, scientists dismissed it as myth, sonar anomalies, pressure hallucinations. A creature older than recorded history. A living force tied to the deep trenches where light had never survived.

They called it Leviathan.

The glow intensified.

Then the water split.

A massive shape rose beneath the surface, scales the size of buildings sliding against one another like tectonic plates. An eye opened—vast, luminous, ancient—fixing on the Aegir with terrifying awareness.

“It’s watching us,” Evelyn whispered.

The creature did not roar. It did not thrash.

It observed.

Edward tightened his grip on the harpoon launcher. “Steady your aim. Every shot counts.”

The wind screamed now, the storm fully awakened, rain slicing sideways like glass. Waves towered above the deck, crashing down with bone-rattling force. The ship tilted violently, alarms blaring.

Evelyn staggered, then braced herself. “We can’t back down.”

Edward nodded once. “Then we don’t.”

The Leviathan moved.

A single sweep of its submerged body displaced enough water to lift the Aegir and slam it sideways. Metal shrieked. Crew members shouted below deck, scrambling to keep systems online.

Evelyn locked onto the harpoon sight, heart pounding. Through the rain and chaos, she could see the creature’s eye again, glowing brighter, closer.

“Look at the scale,” she breathed. “It’s colossal.”

“We have one chance,” Edward said, his voice sharp and controlled despite the chaos. “Hit it. Hit it hard.”

He stepped beside her, aligning his stance with hers, guiding her aim through instinct and experience. “I’ll take the lead. Follow my movement.”

The ocean surged again, waves exploding against the hull. The Leviathan’s presence pressed against them like gravity itself.

“It’s not just a beast,” Evelyn said, her voice steady now, sharpened by resolve. “It’s the power of the deep. Alive in every wave. Every shadow.”

Edward met her gaze, rain streaming down his face. “But we’re not powerless.”

The storm howled.

The Leviathan rose higher.

And for the first time, Evelyn understood—this battle would not be about victory or defeat.

It would be about whether humanity still had a place in a world ruled by ancient gods of the sea.

The ocean changed first.

It was not the waves—storms had taught them that water could rise and fall like a living thing. It was the silence beneath it. The deep sonar screens aboard the Aegir flickered, then steadied, then began to scream with readings that made no sense.

Edward Hale leaned closer to the console, his jaw tightening.
“That’s not terrain,” he said quietly. “That’s movement.”

Evelyn Carter stood beside him, gripping the railing as the ship lurched. Rain lashed her face like needles, but she didn’t look away from the water. The sea around them glowed faintly—veins of cold blue light pulsing beneath the surface, as if the ocean itself had veins.

“Bioluminescence at that scale is impossible,” she said. “Unless—”

“Unless it’s alive,” Edward finished.

The storm intensified without warning. Wind roared across the deck, tearing at cables and equipment. The Aegir groaned, metal protesting as waves slammed into her hull. Somewhere below, something vast shifted.

Then the water parted.

Not erupted—opened.

A shape rose slowly, deliberately, pushing aside millions of tons of ocean as if it were mist. Plates of blackened scale emerged first, each one the size of a small building, etched with glowing fissures that pulsed in rhythm with the waves. The crew froze. Some whispered prayers. Others couldn’t speak at all.

Evelyn felt her breath leave her lungs.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “It’s… watching us.”

An eye surfaced.

Not round. Not human. A vertical slit of molten gold, ringed with ancient scars and glowing veins. It fixed on the ship with terrifying awareness. Not hunger. Not rage.

Recognition.

The Leviathan had found them.

The sea trembled as a sound rolled through the water—not a roar, but something deeper, older. It vibrated through bone and steel alike. The ship’s lights flickered.

Edward grabbed Evelyn’s shoulder. “Focus. Steady your aim. Every harpoon counts.”

She nodded, forcing her hands to stop shaking as she moved toward the mounted launcher. The weapon looked laughably small now—steel and cable against something that had survived millennia beneath crushing pressure.

The Leviathan shifted, its colossal body circling them beneath the waves. The water churned into a massive whirlpool, pulling the Aegir toward its center.

“We’re being herded,” Evelyn said. “It’s controlling the currents.”

Edward’s mind raced. “It’s not attacking yet.”

“Why?”

Before he could answer, the Leviathan surged upward again. This time, part of its head breached fully, water cascading off ancient ridges. The glow intensified, bathing the storm in eerie blue light.

And then—impact.

A wave struck the ship broadside, snapping a crane clean off the deck. Men were thrown to the ground. Alarms screamed.

Evelyn slammed into the railing, pain exploding up her arm. Edward reached her just in time, pulling her back as another surge ripped across the deck.

“This is it,” he shouted over the wind. “We have one chance.”

The Leviathan dove.

The ocean followed.

The Aegir dropped violently as the water beneath her vanished, pulled downward by the creature’s mass. For a heartbeat, they were weightless.

Then Edward saw it.

The eye—directly beneath them, glowing brighter than before.

“Look at the scale,” Evelyn breathed. “Edward… it’s colossal.”

“Hit it,” he said. “Hit it hard.”

She hesitated—not from fear, but from understanding. This wasn’t a mindless beast. This was a force of the deep, alive in every wave, every shadow.

“It’s not just a monster,” she said. “It’s the ocean’s memory.”

Edward met her gaze. Rain streamed down his face, but his eyes were clear.
“And we’re not powerless,” he said. “We have each other.”

The ship lurched again. The Leviathan began to rise, coiling, preparing to strike.

Evelyn set her stance, hands steady on the launcher.

“If it wants a fight,” she said, voice shaking but resolute, “we’ll give it one.”

Edward nodded, gripping the secondary controls.
“The storm doesn’t own us,” he said. “We own the storm.”

The eye locked onto them.

The Leviathan surged upward, water exploding into the air as the sea itself seemed to rise with it.

“It’s coming,” Evelyn whispered.

Edward shouted, “Now!”

She fired.

The harpoon tore through the rain, trailing steel cable and sparks, vanishing straight into the glowing abyss beneath the waves.

The ocean screamed.

And the Leviathan answered.

The Leviathan rose.

Not all at once—because nothing that ancient ever hurried—but in segments, like a continent remembering how to breathe. The ocean convulsed as layers of its body broke the surface, each scale larger than the hull of Edward’s ship, each glowing vein pulsing with a cold, otherworldly light. The storm seemed to bow to it. Waves bent inward, spiraling toward the monster as if gravity itself had chosen a new master.

Evelyn stood frozen at the bow, harpoon launcher braced against her shoulder.

“Oh God…” she whispered.

Edward grabbed her arm. “Don’t look at all of it. Look at the eye.”

The eye emerged last.

It was vast—an abyss within an abyss—ringed with bioluminescent scars that glowed like ancient runes. When it opened fully, the sea went silent for a single, impossible heartbeat. In that moment, Evelyn understood something terrifying:

The Leviathan was not hunting them.

It was measuring them.

The ship lurched violently as a tentacle the size of a lighthouse slammed into the water beside them. The impact sent a wall of foam crashing over the deck, ripping equipment loose and throwing Edward against the railing.

“Edward!” Evelyn screamed.

He staggered back to his feet, blood running from his temple. “I’m fine. Load the second harpoon. Now!”

The creature’s low-frequency roar rolled through the water, vibrating through bone and steel alike. Evelyn felt it in her chest, in her teeth, in her memories—visions flashed uninvited: drowned cities, broken fleets, civilizations erased without malice or hatred. The Leviathan was not evil.

It was inevitability.

Another tentacle struck—this time directly beneath the ship. The deck tilted sharply, alarms screaming as water poured in through ruptured seams.

“We’re losing buoyancy!” Evelyn shouted.

Edward slammed his hand against the console. “We don’t outrun it. We wound it.”

The eye turned.

Focused.

The Leviathan’s gaze locked onto Evelyn.

Her breath caught. For a split second, she felt seen—not just her body, but her fear, her love, her resolve. The creature’s glow intensified, the water around it boiling as if reality itself was straining.

Edward followed her stare. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “That’s our one chance.”

The harpoon launcher hummed as it charged, its tip crackling with electromagnetic energy designed to pierce reinforced hulls—not gods of the deep.

Evelyn’s hands shook.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Edward stepped beside her, placing his hand over hers, steadying the aim. “Then we still make it count.”

The Leviathan moved.

A massive wave surged toward them, towering like a liquid mountain. The ship screamed as it climbed the wall of water, engines howling in protest.

“NOW!” Edward roared.

Evelyn fired.

The harpoon screamed through the storm, a spear of steel and defiance. Time seemed to slow as it crossed the distance—then struck.

Directly into the eye.

The ocean exploded.

A shockwave ripped outward, flattening waves, tearing clouds apart. The Leviathan roared—not in pain alone, but in fury. The eye convulsed, leaking radiant light as the harpoon embedded deep, cables trailing behind it like veins torn from flesh.

“It’s hit!” Evelyn cried. “We hit it!”

The creature thrashed, its massive body coiling beneath the surface. The sea became chaos—whirlpools forming instantly, waves colliding from impossible angles. The ship spun violently, mast snapping, systems failing one by one.

Then—sudden stillness.

The Leviathan sank.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

Edward stared at the water, chest heaving. “No… it’s not retreating.”

The glow beneath the waves intensified, spreading outward, illuminating the abyss like a rising sun.

Evelyn felt it then—a deep, primal certainty.

“We didn’t kill it,” she whispered.

Edward nodded grimly. “We woke it.”

Beneath them, the ocean began to rise again.

And this time, the Leviathan was no longer testing humanity.

It was answering it.

The sea did not calm after the strike.

If anything, it grew more alive.

The harpoon Edward had fired still burned like a fallen star beneath the waves, its energy tether biting into the Leviathan’s flesh. The ocean boiled around it, currents twisting into violent spirals, waves colliding as if the water itself were arguing over whether to obey the creature or the storm.

The Leviathan rose.

Not fully—never fully—but enough.

Its eye broke the surface.

It was larger than their ship’s hull, luminous and ancient, glowing with a pale blue light that pulsed like a heartbeat. When it opened, the sea seemed to inhale. Every wave froze for a fraction of a second, suspended in reverence or fear.

Evelyn felt it then.

Not just danger—but awareness.

“It’s looking at us,” she whispered.

Edward tightened his grip on the railing. “No,” he said hoarsely. “It’s judging us.”

The ship groaned as the Leviathan shifted beneath them. Steel screamed. Bolts rattled loose. One of the engines coughed and died, smoke pouring into the storm-dark sky.

Jack shouted from below deck, his voice distorted by wind and chaos. “We’re losing power! Hull breach on the port side! We can’t take another hit!”

Another wave slammed into them, nearly tearing Evelyn from her feet. Edward caught her, pulling her close as the deck tilted dangerously.

For a moment, everything narrowed to breath and heartbeat.

“This was never about killing it,” Evelyn said suddenly, realization cutting through the panic. “It guards something. The trench. The fault line. Every time ships vanish—it’s not hunting. It’s defending.”

Edward stared at the creature’s eye, memories crashing together—the ancient charts, the warnings carved into stone tablets, the sonar gaps that no technology could explain.

“The Leviathan isn’t a monster,” he said slowly. “It’s a boundary.”

The eye flared brighter.

The water around the ship began to glow.

Edward made a decision.

“Jack,” he shouted into the comm. “Cut the tether.”

There was a pause. “Are you insane?” Jack yelled back. “That’s our only leverage!”

“If we keep pulling,” Edward said, never taking his eyes off the Leviathan, “we provoke it. If we let go… we talk.”

Evelyn searched his face. “You’re gambling with our lives.”

Edward met her gaze. “We already have been.”

Another tremor shook the ship—stronger this time. The Leviathan’s body coiled beneath the surface, vast and patient, like a god waiting to see what mortals would choose.

Evelyn nodded once. “Do it.”

Jack swore—but obeyed.

The tether snapped free.

The harpoon sank, its glow dimming as it fell into the abyss.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the Leviathan moved.

The sea parted.

Not violently—deliberately.

A massive shape slid beneath the ship, lifting it gently, impossibly, until the deck leveled and the storm winds eased. The eye remained fixed on them, unblinking, luminous, ancient beyond comprehension.

Images flooded Evelyn’s mind—cities swallowed by waves, continents shifting, fires beneath the crust of the world. The Leviathan was not bound to this ocean. It was bound to the planet itself.

A warden.

A reminder.

Edward felt it too—the weight of time pressing against his thoughts, a warning etched not in words but in instinct.

Then, slowly, the Leviathan sank.

The glow faded. The waves softened. The storm did not vanish—but it loosened its grip, as if releasing a held breath.

Silence fell.

The ocean was still watching—but no longer hostile.

Jack’s voice came through the comm, shaken. “We’re… floating. Engines are stabilizing. Damage control is holding.”

Evelyn sank to her knees, exhausted, soaked, trembling.

Edward stood at the bow, staring into the dark water.

“We survived,” she said.

“Yes,” Edward replied quietly. “But it let us.”

Far below, something massive shifted—once, twice—before disappearing into the deep.

No carcass.
No proof.
Only the sea.

As dawn began to bleed into the horizon, Evelyn joined Edward at the rail.

“What do we tell the world?” she asked.

Edward watched the waves roll on, innocent and endless. “The truth,” he said. “That some forces aren’t meant to be conquered.”

Evelyn exhaled. “And will they listen?”

Edward didn’t answer.

Because far beneath them, deeper than light, deeper than fear, the Leviathan’s eye opened once more—watching, waiting.

The storm had passed.

The warning had not.

And the ocean still remembered.