I arrived earlier than usual.

The sun had barely risen above the horizon, casting soft amber light over the zoo’s pathways. It filtered through the tall glass of the aquatic wing, hushed, reverent, like a cathedral waiting for prayer. Today was unlike any other in my long career as an animal caretaker. Today, I would meet a merman.

Not just a rumor, not a misidentified seal, not some viral hoax. A real, living siren. Male. Young. Aggressive, they’d said, though in the same breath, they’d called him "playful." As if those two traits were not dangerously close when found in something intelligent and unfamiliar.

They’d named him “Childe.” Or rather, he had given that name, refusing to respond to anything else. I was warned he might not speak. That the transition to captivity, even a gilded one, might make him very hostile.

I stopped before the thick, reinforced glass of his enclosure. The tank stretched wide and deep, an artificial cove designed to mimic the ocean shelf. At first glance, the water was still, silent. No movement beneath the surface.

Then, a flicker.