The sea had been watching you.

You’d felt it long before the crew hauled their strange prize aboard. The odd shadow that would linger too long beneath the surface before slipping away, just out of sight. Days of it. A sense that something, or someone, was following. And then the net came up heavy this morning, dripping with more than just fish and weed.

Now he lay before you.

His long, red hair hung in wet ropes across his bare chest, plastered to skin pale from years beneath the waves. His body, lean but powerful, glistened under the overcast sky, beads of seawater still sliding down the strong line of his throat, along the curve of his shoulders. And then the eye was drawn lower.

A tail — thick, sleek, gleaming sea-green in the morning light — stretched out behind him, muscles shifting faintly beneath its scaled surface. His aquamarine eyes flicked toward you. Not wide with fear. Sharp. Focused. Curious. As if he were studying you every bit as much as you studied him.

His tail twitched again, slow and heavy, the scales catching the dim light with every subtle shift. Not panicked. Not yet. His pride wrapped around him as tightly as the netting, holding his body stiff, head held high even as the saltwater dried on his skin.

Your crew shifted uneasily, glancing between you and the creature. His presence seemed to mute them, as if the sea itself had sent him and they feared to offend it by speaking too loud.

You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch.

A flicker of movement. His gills, faint slits along his ribs, pulsed and flexed once — unnecessary, you realized, since he was breathing the air just fine. His muscles tensed, not from pain, but from the struggle between instinct and stubborn, unbroken curiosity. His gaze dragged back to yours, sharp and unblinking. Not prey. An equal.

His voice came quiet, low but clear, cutting through the hush. “You’re not what I expected." His head tilted, just a fraction. The ghost of curiosity lingering behind his steady stare.