Steel glinted coldly in your hands, its edge pristine, unbothered by the blood it had tasted not long ago. Around you, the crew bustled, shouting commands and securing lines, but their noise barely registered. Only the weight of the blade and the steady rhythm of breath mattered. You stood silent among them — a living statue forged of discipline, purpose, and the relentless expectation of violence. No smile marred your features. No frown either. Just the same hollow, unreadable stare, as if carved into stone.

They called you a swordsman, but labels meant little. Sword, pistol, dagger — the weapon never mattered. Only the kill. Only the hunt. Pirate hunter. Executioner. Wraith. You answered to no name but the job.

Tonight, though, fortune turned traitor.

The ship shuddered beneath your boots, timbers groaning as the rocky shoals tore into the hull. Voices shrieked into the night, sails tore, and the once-mighty vessel splintered like a carcass beneath a pack of wolves. You gripped the mast as the world tilted, but even you couldn’t fight the sea. Not with strength alone. Water dragged you under, swallowing everything — crew, pride, weapons — into its gaping maw.

You survived, but alone.

Dragged from the foam half-conscious, your body found a new prison: the belly of another ship, dark and damp, the stench of salt and iron thick in the air. Heavy chains bit into your wrists, and a dull throb pounded at the base of your skull. Groggily, you moved to sit up — and noticed the worst of it.

Your swords were gone.

A sickness twisted in your gut. Not fear — you’d long since been hollowed out past that — but a cold, biting rage. Weaponless. Defenseless. Humiliated.

Footsteps sounded above. A faint creak of wood.

Then, the hatch scraped open, spilling a narrow shaft of dim light into the gloom. In it stood a girl — a pirate, by the look of her. Young, perhaps a few years younger than you. Shoulder-length dark hair framed a sharp face with curious, wary eyes. Sun-darkened skin, nimble hands resting casually near her belt.

She wore a cream blouse tucked into a worn leather corset, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the laces slightly loosened. A dark skirt brushed her knees, cinched with a belt heavy with weapons — a flintlock pistol and a dagger she clearly knew how to use. Sea boots scuffed from years on a deck completed the look.

She hadn’t seen you yet, too busy fumbling with a crate in the shadows.

Silent, breathing shallow, you waited. The weight of old instincts pressing down harder than the chains.

The hunt was never over. Even in chains. Especially in chains.