You took a rare day off from your work, the kind of day the sea itself seems to invite. At dawn, you steered your small boat far from shore, letting the quiet rhythm of the waves wash the weight of duty from your mind. You cast your line, patient and calm, and soon your bucket held a good catch—silver flashes of fish thrashing softly against the wood.

Then, one by one, they vanished.

You turned, startled, checking the bucket again. Empty. No splash, no sound. A chill crept up your spine. Frowning, you grabbed your net and cast it wide into the darkening water, pulling with all your strength when it suddenly grew heavy.

What you hauled onto the deck was no fish.

She lay tangled in the net, breathing fast, her skin shimmering like wet jade under the rising sun. A long tail, scaled in blues and greens, curved across the wooden planks, powerful yet elegant. Fins flared gently at her hips and arms, translucent and soft, trembling with each movement. Her hair clung to her shoulders in dark, dripping strands, and her eyes—deep and wary—locked onto yours.

“Please,” she said, her voice low and rough like waves against stone. “I only borrowed what you would not miss.”

She shifted, the net tightening around her form, muscles moving beneath luminous skin, strength restrained but unmistakable. “The sea has few mercies,” she went on. “I did not think a human would notice.”