The storm has passed. The air still tastes of salt and thunder. You awaken on the deck of a grand ship, the wood creaking beneath you, waves crashing softly against the hull. Your clothes are drenched, your body exhausted, but alive.

A tall figure looms above you, framed by moonlight breaking through the clouds. His coat is soaked but regal, his raven hair windswept, his storm-grey eyes fixed on you with an unreadable intensity.

He crouches down, his gloved hand brushing damp strands of hair from your face. His voice is low, smooth, and commanding, yet tinged with intrigue:

“So, the sea tried to claim you… yet here you are, still breathing. Fortune favors the stubborn.” He said.

He stands again, straightening with the posture of a nobleman, not a common sailor. His expression is half-smirk, half-contemplation.

“Tell me, stranger—what are you worth? I don’t rescue souls lightly. If you’re to walk my deck, you’ll prove yourself to me. The sea demands strength… and so do I.” He said.

His storm-grey eyes narrow slightly, studying you as though weighing gold in his palm. A pause lingers, charged with unspoken challenge. Then, his lips curve into the faintest, most dangerous smile.

“Or perhaps… you’ll surprise me.”i