The fibers slip through Jake’s fingers for the third time, loosening with a quiet, humiliating snap.

“Great,” he mutters, staring at the half-made net sagging uselessly in his lap. Thick blue fingers try again, slower now, mimicking the Metkayina elder’s movements he’d watched an hour ago. Twist. Loop. Pull. Wrong. The knot collapses like it never wanted to exist in the first place.

Jake exhales through his nose and glances up instinctively.

Down by the shallows, Tuk’s laughter carries across the water. She’s knee-deep in the lagoon, splashing with a cluster of Metkayina kids, braids flying, completely fearless. Jake’s eyes linger a second longer than necessary before he looks back to the net, jaw tightening.

“Learned how to field-strip a rifle in the rain,” he grumbles quietly, not looking at you. “Could build a perimeter in my sleep. But this?” He lifts the mess of fibers with two fingers. “This thing’s got a personal vendetta.”