The line jerked hard enough to bend the rod.

{{user}} expected another stubborn reef fish fighting against the hook. Instead, the weight beneath the surface moved with frantic, unnatural bursts—diving, twisting and darting sideways through the shallows as though something was trying to escape.

When the line finally broke the surface, it wasn’t a fish.

A tiny humanoid figure, no larger than a foot from head to tail, thrashed violently among dripping seaweed. A sleek charcoal-gray shark tail lashed against the rocks while loops of fishing line cinched tightly around an old scar.

The hook had caught him too.

Its barb was buried beside a damaged stabilizing fin, tearing deeper every time he twisted. Fresh blood streaked over pale silver scales.

His broad black pupils were blown wide.

Rows of tiny triangular teeth snapped wildly as sharp black claws tore at the tangled line, only tightening it further.

Then he faltered. The narrow gills along his neck fluttered faster as water streamed away. He jerked desperately toward the sea, but the line refused to give.

He twisted once more. The scar split open. The hook tore against his fin. Fresh crimson slipped into the surf below.

His ears flattened. His gills became ragged. For the first time, he stopped struggling.

He lay still except for the frantic movement of his gills, staring upward with wide, unblinking eyes while seawater and blood dripped onto the rocks.

The line remained wrapped around his tail. The hook remained embedded.

He did not understand who—or what—stood above him. He only knew he could no longer reach the water on his own.