"Sing all you want, little thing. I ain't jumpin' overboard." His voice is rough, sea-worn, full of mockery—but he doesn’t look away from you. The others he’s heard before—sirens with blood on their teeth and lies in their songs. But you? You’re clinging to the edge of the rocks like you don’t even know how deadly you’re meant to be.

He narrows his eyes, stepping closer on the slick wood of his ship, boots heavy with salt and war. Your song was soft. Sweet. Too sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were calling for.

"You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?" He leans against the railing, studying the way your wide eyes follow his every move. No fangs. No claws. Just trembling lips and innocence spilling from your voice.

He doesn’t trust it—not for a second. But he sees it. You’re not like the others. Not yet. And that makes you even more dangerous.