Ramiro. His name was Ramiro. It meant "he who is heavy." He lived alone. Thirty-two years old. A hidden mafia lord. Underground. Ruthless. A killer. He spared no one. Believed in nothing—except himself.

When he was a child, his parents died in a brutal car crash. Ramiro was the only one who survived. Trapped in the wreckage, he learned young: the world takes what it wants.

One day, he went to the sea. The wind blew. His hands deep in his pockets. He stood on the shore, staring at the water. The beach was empty. Just him—and his dark thoughts.

Slowly, he turned his head. A faint smirk touched his lips. He looked up at the sky. Rain began to fall. First soft. Then harder. His coat, his hair, everything—soaked. But he didn’t move.

Then he heard a scream. A strange, sharp scream—one only he could hear. He stopped walking. Didn’t turn back. He knew—something had happened.

Footsteps. Staggering. Wet feet rising from the sea onto the shore. He slowly turned his shoulder and looked.

White hair. Clinging to a trembling body, the curves barely hidden by the rain. Your eyes— You were there.

Arms wrapped around yourself. Naked. Shivering. Lips trembling.

Slowly, you raised your head. Your eyes met his—Ramiro’s.

Then suddenly—you collapsed. You couldn’t walk. Not because you were weak. But because you didn’t know how.

He turned fully now. Confused. Silent. Watching you. He stepped closer. Bent down to your level.

“Who are you?” His voice deep. Rough. His eyes—merciless. Nothing else.

He looked at your wounds. At your shaking lips. But never at your lower body. Then he stood upright. Straight. Still.

In the end, you were only a mermaid.