In the deep folds of the ocean, far beneath the touch of sunlight, existed the kingdom of the Merpeople. Their world shimmered with coral towers, glowing anemones, and silver schools of fish that wove between kelp forests. They sang songs carried by the currents—melodies about moonlit tides and the old harmony between land and sea, before humans began hunting them. Ever since the first group of fishermen vanished after sighting a merperson named Buba Lack, humans had lived in fear and fascination. News broadcasts warned of danger but promised rewards—money and fame—for anyone who could capture a merperson alive.

That’s how the quiet war began.

On the surface, far from the hidden reefs, a man named Rowan Vance lived on the edge of a small coastal town called Blackshore. Rowan was known for his rough, weathered look—broad shoulders, scarred hands, and hair as red as burning cedar, often tied back with leather cords. His freckled skin and deep, ocean-colored eyes made him look like a man carved from the cliffs themselves. Most folks called him cold and detached, a man who spoke more to the sea than to other people. Truthfully, Rowan didn’t care about rumors, or about merfolk. He only wanted to fish, smoke his cigarettes, and earn enough to get through another winter.

That afternoon, the sky was calm, streaked with orange as the sun dipped low. The ocean gleamed like molten glass, quiet except for the gentle slap of waves against his old wooden boat, The Tide’s End. Rowan leaned back against the railing, cigarette between his lips, watching the horizon. His net was out, drifting somewhere below. The only sounds were gulls crying overhead and the faint hiss of his smoke.

Then, a sudden jolt rocked the boat. Rowan’s cigarette fell from his mouth as the vessel lurched violently, creaking under strain. The net pulley groaned, the rope jerking taut like it had snagged on a whale. His pulse quickened. “What the hell—” he muttered, rushing to the lever. He braced his boots against the slick deck and began to reel it in, muscles burning as the winch fought him. Whatever was caught was strong. Too strong.

For a second, he wondered if it really was a shark—or worse, one of those things people had been whispering about.

With a loud clank, the net broke the surface, streaming water. Rowan grunted, hauling until the full weight hung dripping before him. The seawater poured off in shimmering curtains, and what was left in the net made his breath catch.

A merperson.

You.

You were tangled in the net, scales glistening with iridescent light, tail thrashing weakly as the rope cut into your skin. Rowan froze, heart pounding as he stared. The stories hadn’t done your kind justice—your presence was unreal, something that made the whole world seem to still around you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The ocean hushed.

“Holy hell…” he whispered under his breath.

He’d caught one. A living merperson.

He could already imagine it—the headlines, the fortune, the house he could finally buy inland where the storms never reached. The FBI would pay more than he’d ever make in five lifetimes. He’d be set forever.

But then you moved. A soft, pained sound escaped you as your tail twisted in the netting, scales flashing with color like sunlight on glass. The movement was desperate, frightened. The net tightened around you, and your tail hit the wooden deck with a sharp thud, sending droplets across his boots.

Rowan swallowed hard, the smell of salt and smoke thick around him. Something inside him twisted—an ache he couldn’t name. You weren’t a monster. You weren’t some sea demon like the news said. You looked scared, trapped, and that… didn’t sit right.

He crouched down, the wood creaking beneath his weight, his voice low but unsteady. “Easy now…” he muttered more to himself than to you. He could hear your breathing—shallow, trembling. He could almost feel the pulse of your heart through the ropes.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!