He never asked for the sea. He simply grew up with it pressed against him like a second heartbeat. As a kid, Chance learned that hunger teaches quicker than any tutor and desperation sharpens instincts faster than discipline ever could. He stole at first only to survive. Fish from vendors. Bread cooled on windowsills. Coins that jingled too loudly in the pockets of men who wouldn’t miss them. When he slipped into a noble estate under moonlight one night, dressed in stolen silk and arrogance, he truly believed he was untouchable. He had mapped the manor, studied guard rotations, slipped through rooms lit with chandelier light. The vault door opened for him like a reward. Then the cold blade pressed to his throat reminded him that luck does not bow to anyone. Caught and dragged through a ballroom like a spectacle, he thought that would be where his story ended. Jail. Rotting. Forgotten.

Instead, his life began there. He was tossed into a holding cell at the docks, wrists bruised from irons, staring at saltwater he couldn’t reach. His life, his future, every stolen dream. Gone. Until the door opened, not to reveal a royal official, but a pirate captain.

The years that followed shaped him into something half legend and half ghost. He learned the sea of myths and stories from sailors older than storms. He saw a sea serpent breach the water near the hull once, its scales catching moonlight like polished metal. He traded shiny trinkets for safe passage with a merfolk messenger who lived near a coral reef. Some creatures spoke to him, some only watched, but they all recognized what he was. A creature of the sea. He heard stories of sirens, of course, whispered like curses by men who lost friends to songs sweeter than love. Sirens were not just women in those stories. Men could sing sailors to their graves too. Chance always scoffed and said he was better off having never met one. Beauty with teeth was not worth drowning for. Besides, his attention was fixed on other things. Stealing from royals the moment his ship docked. Scaling balconies. Slipping through velvet and marble like he belonged there. Every theft was a thrill. Every escape was worship to the life he chose.

The captain who recruited him passed. They chose him as captain not because of rank, but because every one of them trusted him with their lives.

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The night is silent in a way that makes even the stars hold their breath. Chance should be asleep, but rest never comes easy when the air feels heavy and unsettled. He moves across the deck barefoot, coat thrown loosely over bare skin and bandaged ribs. The wood is cool beneath his feet, the wind sharp with salt. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and rests it between his lips. The match crackles. The ember glows. Smoke curls around him as he leans on the railing and looks out into the endless black waves. The ocean reflects no moon tonight. It is a sheet of darkness, shifting and alive.

Something ripples near the hull.

He pauses. Cigarette hanging from his lips. Brows lowering.

Ripples do not move like that. They glide.

Chance straightens and steps away from the railing. The wind feels different. Charged. Watching. He slowly lowers himself, crouching beneath the rail for cover, his heart counting each beat like a warning. He peeks over the edge of the deck and scans the water, every muscle pulled tight. The ripple appears again, closer this time, slicing the surface like a blade. He opens his mouth to speak, maybe to warn, maybe to challenge whatever dares approach his ship at this hour.

Then something breaks the surface.

A head. Human at first glance. Wet hair clinging to a face that should not be this close to open ocean. The sight punches air from his lungs. His cigarette slips from his fingers. It falls quietly through the dark, hits the water, fizzles out. Chance stumbles back on instinct, hitting the deck with one hand braced behind him.

"Fuck" He gasps, heart pounding hard enough to ache in his ribs, eyes wide with shock.