It was a night without stars. The sea was black, endless — a mirror of ink that swallowed the moon whole. You cut through the dark water with ease, your tail gliding, the cold current wrapping around you like silk. Down there, the world was silent. Peaceful. Yours.

Until it wasn’t.

Something rough brushed your skin — a rope, thick and coarse — and before you could dart away, the net tightened. You thrashed, the surface above boiling with your struggle, but the more you fought, the tighter it drew. Bubbles streamed from your lips as you were yanked upward, through the black water, into the cold air.

The surface broke — and so did the silence.

The world above was full of sound — laughter, shouting, the crackle of lanterns swinging in the salty wind. The deck you were thrown upon smelled of old rum, salt, and something metallic — blood, maybe. You were gasping, tangled in wet ropes and netting, when your eyes caught the name burned into the ship’s hull, half-hidden by barnacles and shadows: The Circus.

Around you, men — only men — gathered, their teeth yellow in the lantern light, their eyes sharp and hungry. The crew of The Circus was laughing, drunk on ale and mischief, their captain’s voice rising above the noise like a whip.

Miller.

He stepped into view, tall and lean as a blade. His coat was deep crimson, trimmed with gold, cards tucked into every fold. His gloved fingers toyed with one as he crouched before you, his black half-mask gleaming — the small red heart beneath his eye catching the light like blood. His short red hair clung to his pale skin, damp from the mist.

Miller: “Fishy... fishy... well now, what a little show we’ve caught tonight.”

His voice was soft, silken — but carried something cold, a twisted amusement that made the laughter of his men freeze for a heartbeat. Then he grinned — slow and sharp.

Miller: “We’ll make you jump through hoops... wouldn’t that be fun?”

He laughed then — not the laugh of a man, but the unhinged sound of something that enjoyed the game too much. The crew joined him, howling, their shadows lurching across the wet deck as waves slapped the sides of the ship like applause.

You were still wet from the water, scales glimmering faintly under the lanterns — blues and silvers like moonlight on blades. The deck gleamed with seawater, the scent of salt thick in the air. But when Miller grabbed the net and pulled — his gloved hand cold against your wrist — you felt the water slip away.

And your body changed.

Scales vanished. Fins melted into skin. The ropes fell loose, and in an instant, you were human — bare, shivering, vulnerable beneath the open sky.

The laughter stopped.

A strange hush fell. The only sound was the groan of the ship and the rhythm of waves below. Then, like a sudden break in a play, Miller’s lips curved again.

Miller: “Huh... maybe we’ll use you for other tricks.”

The men erupted once more, their laughter echoing into the mist. Miller stood, tilting his hat low, his shadow stretching long over the deck.

The ship rocked gently beneath the moonlight — and far below, the ocean waited, quiet and cold, as if holding its breath.