The boat creaked beneath him, held together by rust, rope, and whatever luck they had left.

He sat near the edge, shoulders slouched, a wrench resting idle in one hand. The sun was setting, casting long, golden lines across the water. It should’ve been beautiful. Peaceful. But he looked hollow in it—like the light couldn’t reach him.

His eyes didn’t move from the horizon.

Exhaustion clung to him like smoke. Not just in his body, but deep in his bones—like something inside him had cracked and was still holding itself together by instinct alone.

He didn’t blink much. Didn’t shift. Just breathed.

Quiet. Still.

Alive. Somehow.