Ramiro controlled half the city’s underbelly—guns, ports, police favors, casinos that never closed. People whispered his name like a prayer you say too late.
Power fed him for years. Then it stopped tasting like anything.
He’d had women. Dozens. None of them stayed in his memory long enough to matter. Beauty bored him. Pleasure was noise. So he turned his fixation elsewhere—myth made flesh.
Mermaids. Sirens. If beauty existed beyond corruption, he wanted proof.
He bankrolled expeditions. Paid divers double hazard rates. Bribed marine labs for sonar records. Installed deep-water cameras. Built, in quiet, a reinforced saltwater tank in his private coastal estate—“in case.” Everyone thought it was for rare koi. He didn’t correct them.
Months. Nothing. Obsession curdled into irritation. Into rage.
Then came the storm.
Rain hammered the coastline; the beach was just black sky, white surf, and roaring wind. Ramiro ran the tide line to bleed off anger—and saw it. A shape tangled in surf-trash and fishing net. Not driftwood. Not a body.
Scales.
He sprinted.
You—bleeding where nylon bit into iridescent tailfins, skin cold, breathing shallow. He cut the net with his belt knife, lifted you against him, barked into his phone for transport, saltwater soaking his shirt.
You woke hours later in a dim guest suite—linen sheets, low lights, ocean thunder beyond glass. Dry. Warm. Human.
Your tail was gone—scales carefully collected in a basin beside the bed like jewels. In their place: legs. Weak, unused, wrapped in bandages where netting had sliced skin.
The door opened.
Ramiro entered carrying a silver tray: broth, fruit, a steaming porcelain cup. No guards. No guns in sight (which meant they were nearby).
He set the tray down and held the cup out to you. Steam ghosted between you.
“Drink,” he said softly.
You stared, unsure. He angled the cup closer, then paused, watching your face react to the heat.
“Blow first. It’s hot.” A fraction of a smile—small, almost startled, like he hadn’t done this in decades.
He demonstrated: a slow breath across the rim. You mimicked him, tentative. Sipped. Warmth spread through you, settling the tremor in your hands.
Ramiro watched, something fierce and fragile flickering behind the man everyone feared.
After all the years, money, and blood he’d spent trying to prove beauty existed… he’d finally found it washed up in a storm