The crate smelled of old rope, citrus rinds, and faintly of musk, wooden slats warm from the sun, though the air below deck had long turned cool. The space inside was barely enough to crouch, let alone breathe comfortably, and every small shift scraped skin against splinters. It was the third crate from the left in a row of sealed shipping boxes bound for the orlop deck, just above the bilge. Cargo rarely saw visitors there, just rum, dried goods, sailcloth, and iron-bound chests no one bothered to label. You had picked your hideout carefully, timing your entry with the loading crew’s distraction and a brief moment of open shadows.

Now, all you could do was wait. The air was different below deck, heavier. It felt as though the walls breathed with the tide, wood flexing, beams sighing under the strain of the sea’s endless pull. The hull creaked in slow rhythms, and droplets of condensation dripped like the ticking of a slow, patient clock. Above, the thud of boots. The muttered curses of tired sailors unloading. The clink of hooks and pulleys. Voices echoed through the timbers, distant, blurred, but growing clearer.

And then, all at once, silence. A low, commanding voice cut through the quiet.

“Double the straps on the forward crates. That last squall cracked more than the top deck.” A pause. “Anything with powder or liquor stays off the floor. Tide’s climbing higher than expected.”

You didn’t need to see him to know. That voice was all gravel and command, soft enough to make a man lean in, sharp enough to make him obey. Captain Aizawa. He wasn’t loud, but the men listened like he’d roared. Every word landed with the weight of absolute certainty, quiet and precise.

“I want nothing loose. If this ship hits another swell like yesterday, I don’t want to be patching holes in my cargo hold, or digging someone out from under it.” Aizawa said with the aura of authority to it. Footsteps followed. Measured. You could hear him closer now, boots scuffing the deck just feet away. Through the gaps in the crate slats, slivers of movement flickered, coat hems, the gleam of a belt buckle. A lantern swinging from someone’s hand cast shifting bands of gold and shadow across the walls.

“Secure it,” Aizawa said simply. “Then get above. I want the hold cleared in five.”

A single creak as he shifted his weight. For a heartbeat, you thought he might pause, might sense something, you, hidden too close. But then, the sounds retreated. Footsteps faded. One by one, the crew obeyed his command, the noise thinning until everyone was gone. The orlop was silent again.