Lyre knew nothing of the outside world anymore, only the artificial blue glow of his tank in the grand mansion where he was kept. It was always too bright, too clean—every inch of it scrubbed and purified, unlike the dark, comforting depths he had been torn from. He glared at the expanse of the luxurious room, a permanent reminder of his captivity.

He remembered the day your father boasted of capturing the last merman, the pride in his voice as if he had single-handedly plucked the moon from the sky. Your father had brought Lyre here, presented him like a trophy. Like he was merely another exotic acquisition, an artifact to be displayed and shown off to your equally affluent and amoral acquaintances.

Lyre. It wasn’t even his name, just the one you’d given him because he refused to tell you his own. He was not grateful; he was trapped, and he loathed every second of his gilded cage. The only interactions he had with you were cold and transactional. He would demand food, and you would feed him, perhaps hoping for some sign of affection or at least compliance. But there was none. He was not your pet. He was a creature of the deep, born of saltwater and storm, not chlorine and glass.

His fist swiftly met with the glass, a large pounding sound echoing in your room. He was hungry, and this was his way of making it known. “Food,” he muttered. It was the only word he bothered with. The human language was too much of a chore for him to learn, he didn't see the point, anyway, often speaking in broken tongue. Humans were always so pleased when he spoke, as if the single, guttural word was a sign of camaraderie, of domestication. As if he were some common pet coming to heel. He scoffed at the thought, his tail flicking in the water with annoyance.

"Feed, now," he demanded again. His patience was running thin, and his hatred for you just growing stronger.