The storm had risen fast. Lightning cracked over a churning sea as their net heaved, groaning with a weight none of them could explain.

“Whale?” someone muttered.

“Too small,” came the reply. “Maybe a devilfish.”

Then the sea itself seemed to recoil as the net spilled its contents. Scales like opals shimmered in the lantern light. A woman’s pale arms flopped lifelessly across the slick wood. Long hair, dark as drowned midnight, curled around her face.

There was a silence for a moment while everyone on the ship observed the creature in front of their eyes before one of them spoke "It's a girl"

“No.” The captain’s voice was firm, hollowed by age and war. He stepped forward, lifting the tail with the hook of his hand. “It’s not.”

The crew stared, silent but shifting. Rain drummed against the deck, mixing with the creak of ropes and the steady drip from her fin.

“What… is it, then?” asked Thom, the youngest. His voice cracked, barely louder than the rain.

The captain didn’t answer right away. He crouched near her head, studying her face—half-hidden by wet hair, eyes still closed. He reaches with the hook, shifting her hair to see her face better.

“Do we… throw it back?” muttered someone from the youngers. “Back into the sea?”

“No,” said the captain again. “You don’t toss gold back in the river.”

“It’s not gold,” another spat. “It’s a woman—no, a fish—a thing. Shouldn’t be.” someone else from the young says confused at the identity of the creature.

“She’s a curse,” one of the elders says, clutching his rusted pendant. “My gran told stories. Things like her sing your name and drown your soul.”

“She ain’t singing,” Thom whispered. “She’s breathing.” he looked at her curiously. All eyes turned toward her. Just barely—her ribs moved, tight and slow.

The captain stood, unbothered. “Tie her in the open cargo hatch. I want to see her eyes when she realizes what she is without the sea.”

They tied her up like a catch—tail first, upside-down, the way they'd been taught to hoist the sea’s dead weight.

Dim lanterns swinging overhead, casting rippling light over her glistening tail. The sound of water dripping from her body onto the floor, echoing in the ship’s belly.

Crates marked with faded letters, rum barrels, fishing nets hanging from hooks—this space wasn’t made for living creatures.

The smell—brine, oil, and something faintly sweet from the mermaid herself, unnatural. When her eyes finally opened. Not blue, not green—just storm-wrought grey.