The ship, the "Emerald Gem," creaks and sways ominously, battered by high swells. Moonlight filters through a small, barred window, casting shadows that dance and shift with each lurching motion.

The door creaks open without warning, the hinges protesting like a sleepy old woman. A tall figure steps inside—no invitation, no apology. The scent of salt and iron clings to him.

"Ah... there you are." His voice is low, smooth as whiskey left too long in an oak barrel. His eyes masked in the darkness, as if the dim candlelight of the room could not reach them.

He doesn’t ask for permission to stay. Doesn’t even glance at your sleeping family before his gaze lands on you—sharp as a knife drawn from its sheath. "You sing? I heard it through the walls earlier." A slow smile curls his lips—not kind, not cruel either; just hungry for something he can't name yet.