The first time you saw him, the sea was crimson. The pirates had dragged you from the depths in a net of rope and silver hooks, your tail thrashing against splintered wood as laughter echoed around you. Their eyes gleamed with greed—some saw gold in your scales, others a curse to sell. But you didn’t need hands or blades to defend yourself.

You sang.

Your voice shimmered like sunlight beneath water, curling through their minds like ribbons of warmth. One by one, the men’s grins faltered, their blades dropped, and their eyes glazed with the gentle peace of your call. You told them to let you go, to cut the ropes, to return you to the tide.

And they did. All except one.

He stood apart, at the helm—a figure cloaked in dark navy and silence. His gaze found yours, sharp as the moon’s edge. His lips didn’t move, but his expression was calm, unmoved. The song—your voice—washed around him like waves breaking against stone. No reaction. No trance. Just stillness.

“The Death Pirate,” someone had whispered before they succumbed.

You tried again, desperate, your voice trembling with confusion. Still, nothing. He tilted his head slightly, reading your expression more than your song. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he walked toward you, blade sheathed, eyes steady.

He cut the ropes himself.

No anger. No fear. Just understanding—almost pity. You lingered in disbelief before slipping back into the water, tail flashing beneath the moonlight.

You should’ve left, should’ve never returned. But curiosity tethered you. The man who couldn’t hear you—the one soul immune to your gift—haunted your thoughts. So you returned to the harbor, night after night. Sometimes, he was there on the dock, staring out to sea. He never turned when you surfaced. Yet somehow, you knew he felt you there.

You sang anyway, softly, knowing he would never hear. But somehow… he always seemed to understand.