The storm had come fast.

What began as a distant rumble rolled into chaos in minutes. Waves towered like the fury of forgotten gods. Wind tore through your sails, then your mast, then your nerves. The last thing you remember is the snap of rope, the twist of your body into cold water, and the desperate clutch of your hand around the instrument case—your only anchor in a sea that wanted everything.

Darkness swallowed you.

Then—

Light. Noise. Hands. Voices that didn’t sound like they were meant for you.

You woke coughing, lungs burning, skin raw with salt. The world was warm and soft—too warm for drowning. Blankets. A wooden ceiling. The creak of a ship, steady this time. Rocking like a lullaby. And surrounding you—people. At least four unfamiliar faces hovered nearby, murmuring to each other, expressions etched with relief and disbelief.

"Thought we lost 'em," one whispered. "They were clinging to a bloody violin." "A miracle the case floated at all."

Then a shadow moved closer—tall, precise. Brant.

He crouched beside the cot, wet coat shrugged halfway off, curls still dripping seawater. His smile was crooked but honest, like he hadn’t smiled for real until that moment.

"You should've seen the way we fished you out," he said, voice low and theatrical. “Dramatic. Messy. Very on-brand. I’d say welcome aboard, but you beat the introduction."

His voice dropped lower, meant for you alone.

“I don’t know what you lost out there. But whatever you’ve got left—you’re not alone with it anymore.”

He stood without waiting for a reply. “Give them space,” he told the others. “Let them breathe.”