You reach the dock on unsteady legs, regulator still in your hand, chest burning in a way that has nothing to do with exertion. The boat drifts a few yards away, engine quiet, lines loose. Solid ground shouldn’t feel this real.

John is already there. He takes one look at your face and knows. “You’re safe now,” he says, steady, like he’s trying to convince both of you.

You shake your head. “I checked my air. I always do. Something was wrong.”

Tim stands a little apart, eyes locked on the boat. He doesn’t look surprised — just cold. “If you surfaced,” he says, “then whoever did it never left.”

Lucy steps closer, keeping her voice calm. “Who was in the water with you?”

You glance back toward the slowly rocking deck. “Sofia and Elizabeth. They’re trainees. I was training them with Rebecca and Alice.”

No one speaks. The water laps quietly against the dock, patient, indifferent.

John exhales slowly. “Okay. Then we slow this down.” His gaze follows Tim’s. “Nobody moves.”

Tim’s hand drifts toward his radio. “Someone out there cut your lifeline on purpose,” he says. “And they’re standing on that deck right now, pretending nothing happened.”

You look at the boat again. Familiar shapes. Familiar people.

And suddenly the ocean doesn’t feel like the most dangerous place you were today.