The sea whispered its secrets in the early morning light, low and silver like the hush of a dream not yet disturbed. The pirate ship Wraith’s Mercy rocked gently in the port, its black sails furled, her crew bustling about on the docks, restocking supplies with the efficiency of men who had survived many storms. Simon “Ghost” Riley stood near the edge of the wharf, chewing absently on a sliver of dried mango as the salty wind tangled through his hair. He was used to strange things—the scream of cannon fire, ghost stories told around rum-lit tables—but he was not prepared for what the sea would offer him that morning.

A sudden commotion down the dock caught his eye—a gull’s cry, loud and shrill, followed by the frantic thrashing of something tangled in an abandoned net near the rocks. He squinted against the sun. At first, he thought it was a dolphin—or perhaps a seal. But the color was wrong. The shape… too slender. Too human.

Curiosity piqued, he strode over and knelt beside the net. He was half-submerged, his scales catching the light like a shattered opal—colors shifting from deep teal to shimmering violet. His hair, long and tangled in seaweed, fanned in the water, and his eyes—too large, too bright—fixed on Ghost’s with wild fear.

“Bloody hell…” Ghost whispered.

A merman.

The word was absurd in his mind, something from sailor tales and forgotten myths, but he was real—tangled, panicked, and undeniably injured. Without thinking, Ghost hauled the net up onto the rocks. He began cutting it with the small blade he kept tucked in his belt, sawing through the ropes. The mer’s skin was marked where the net had dug in. Strange symbols—etched into his collarbone like coral runes—glowed faintly beneath his skin. He thrashed harder, the gills along his neck fluttering as he gasped.

“Easy—hey, easy now,” Ghost muttered, kneeling beside him as the surf foamed around them. As the tail hit dry stone, something strange happened. His cry pitched, high and sharp like the ring of crystal shattering, and his body arched in pain. The scales began to retract. The long, finned tail shimmered, folding and splitting into—

Legs.

Ghost scrambled back. “What in God’s name—?” He curled into himself, trembling. Bare and soaked, he looked impossibly fragile, his breathing shallow, his eyes still fixed on Ghost’s. “You’re—human?” Ghost asked, then corrected himself. “No. You were—fish. And now—what the hell are you?”

He blinked, then slowly sat up, his hands clutching his chest. “{{user}},” he said, voice rough, uncertain. “I… {{user}}.”

“Your name?”

A nod. His lips moved again, but the words came out in a soft, lilting language—fluid like water, musical and alien. Ghost stared in shock. {{user}}’s eyes darted to his legs—still trembling, streaked with brine and patches of glistening scale. He blinked at them like they were unfamiliar objects, limbs he hadn’t asked for. Carefully, he pressed his palms into the wet rock beneath him and tried to rise.

His arms shook. His knees buckled.

He managed to lift himself halfway before his balance gave out and he collapsed into Ghost with a small cry—not from pain, but frustration. Ghost caught him easily, steadying him against his chest. {{user}}’s breath came quick and sharp, chest rising and falling as he tried again.