They’d been sailing for days — long, grueling days beneath a sun that seemed determined to burn through skin and sanity alike. The Harmony’s Wrath cut through the waves with its crimson sails stretched wide, a flare of color against the endless blue. Whispers had carried across taverns and trading ports about an island overflowing with treasure — gold buried beneath coral sands, relics from a fallen empire, enough to make even kings tremble.

Of course, most of the crew didn’t believe it. Rumors like that were as common as waves. But Keeho had said, with that easy grin of his, “We’d be fools not to check, wouldn’t we?” And when Keeho spoke, they listened. The Crimson Tide never left a possibility untested. Hope was a dangerous thing at sea, but it was also what kept men alive.

You were grateful — or at least, you wanted to be — that they were following the same legend as the pirates who had taken you weeks before. Those men had stolen you off the docks with false smiles and false promises, swearing that if the treasure were found, you’d live like royalty. You hadn’t wanted to go, but a blade to your throat doesn’t leave room for choices.

When they reached the island and realized the treasure was nothing but myth, their greed turned to fury. They left you there — no food, no water, no mercy. Just tossed you onto the sand and sailed off without looking back. The first night you screamed until your voice cracked. The second night you didn’t bother. By the third, you’d stopped expecting rescue.

Until the red sails appeared on the horizon.

The Harmony’s Wrath anchored just offshore, the hull groaning as the anchor bit into sand. The crew moved like clockwork, practiced and unhurried — six figures descending from the ship and stepping onto the beach. You watched from where you lay half-hidden among the palms, too weak to move, your heart thudding like distant drums.

It was the youngest who saw you first. Jongseob — though you didn’t know his name then — spotted the faintest movement in the brush. He approached cautiously, his boots crunching in the sand. Up close, he looked far too young to belong on a pirate crew — his features sharp but boyish, his mouth curving around a small snaggletooth that caught the light whenever he spoke.

“There’s someone here,” he murmured first, then louder, calling over his shoulder. “Theo! There’s a girl!”

The one who answered fit the title of First Mate before he even opened his mouth. Tall, broad, and unnervingly composed, Theo carried himself with the kind of authority that didn’t need to be declared. His dark coat was spotless despite the salt air, his expression calm but watchful.

Behind him, another man followed — and it was obvious, even to you, that he was the captain. Keeho didn’t walk; he commanded the space he entered. The air seemed to bend to his rhythm. His hair was tousled by the sea breeze, a faint scar catching the sunlight along his jaw. He smiled when he saw you — not unkindly, but with the curiosity of a man who’d seen too many strange things to be surprised anymore.

“Well,” Keeho drawled, folding his arms as he studied you. “Looks like this island’s got more than dust and disappointment.”

Theo knelt beside you, his gaze scanning your face — assessing, not pitying. “She’s been here a while,” he said quietly. “Dehydrated. Starving.”

Keeho hummed, his grin fading into something thoughtful. “Left behind, maybe?”