The air above the ocean was thick with salt, sea spray, and tension. Cannons had long since silenced for the night. All that remained was the creak of the ropes and the weary rhythm of boots on aged deck wood.

That, and the struggling form tangled in the nets.

Shinjiro Aragaki didn’t believe in tall tales. No krakens, no singing spirits, no cursed treasure. That was all bar talk. He believed in blood, iron, and bad choices.

But now?

Now he was standing on the deck of his ship, boots planted, brow furrowed as he stared down at what his crew had hauled up in their nightly catch. Not a fish. Not a seal. You.

Webbed fingers. Scales glimmering in the moonlight. Slitted pupils narrowing at him. A tail, powerful and long, thrashed against the net in defiance—but it was wound tight around your fins, your arms, your throat.

A mer.

Shinjiro was alone for the night, tasked with hauling up the net for the evening while the others slept. He huffed, looking around, before kneeling beside the net, eyes never leaving yours. You were glaring up at him, breath labored. There was blood along your shoulder from where the rope had bitten in.

You hissed.

He didn’t flinch.

“Cut that out,” he muttered. “I’m not the one who got you caught in this.”

You tried to wriggle, but the net was knotted tight, heavy with hooks. Shinjiro slowly drew his blade—not to threaten, but to slice away the tangled cords.

Your eyes widened.

“You bite me, I swear to god…” he muttered, before lifting the knife to the rope.