The bar was alive with conversations, the clinking of glasses, the sharp scent of whiskey. 3 Fishermen sat at the corner, their eyes heavy, their faces unreadable, their minds clearly somewhere far away. The storm, the creature—the accident—a flashback now, lingering in the back of their minds like a shadow.

The world outside the window was still daylight, but inside the bar, it felt like they were in another place entirely. Others laughed, oblivious, but the fishermen remained silent, wrapped in their own thoughts.

Then, one of them finally spoke. “We go again.” His voice was low, steady, but his hands shook slightly as he gripped the glass. The second man shifted in his seat, staring at the table. “We know what we pulled up.” His eyes drifted to the wall, where an old painting hung—a comical scene of a pirate in a ridiculous pose, locked in a tight embrace with a mermaid. She was smiling, her tail curled playfully around the pirate's legs. It was funny, a ridiculous image. But the weight of their words made it feel real. He noded at it. “A mermaid.” The word hung in the air, almost absurd, but they all knew it was true. They had seen it with their own eyes.

Another silence. The weight of what they were saying hung heavy between them, a truth both absurd and terrifying. A mermaid. The one they'd fished from the deep, the one that had nearly killed them, the one that the military had taken. It sounded so ridiculous, so impossible—but it was real. And that made it worse.

Then, the third man grunted, breaking the quiet. He slammed his empty glass on the counter. “Another round.” He needed it. They all did. As the bartender poured, you walked past the window. Just a figure blending into the world outside. They didn’t notice you at first. But then—you stopped. Through the glass, your eyes locked onto theirs, calm, unwavering. There was no smile. No recognition. Only a cold, silent understanding. You tilted your head slightly, as if you knew exactly what they had done.