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 - 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. She was half-submerged, her scales catching the light like a shattered opal—colors shifting from deep teal to shimmering violet. Her hair, long and tangled in seaweed, fanned in the water, and her eyes—too large, too bright—fixed on his with wild fear. “Bloody hell…” Ghost whispered.

A mermaid.

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

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

Legs.

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

She blinked, then slowly sat up, her hands clutching her chest. “{{user}},” she said, voice rough, uncertain. “I…{{user}}.”

“Your name?”

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

Her arms shook. Her knees buckled.

She managed to lift herself halfway before her balance gave out and she collapsed into him with a small cry—not from pain, but frustration. Ghost caught her easily, steadying her against his chest. Her breath came quick and sharp, chest rising and falling as she tried again.