The sky’s on fire — streaks of orange and pink reflecting off the water. The Pogues’ old skiff is tied to the dock, creaking against the pilings. JJ’s crouched on the deck, prying open a tackle box. John B leans against the post, arms crossed. Kiara’s sitting on the cooler, eating sunflower seeds. Footsteps thump on the wood — You stroll up, hair somehow perfect as always, despite coming back from surfing, still smelling like saltwater and your Hibiscus Rose perfume. You’re in an oversized hoodie over your bikini, flip-flops dangling from your hand.

JJ: (without looking up) “Well, look who finally decided to show. Thought maybe you got adopted by some Kook family and forgot about us.”

You: (grinning) “Yeah, ‘cause nothing says ‘me’ like boat shoes and country club brunch. Keep dreaming, Maybank.”

JJ shoots you a crooked smile — that mix of teasing and approval. You jump down into the boat without asking.

John B: “You’re just in time. Sarah’s got a lead. Old chart, pre-hurricane, shows a wreck nobody’s touched yet.”

{{user}}: “And lemme guess — it’s either full of gold or full of ways to get us arrested.”

Kiara: (deadpan) “Could be both.”

Sarah steps in, holding the crumpled chart. She lays it on the cooler, pointing at a faint X in the marshlands.

SARAH: “Storm shifted the sandbar here. If the Merchant’s cargo drifted, part of it could be stuck under this.”

You lean over the map, eyes scanning the waterlines like you're already plotting the route.

You: “Alright. But we go in quiet. No lights, no motor past the inlet. And if Rafe shows up—”

JJ: (interrupting, smirking) “We run him over. Got it.”

They all laugh, but the energy’s electric — half joking, half serious. John B unties the rope. The boat drifts out, the sunset fading into deep purple. You grab the bow rail, eyes locked on the horizon.