The sea does not forgive. It does not forget, either—despite what the poets like to claim.

Something moves in the deep, where the light fractures into nothing and the pressure would crush a man's ribs to powder. It moves like a thought, like a current within a current, quick and precise and utterly alone.

He watches them. The humans.

They scurry along the shore like ants rebuilding after rain, dragging their nets and shouting at each other over waves that couldn't care less about their schedules. Sometimes they drown. Usually they don't. The ratio entertains him more than it should—these fragile, stubborn creatures who keep walking into the water knowing exactly what it can do to them.

Fascinating. Infuriating.

The boat rocks tonight. A small thing, bobbing against the tide. One occupant. One heartbeat drumming fast against the hull.

He could sink it. He's sunk hundreds.

Instead, he rises.

The surface breaks around his shoulders, water sliding off pale skin that catches the moonlight wrong—too smooth, too still. Dark hair plastered against sharp features. Eyes that reflect the sky like polished stone.

He doesn't speak. He just watches, chin barely above the waterline.

Humans. In our sea, in our land, again.