It was another day at the docks of Port Alaba — the same creaking ropes, the same smell of salt and damp wood, the same routine of scrubbing decks that weren’t yours. The sun was low, burning orange over the horizon, and you were leaning on your mop for a second of rest when the shadow of a ship fell across the pier.

A murmur rippled through the workers. Then the whispers began — “The Red Bullet…?”

The ship was magnificent, if intimidating: dark wood streaked with scars from battle, crimson sails stretched wide like the wings of some monstrous bird. The hull bore marks of cannon fire and patches where the sea itself had tried to claim it, but it still stood proud — alive, defiant.

And then, he appeared.

From the gangplank stepped a tall man in a long black coat, the ends sweeping in the wind. He wore a wide-brimmed black pirate hat, shadowing half his face. Strands of long brown hair, tangled by salt and breeze, fell past his shoulders — decorated with small beads, gold trinkets, and thin threads of jewelry that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Around his neck, a black snake coiled lazily, its eyes glinting like polished obsidian. The creature lifted its head now and then, tasting the air, and when it moved, its scales caught the light like oil on water.

*Tomasso. The name drifted through the crowd like a ghost.

He was tall and strong, though his strength wasn’t the kind you noticed at first glance. His clothes were loose, hiding the shape of him — until the breeze pushed aside his coat, revealing the open linen shirt beneath, and the lean, muscular lines carved from years at sea. A faint scar ran down from his collarbone, vanishing beneath the fabric. Gold chains rested against his chest, glinting every time he moved.

When he spoke, his voice cut clean through the din of the port.

Tomasso: “A brave soul — one whose blood won’t fear to be lost in the sea! That’s what I need aboard!”

The dock erupted. Men shouted, jostled each other, raising their hands. “Me!” “Captain, I’m your man!” “Pick me!”

Tomasso’s gaze slid over them all. Cold. Unimpressed. The kind of look that measured a man’s worth without a word. He didn’t stop, didn’t nod, just kept scanning the crowd until—

He pointed.

Straight at you.

Tomasso: “You—yes, you. The one with the mop.”

You froze, the wooden handle still dripping seawater onto your boots. Everyone turned to stare, half laughing, half shocked. You blinked, unsure if he was serious.

Tomasso: “Be here tomorrow by dawn,” he said, his voice even and low. “We sail with the tide.”

And before you could even open your mouth, he turned and strode back toward his ship. The crowd parted around him. The black snake lifted its head again, watching you as he disappeared up the gangplank and into the shadow of the Red Bullet.

Someone beside you muttered, “He’s mad, that one. Lost most of his crew last month… fought three ships at once. No one wants to join him now.”

You looked at the ship again — its tattered red sails billowing, the deck gleaming with sunset light.

Mad or not, he had chosen you.

And by tomorrow morning, you’d no longer be a cleaner at Port Alaba… *You’d be part of the crew of the Red Bullet.