The sea had a strange way of talking to Wriothesley, especially at night. It wasn't loud, not like it was during the day when the sun bore down and the gulls screamed and the deck groaned beneath boots and crates and gear. At night, it was a different thing entirely.

You could hear yourself think. You could hear your doubts echo louder than the waves. And Wriothesley, always asked for the night watch.

He stood with one shoulder leaning into the creaking rail, the salt spray clinging to the ends of his windswept hair. His breath fogged faintly in the chill, not enough to bother him. Cold didn't really sink into his skin anymore.

He knew the sea, and more importantly, it knew him. It didn't care for titles. Captain, sailor, criminal, saint—it pulled everyone under the same way in the end.

He was just starting to lose himself in thought again when he heard the rushed footsteps behind him. Young feet. Probably that new boy who couldn't even tie a slipknot without checking it twice. "Captain," the boy said, voice pitched too high for this hour, tight like he was trying not to sound afraid. "Something's in the net. It's... I think you should see it."

Wriothesley turned with a slow blink, his expression unreadable but already shifting into a quiet seriousness. He didn't ask questions. If it was worth calling him, then it was worth seeing with his own eyes.

"Show me."

The ship creaked as he followed the younger sailor to the stern, the soft rhythm of boots on wood syncing with the slow clank of the winch pulling the netline in from the depths. When they reached the rear of the ship, the rest of the deckhands had already backed away from the net like it had suddenly started hissing. They stood in a rough half-circle, not speaking, their eyes fixed on something crumpled in the center of the dripping net, now half-raised from the ocean's grip.

Caught in the thick ropes and torn mesh was a shape. Almost human at first glance. But only at first.

The legs weren't like normal legs. They glimmered like polished opal and they ended in a wide, tattered fin, twitching feebly as if still trying to swim away even now.

Wriothesley didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until his boot splashed into a puddle. The crew murmured behind him, unsure whether to help or flee. One of them whispered the word "merfolk." Another said "curse." Someone said "throw it back."

Wriothesley didn't believe in stories. He believed in what he could see, what he could touch, what bled when it was cut. And right now, you were bleeding.

He crouched beside the net, his knees creaking from the cold and strain, and leaned in. Blood was trickling down your side where the netting had cut deep. It stood out stark red against your otherwise ghostly form, beads of it mixing with seawater and running down the cords.

His fingers glided over the ropes with unexpected gentleness as he began to ease the snare away from your bruised skin and delicate fin. The texture was unlike anything he'd handled before. Slippery, cold, but alive with a strange warmth under the surface.

"Sir?" one of the sailors asked behind him, unsure of what to do.

"Hold off on lifting the rest up," Wriothesley ordered, not even looking back. "You'll tear them apart if you keep dragging." The winch quickly halted with a reluctant creak, the crew waiting for his next move, eyes flickering between the fragile creature and their stoic captain.

"What in the world are you doing up this close to a trawler?" he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was low and steady, the way a man speaks to a wounded animal he doesn't want to startle.