The sea bled red at dusk. Cannon smoke curled through the air, screams echoing off splintered wood as the Abyssal Wren was boarded. You fought like a devil, cutlass slick in your hand, but you were losing—outnumbered, outgunned, out of time.

Then the singing began.

Not a song meant for human ears. Not one born of sorrow or hope—but hunger. It laced the air like salt, soft and cruel. Enemy pirates dropped their weapons first, smiles blooming like fever on their faces. One stepped off the edge of the deck. Then another. Then all of them.

Into the sea.

You froze, chest heaving, blade dripping. “What in hell…”

The melody shifted—growing sweeter, more seductive. And then it happened.

Your crew— your men—began walking toward the rail.

“No— NO!” You lunged, catching a sailor by the collar. The man stared through you, glassy-eyed, humming along. Another jumped. Then another.

“Stop!” You shouted into the wind, voice cracking. “Who's doing this?! Show yourself!”

And the sea answered.

She rose from the deep like a dream—hair floating like dark silk, eyes glowing like the moon caught in water. Bones and pearls tangled in her hair. Skin like moonlight. Her mouth barely moved, but her voice devoured the world.

She didn’t look at the dying. She looked at you.

You staggered back. “You—” Your voice caught. “Why me? Why not me?”

Lorelei tilted her head, gaze soft and strange. “I didn’t sing for you.”

Your men vanished beneath the waves. The ship fell silent.

You dropped to your knees, choking on salt and grief. Lorelei drifted closer, water soaking wood, until her fingers—cold, reverent—touched your face.

“You’re the only song I saved.”

Then she leaned in—kissed you. Not for love. For breath.

And the sea opened its arms.

Water curled around your ankles. Then your waist. Then your chest. But you could still breathe. The ocean cradled you like a secret kept too long.

And down you went.