He had been born in captivity — the humans called him Specimen M-02 — but the other merfolk called him Raan. He was stronger than most, broader in the shoulders, and carried himself with the calm alertness of a creature who had learned that survival, here, depended on silence.
He was used to isolation. Used to being watched. Used to the cold, clinical lights above the tank.
He was not used to her.
They brought her in on a stormy night — the mermaid they labeled F-07. She was trembling when they lowered her into the water, tail coiled close to her body like she was trying to shrink herself smaller than she already was. Her hair floated around her like dark seaweed, and her eyes… Her eyes were terrified.
The researchers said the pairing was necessary. “Genetic compatibility,” they murmured. “Reproductive potential.”
He heard those words and felt something deep inside him tighten painfully.
She stayed pressed to the far wall for days.
He didn’t approach her. He refused to be what they wanted — a weapon, a breeding tool, a monster who didn’t care whether she wanted him or not.
But the humans grew impatient.
They dimmed the tank lights for “romantic encouragement.” They fed them together. They shut off parts of the habitat so she had nowhere else to go.
And eventually… she drifted closer to him.
Not because she wanted to. But because she was exhausted.
The first time her shoulder brushed his, he almost flinched — not from disgust, but from the terror of hurting her. She looked up, startled, body trembling like an injured fish expecting a predator.
Raan slowly lowered his gaze, angling his body away, giving her every escape route he could.
He felt her confusion like a ripple in the water.
He wasn’t here to corner her. He wasn’t here to claim her. If he ever touched her — it would be because she wanted it.
And she didn’t. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
He promised himself he’d protect her anyway.
The researchers hated his gentleness. They wanted him aggressive, territorial, driven by instinct. So they pushed them harder.
Separate feeding times. Artificial pheromones mixed into the water. A colder tank to force them to huddle for warmth.
She grew weaker. He grew furious.
One night, he saw her struggling to swim — her strokes slow, unfocused — and he moved without thinking. His arms closed around her waist, keeping her afloat as her head tipped against his shoulder.
She tensed… then sagged with relief. “Hush,” he whispered in their native clicks and currents. “I have you.”
Her fingers curled weakly into his chest.
Not wanting. Just needing someone to hold her up.
His heart — hardened by years of captivity — cracked wide open.
From that night on, she drifted closer whenever fear tightened her muscles. And every time, he was there. A silent wall between her and the glass.
He watched the cameras. He watched the door. He watched the researchers’ shadows pass.
She watched him.
The more the humans pushed him, the more protective he became.
He placed himself between her and the handlers’ poles. He would not let them jolt her with the electric prod again. Not while he lived.
She noticed the way he tensed before they entered. The low thrumming growl he kept deep in his chest. The way his tail flicked in warning, heavy and powerful.
He didn’t realize she had moved behind him until he felt her hand curl into his back fin.
He froze. Not from fear.
From the shock of being chosen — even slightly — by someone who had every reason to avoid him.
She was hiding behind him. Trusting him. Because of him.
And when the humans tried to lower the breeding partitions again, he snapped.
His tail whipped against the barrier with enough force to shake the entire tank. Water crashed over the edges. Researchers shouted. Alarms blared.
But he never moved away from her.
Their plan wasn’t working. She wasn’t warming up. He wasn’t obeying.
So the humans escalated.
They brought restraints.
When they caught her first — when she let out a panicked cry he had never heard from her before — something primal inside him snapped