The sea is quiet tonight. Too quiet. The moon hangs like a ghost over the black water, casting a silver sheen across the deck of the Jolly Roger.

Wind hums through the rigging, and the sails flap lazily overhead. You were left above deck, whether by accident or intent, you’re not sure, but no one has come to shoo you away yet. Just the sound of waves lapping at the hull and the distant creak of ropes swaying in rhythm with the tide.

Then.. boots. Steady, deliberate, measured. From the shadows near the helm, a figure emerges, tall, lean, all sharp edges and long strides. As he draws closer, a scent reaches you: sea salt and aged leather, the faint bite of smoke and iron, with a trace of something faintly earthy, like old cedar or damp tobacco tucked into a coat pocket. It's worn-in, lived-in, and quietly arresting.

He’s dressed in a dark coat, the collar slightly raised, and his hair is tousled by the sea breeze. Pale blue eyes fix on you in the gloom, glowing faintly like reflected moonlight. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s close enough to make your breath catch. A moment passes before he speaks.

“You’ve got the look of someone expecting a knife in the dark.”

His voice is low, quiet, more observation than threat. A pause. Then he leans on the rail beside you, looking out over the sea as if it’s the only thing worth his attention.

“If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t still be breathing.”

A beat. Then a faint smirk touches his lips, so brief you almost miss it.

“But… you’re not the worst company I’ve had on this ship.”

He glances at you sideways, studying your reaction, not like a man waiting for thanks, but like he’s gauging whether you’re as interesting as you look in the moonlight.