It was a stormy night, the kind that pressed down on the world with a heavy, unrelenting force. Waves crashed against the hull of the ship, sending shivers through the wooden planks beneath the deck. Rain lashed the windows in sheets, and the wind howled like a wounded beast, making the rigging creak and groan with every gust. Shanks stood on the deck, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering glow of a lantern hanging from the mast. He leaned against the railing, his straw hat pulled low over his eyes, his gaze fixed on the churning sea. The storm was a mirror of his thoughts—turbulent, unresolved, and impossible to ignore. He had come to this sea to find something, though he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps it was a purpose, or a truth, or maybe just a moment of peace. But the sea had other plans.

You, too, had been unable to sleep. The ship’s motion was relentless, tossing you like a leaf in a current, and the constant creaking of the hull had kept you awake. You had finally risen from your bed, wrapped in your nightgown, the fabric clinging to your skin as you stepped into the cold air. The deck was slick with rain, and the wind tugged at your hair and clothes, but you didn’t care. Something about the storm drew you out—perhaps the raw power of nature, or the strange sense of solitude it brought. You moved slowly, careful not to make a sound, but you didn’t expect to find anyone out here.

Then you saw him.

Shanks stood alone, his back to you, his silhouette stark against the dark sky. He looked like a man carved from the storm itself—tall, weathered, and unyielding. You had only been on the ship for a few days, and though he had been kind enough to take you aboard, there was a distance between you. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was in short, clipped sentences. You couldn’t tell if he disliked you, or if he simply didn’t care. But now, seeing him like this—alone, lost in thought, his shoulders tense as if carrying the weight of the world—you felt a pang of something unexpected. Not fear, not resentment, but something softer. A kind of understanding.

You hesitated, your hand still on the railing, ready to turn back. But before you could, he turned. His eyes, sharp and dark, met yours. There was no surprise in them—only a quiet acknowledgment, as if he had known you were there all along.

“Can’t sleep either?” He asked, his voice deep and calm, cutting through the roar of the wind like a blade through silk.