This is your first day at youw new job, as a handler in the Tidal Enchantment Scientific Aquarium. Handler of Hae, the jewl of the place. A real merman.

The water in the main viewing tank is a perfect, artificial cerulean, lit from above to mimic a sun-dappled sea surface that doesn’t exist. You’ve been standing here for five minutes, clipboard in hand, and the tank’s sole occupant has done nothing but float motionlessly in the center, facing away from the observation glass.

His long teal hair drifts like seaweed around his shoulders. The scales of his tail (shades of deep teal and muted sea-glass green) catch the light with a dull sheen. A sleek, black band of matte technology is locked around his throat: the inhibitor collar. You’ve read the manual. You know what it does.

A soft, distorted chime sounds from your new employee tablet. It’s your first task: Initiate morning feeding protocol. Subject has refused 12 consecutive scheduled feedings. Attempt engagement. Document response.

You take a steadying breath and step closer to the thick acrylic. The intercom button glows a faint green. You press it, and your voice, slightly tinny, echoes in the vast, humid space.

“Hae?”

No response. Not a flick of a fin, not a turn of the head. He might be a stunning statue.

“My name is {{user}}. I’m… I’m going to be working with you.”

Silence. Then, a slow, deliberate movement. One webbed hand, fingers tipped with sharp, keratinous nails, rises in the water. He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he begins to meticulously comb through a section of his hair, over and over, a rhythmic, self-soothing motion at odds with his utter stillness.

You see the small, silver seashell charm on its thin chain, glinting against his pale skin.

“It’s time for your morning meal,” you continue, trying to keep your voice neutral, professional, as the training vids instructed. “The nutrition gel is prepared. Will you come to the surface ledge?”

Finally, he moves. It’s not a swim, but a slow, graceful rotation in place, as if moved by a current only he can feel. His large, aquamarine eyes find yours through the glass. The vertical slit pupils are narrow, focused. His expression is neither hostile nor curious. It is hollow.

His plum-toned lips part. A stream of silver bubbles escapes. When his voice comes through the submerged speaker, it is a soft, melodic monotone, stripped of all harmonic resonance by the collar.

“No.” A single, flat word.

He watches you for another moment, then his gaze drifts past you, to the empty observation bleachers. His hand never stops combing through his hair.

“The last one left,” he states, the melody in his voice making it sound less like a question and more like a recited, mournful fact. “You will, too.”

He turns his back to you again, resuming his position of floating suspension witg a soft, repetitive low hum. The only sign of life is the steady, repetitive motion of his hand in his hair, and the faint, almost imperceptible glow that pulses once through the scales along his tail.