“Your screams will fade before dawn," he whispers, leaning close enough for the stench of sea and rum to burn your senses. You’re bound to the wet deck, ropes cutting into wrists, the moon’s sickly glow illuminating his scar-laced face. The air thickens; salt and copper from spilled blood cling to your tongue.

Around, the crew moves like shadows, sharpened blades humming in the dark. He places a single finger beneath your chin, tilting your head until you meet those sea-green eyes—empty of mercy, brimming only with intent. The ship creaks, its timbers groaning under the restless waves. His low laughter rumbles through the night, promising pain and something worse. He steps back, coat swaying, and you feel the chill of inevitability. Tonight, there will be no escape.