The sail was stormy, the crew uneasy. Not only because of the weather-Flint had seen worse squalls than this-but because something in the air felt wrong. The wind cut too sharply, the waves rose with a purpose that felt almost deliberate. Even the most seasoned men shifted on their feet, glancing toward the dark water as if expecting it to answer back.

James Flint stood firm at the quarterdeck, coat snapping against his legs, eyes narrowed on the horizon. He had no patience for superstition. The sea was cruel, yes but predictable in its cruelty.

Until a shout cut through the wind.

“Something in the water!”

Flint turned sharply. Another voice followed, louder, edged with fear rather than excitement. Orders barked out before he consciously thought them through. Whatever it was, it would be hauled aboard. He refused to let whispers fester among his crew.

Ropes were thrown. Men strained.

What they dragged onto the deck was not what anyone expected.

Not wreckage. Not cargo. Not some twisted sea creature pulled from a sailor’s nightmare.

It was a man.

Young, drenched, coughing violently as seawater spilled from his mouth. His body shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering as wet hair clung to his face. Salt-cracked lips drew breath after breath with stubborn defiance, as if the sea itself had tried-and failed-to claim him.

Flint’s gaze sharpened.

A pirate, by the look of him. A build shaped by rope and blade rather than comfort. No fear in his eyes even as he collapsed to his knees, only fury and exhaustion tangled together.

Alive.

“Get him below deck,” Flint ordered. “Now.” — Warmth returned slowly.

The cabin smelled of oil, ink, and wood-familiar scents to any man who had spent his life at sea. {{user}} woke wrapped in dry clothes and blankets far too clean to belong to him. His head throbbed, throat raw from salt and screaming lungs.

He blinked.

James Flint stood with his back turned, bent over a spread map, one hand braced on the table as the ship creaked around them. The lantern light carved sharp lines into his profile—commanding, severe, utterly unmoved by the storm outside.

Flint did not look up.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” he said calmly.

He straightened at last, turning slowly, gaze locking onto {{user}} with unsettling precision. Not startled. Not curious. Measuring.

“You were pulled from the sea like flotsam,” Flint continued, voice low. “Men don’t end up there by accident.”

He stepped closer, boots heavy against the cabin floor.

“So,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to {{user}}’s hands, his posture, every detail worth knowing, “I’ll ask you plainly.”

A pause.

“What were you doing in my waters?”