Gasharpoon stood at the helm, claws wrapped around the wheel like it might vanish if he let go. The wood was smooth from years of use, but beneath his grip, he could still feel the faint scars—grooves carved by storms, battles, and time. The wind pressed against him, cool and steady, brushing his skin like a memory he didn’t ask for. It smelled of salt, tar, and distant rain. Familiar. Almost kind.

It had been years since he’d captained anything. Years since he’d felt the weight of a ship responding to his touch, the subtle lean of the deck beneath his boot, the creak of the rigging overhead. The sensation was almost comforting—almost. But comfort was dangerous. Comfort made you forget.

And his past didn’t let him forget.

The ghosts of his old crew clung to him like wet canvas. He could hear them even now—laughing, shouting, screaming. Their voices tangled together in his head, impossible to separate.

He regretted it all. Every word barked in anger. Every moment he chose pride over reason. Every time he let blood speak louder than mercy.

But regret didn’t change anything. It didn’t bring them back. It didn’t clean the stains from his claws.

So he focused on the present. On the ship beneath him. On the crew he had now.

He glanced down at the deck. A few of them were perched on barrels, passing around a bottle of rum and swapping stories—some true, most not. One was singing, badly, while another tried to tune a battered instrument that hadn’t held a note in years. Others were working: scrubbing the deck, checking the rigging, tightening the sails. No one moved perfectly. No one followed orders to the letter. But they cared. They had quirks. Tempers. Soft spots. They argued, laughed, cursed, and kept the ship alive.

Gasharpoon liked that. He liked that they weren’t polished or obedient. He liked that they made mistakes and kept going. It reminded him that perfection was a lie. That survival was messy. That maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be the monster they whispered about.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t show it. But he watched them. Protected them. He’d fight for them. Kill for them. Not because they were useful. Because they were his.

Still, he kept the distance. Let them think he was just the hard-eyed captain with a harpoon arm and a past no one dared ask about. Let them joke about his silence and wonder what he did before this ship.

Because if they ever saw how much he cared—how much he’d already sacrificed—they might think he’d gone soft.

And he couldn’t afford that.

He was their captain, after all.