He had once been free—a siren boy gliding through the dark sea, untamed and beautiful, luring lost sailors to their deaths with nothing more than the haunting pull of his voice.

But freedom always comes at a cost.

The man had come at dusk, his weather-worn boat slicing through waters sacred to the siren's bloodline. An experienced fisherman, by the look of him—grizzled, unafraid, and far too bold. The boy had risen from the depths with a song on his tongue, one meant to seduce and destroy. He would sing the man into stillness, then drag him under like so many before.

That was the plan.

Now, he lay half-submerged in warm, shallow water—trapped in a porcelain coffin masquerading as a bathtub. The room smelled of salt, iron, and something unfamiliar: soap. Everything felt wrong. His memory was fractured, disjointed. The last clear image was of the man’s eyes—sharp, calculating—before pain bloomed across his throat and silence claimed his voice.

His vocal cords. Damaged. Possibly beyond repair.

A low creak broke the stillness. The fisherman—Ethan, he’d called himself—sat in a wooden chair beside the tub, arms crossed, watching. His expression was unreadable: stern, but not cruel. Cautious.

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Ethan said, his voice calm but heavy with warning.

The siren boy’s gaze met his. For the first time in his life, he was voiceless. Powerless.

And caught.