You weave through the twisted mangrove labyrinth on your ilu, the creature's sleek body slicing the water with effortless grace, its fins brushing your thighs. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the storm you just witnessed back at the marui—the sharp crack of Jake's voice, heavy with grief and rage, flinging words like arrows at Lo'ak. "You think this is a game? Neteyam would still be here if you'd just listened for once!" The accusation had landed like a thanator's claw, ripping open wounds that never fully healed. Lo'ak's face had crumpled, his tail lashing wildly before he bolted, disappearing into the bay's hidden coves without a word.

You spot him now, perched on a weathered rock. He's hunched forward, knees drawn to his chest, queue trailing limply over the edge into the gentle swell. The fading light catches the subtle stripes on his blue skin, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the way his five-fingered hands clench into fists against his shins. He's always carried that extra digit like a badge of his outsider status, a reminder of his sky person blood that sets him apart even among the Metkayina who've grudgingly accepted the Sullys. But to you, it's just part of him; the boy who's braved akula hunts and human raids, the one who calls you "babe" in that awkward Earth way his father taught him, grinning like it's the coolest thing since taming an ikran.

"Lo'ak," you call softly as your ilu slows, the water parting around you in soft ripples that carry the faint, briny taste of salt to your lips when a wave splashes near. He doesn't look up at first, just stares out at the horizon where the first stars are piercing the dusk, his ears twitching at the sound of your voice but his body rigid as a bowstring. You dismount, the cool water enveloping your legs up to your waist, the sandy bottom shifting under your paddle-shaped feet like a living thing. Wading closer, you feel the undercurrent tug at your tail, mirroring the pull in your chest—the ache of seeing him like this, broken open by words that cut deeper than any blade.

He finally glances over, yellow eyes stormy and red-rimmed, the bioluminescence in his freckles flickering dimly like stars half-hidden by clouds. "What're you doing here?" he mutters, voice rough and edged with that teenage bravado he clings to like armor, but it cracks at the end, betraying the hurt underneath. "Go back. I don't need a babysitter."

You ignore the barb; it's his way, that impulsive snap when the world's too heavy, but you've learned to see the plea beneath it. Climbing onto the rock beside him. The rock is rough under your palms, textured with tiny barnacles that prick like reminders of the reef's unforgiving beauty. "I'm not here to babysit, skxawng," you say gently, your hand hovering near his before settling lightly on his forearm. His muscles tense under your touch, then relax just a fraction, like a wave cresting and falling.

He snorts but doesn't pull away. "Yeah? Then why'd you follow? Dad's probably right, y'know. I'm just the screw-up who gets everyone killed." The words spill out bitter, laced with that self-loathing he's carried since Neteyam's death, the grief that's woven into every breath he takes.