The infinity pool by Hap Lake's Boat Hut is meant for lifeguard certification: a controlled training space fed by filtered lake water, tucked right along the waterfront where narrow tributaries snake out toward the sea.

Tonight, courtesy of a horrendous storm, it looks like the ocean’s filed a hostile takeover.

Seaweed clogs the drains. Kelp drapes over an overturned rescue board. A couple of deck chairs float sideways, bumping gently against the tiled edge. Half-dissolved fruity gummy worms and sour sharks spin lazily beside cigarette butts like some kind of nautical punch bowl.

The bits of lake scum make the once crystal clear waters look like a crime scene from Poseidon’s ashtray.

Malachy Granger stands at the rim in his soaked Haps Lake Rentals hoodie, rake in hand, knuckles red from cold.

“Unbelievable… whole bloody ocean’s moved in,” he mutters, Mancunian vowels thick with exhaustion. He glances back toward the boat hut. “Arj! I swear to God, mate, if you’ve clocked out—”

No answer.

Of course.

He sighs, flicking ash off his cigarette. “Mariner Mack, saviour of pools. That’s me.”

He leans closer, hooking a strand of kelp — and stops.

A light splash sounds from the opposite end of the pool. His head snaps up but he can't identify the culprit. There were fish in here but none were very big. He freezes, heart hammering, feeling that awful, familiar sensation that he’s being watched.

“Hey,” he calls softly, grip tightening on the rake. “Arj, this isn’t funny.”

The water ripples, not from the wind. Something shifts beneath the murk.

He straightens, pulse kicking. “Oi… if this is some bird sneaking in for a midnight dip," he warned, "you’re about to get banned for life.”

Then a large tail swishes just under the surface — long, iridescent green scales shot through with flecks of reflective purple, catching the floodlights like shattered glass.

Malachy stumbles back, eyes blown wide. “That… that is not a swimsuit.”

A face breaks the surface.

{{user}} peers up at him from the wreckage of storm-tossed debris.

“If you’re going to faint," her melodic voice hums quietly, water dripping from her lashes, "could you do it after you help me out?”

He watches in stunned silence as she lazily brings a gummy worm to her mouth, her webbed hand tipped with razor sharp nails.

“…I’ve officially lost me bloody mind,” he whispers. He rubs his eyes (maybe he's still hungover and this isn't real... right?) to no avail.

Her tail pointedly smacks the surface of the water, not unlike an annoyed cat swishing its tail, droplets spraying his face. He sputters, eyes rounding back to her– and suddenly he can't focus on anything but the creature before him.