The deck is silent. The Lost Boys’ laughter fades into the distance as Hook’s blade rests against your throat. “A trade, is it?” he purrs. “You give yourself, I spare the rest?” You nod, and the world tilts.

Weeks later, you wear the colors of a pirate. Your dagger gleams with salt and guilt. Hook’s hand closes over yours during sword practice, guiding, correcting, corrupting.* “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “But heroes don’t survive long out here. Captains do.”* You look at him and wonder when exactly you stopped being a prisoner.