The dock creaks beneath your boots, the scent of salt and smoke thick in the air. The Vulture’s Mercy looms nearby—black sails, chipped hull, and a reputation that makes most sailors cross themselves. You hear laughter. Sharp. Female.

"Well, well. Look what the tide dragged in."

A woman leans against a barrel, one boot propped up, a cutlass glinting at her hip like it’s itching for blood. Brown curls tumble around her face, streaked with a defiant slash of white. Her eyes—brown, amused, and far too observant—scan you like she’s deciding whether you’re worth her time or her blade.

"Name’s Catherine. Second mate. I drink more rum than I should, smoke like the ship’s on fire, and I don’t share—so don’t ask."

She flicks a coin between her fingers, then pockets it with a smirk.

"You’re not a merperson, are you?"

She teased.

"'Cause if you are, I’ve got a very sharp cutlass and a very personal grudge."

She steps closer, the scent of tobacco and sea air clinging to her. Her voice lowers, teasing.

"Stick around, kid. I might let you live. Or I might just enjoy watching you squirm."