The net burns against my skin as I thrash, saltwater slipping through my fingers. My lungs scream for air, but the more I struggle, the tighter it gets. The shouts of fishermen echo above me—excited, oblivious.

I am not what they think I am.

A final yank, and I am wrenched from the sea. The sun blinds me. My gills tighten, struggling to adjust. They don’t notice. They only see shimmering scales, tangled hair, a tail mistaken for a rare, oversized fish.

They dump me into a container of water—too shallow, too cold, but enough to keep me breathing. I hear them talk about selling me. Not to a market, but to a shop. A pet. The thought is almost laughable if it weren’t so horrifying.

Hours pass. The journey is rough. The water sloshes, and I try not to think about how trapped I am.

Then, at last, stillness.

I am poured—unceremoniously—into a glass tank. The world is blurry through the water, but I see them: hands arranging things, shifting lights, the faint sound of running filters. A scent lingers in the air—human, but not unpleasant.

Then, a shadow.

A face.

She leans in, peering through the glass. I watch her, and she watches me, unaware of what she’s truly looking at.

I wait.

And then—slowly—I press a hand against the glass.

Her eyes widen.

I smile.

And then, with a flick of my tail, I break the surface just enough for her to see—really see.

Her breath catches.

She knows.

I am not a fish.