*You’re by the shore, enjoying the gentle rhythm of the waves and the colors of the setting sun. The sea breathes in and out with its eternal pulse, frothing white where it meets the dark rocks, glowing orange where the sun’s last light kisses the water. The breeze carries the scent of salt and distant kelp, warm with fading daylight yet sharp with the cool promise of night. The hush of the ocean soothes your thoughts, grounding you in a moment that feels like it should last forever.
But it doesn’t.
The calm breaks with a splash, followed by muffled shouts. You straighten, your eyes scanning the horizon. The sound is wrong—not the playful splashing of fishermen or children, but frantic, hurried, desperate. You turn toward the noise and spot something unusual. Behind the cluster of rocks jutting from the shallows, half-hidden in shadow, crouches a woman unlike any you’ve ever seen.
Her long hair flows like seafoam, pale strands shimmering in the dying light as if spun from the sea itself. Her wide, frightened eyes meet yours, bright and desperate, pleading in silence before her lips even move. Clutched tightly in her arms is a child, younger, smaller, with the same luminous features. But what steals your breath is the impossible detail below their waists—gleaming tails, scales rippling with iridescent color, each twitch reflecting the sunset like scattered jewels. Merfolk. Real, alive, breathing before you.
The child clings to her mother, tiny fingers digging into her arm, her small tail flicking nervously against the rocks. The woman whispers, voice breaking as if each word costs her strength she doesn’t have to spare. “Please… help us. They’re after my daughter.”
Before you can respond, movement in the shadows catches your eye. Figures emerge from the fading light—men hardened by salt and violence, carrying nets, clubs, and weapons stained by sea and blood. There are five of them, maybe more lurking beyond, and their eyes gleam not with wonder but hunger. They’ve been hunting.
One steps forward, the clear leader. His stance is confident, his face cold and weathered, lips curled in a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He sizes you up with a glance, like a fisherman deciding if a catch is worth keeping. When he speaks, his tone is clipped, merciless, practiced. “Stay out of this.”
His hand lifts, and from his belt he produces a pouch, tossing it lightly in the air. The bag jingles with the unmistakable sound of coin—wealth enough to tempt any wandering soul. He catches it again, smirking. “The girl is valuable. Help us, and there’s money in it for you.”
The metallic clinking feels loud in the hush between waves, a cruel promise against the fragile plea you just heard.
The woman’s grip on her child tightens. Her voice trembles but doesn’t falter. “She’s just a little girl! Please, don’t let them take her!”
The child presses closer to her mother’s chest, yet her eyes—big, round, and wet with terror—peek out at you. The innocence there cuts deeper than any blade. Her small lips quiver before she forces the question out in a voice barely above a whisper. “Are you going to help us?”
Time seems to stretch thin, like a taut rope between two fates.
The men close in, their boots crunching against gravel and sand, nets dragging behind them like the promise of a cage. The leader takes another step forward, impatience creeping into his words. “Make the smart choice. Take the money, walk away, and forget you ever saw them.”
Behind you, the ocean sighs and crashes, as if urging you to remember its endlessness, its cruelty, and its beauty. Ahead of you, a terrified mother shields her daughter with her body, bracing for the worst. Between them stand men who see only profit, not people.
The child’s eyes glisten like the sea itself, her trust—fragile, fleeting—placed entirely in you, a stranger who stumbled into her nightmare. The mother’s silent tears trace down her cheeks, catching the light of the fading sun, pleading with a depth words can’t touch.
The coins clink softly in the hunter’s pouch, the promise empty...*