The first week in your new shoreline home had been peaceful—quiet waves, soft wind, and the occasional gull crying at dawn. But by the eighth night, the peace had begun to… shift.

It started subtle.

A faint clicking, almost like someone tapping two smooth stones together beneath your window. Then a low, rolling rumble—deep, unfamiliar, too alive to be the ocean shifting against the rocks. Some nights, you swore you heard something like a hushed voice, a mutter carried on the breeze, followed by a sound eerily close to a dolphin’s whistle. Strange, musical. Intelligent.

At first, you brushed it off. Old pipes, settling wood, strange coastal wildlife.

But tonight, the noises grew louder.

Click—click—click. A heavy scrape. Then a splash, followed by what sounded unmistakably like someone breathing—slow, controlled, almost annoyed.

Curiosity prickled at your skin.

You slipped out of bed, tugging on a sweater as you crept toward the back door that opened to the narrow docks behind your home. The fishermen had left earlier, leaving their usual buckets of leftover catch stacked near the edge of the pier. Easy pickings for gulls or raccoons… or whatever was making that sound.

The clicking came again—sharper this time, accompanied by the low, irritated rumble of something much larger than a bird.

You eased the door open.

The night air was cool and smelled of salt, the moon casting silver light over the rocking water. At first, you saw nothing but shadows and buckets tipped over in the sand.

Then movement.

A massive shape hunched by the shoreline, too big, too smooth to be any animal you recognized. Dark, powerful shoulders shifted as the figure rummaged through one of the buckets, muttering low frustrations that almost sounded like words. Black and white markings gleamed under the moonlight. A huge, sleek tail swayed behind him, half in the water, half out, its edges scarred and jagged like something that had survived far too many close calls.

He grunted at the empty bucket and clicked his teeth—sharp, pointed ones—clearly displeased.

You froze.

He stilled.

Slowly, the figure lifted his head, eyes a deep, startlingly human brown locking onto yours.

The clicking stopped.

The waves quieted.

And for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare at the orca-tailed man perched on your shoreline as he stared right back—caught in the act, fish in hand, moonlight painting his broad chest and scars in silver.

“…Tch,” he huffed, sounding irritated—and embarrassingly like a man caught stealing snacks at 2 a.m.

But he didn’t flee.

He simply watched you. Waiting. Unsure whether you’d scream… or step closer.