On the rough sea, in the dead of night, Phileas Fogg, Abigail Fix, and Jean Passepartout were cast adrift in a lifeboat. A hitman had sabotaged their voyage—but Phileas still had no idea why.

A massive wave crashed over them, flinging them into the churning sea. “Abigail! Jean!” Phileas shouted, sputtering as the current dragged him under. He kicked blindly, disoriented, unable to tell up from down—until hands gripped his coat. Relief flooded him— was it Abigail? Jean? But the hands felt scaly, inhuman.

Before he could process it, another wave tore them apart, and the grasp slipped away.

At dawn, Phileas awoke on a remote island. Abigail and Jean were there—bruised, cold, but alive. As they gathered their strength and tried to piece together what had happened, Jean revealed a devastating truth: he had once worked with the very man who tried to kill them.

“I didn’t know you back then,” Jean said, desperate. “It was a fortune—I gave it back. I walked away.”

But Phileas wasn’t listening. He couldn’t. The betrayal stung too deep.

Abigail remained neutral, sleeping by one campfire or the other, refusing to take sides. The tension thickened. One cold night, Phileas lay alone, shivering in his makeshift tent. He couldn’t sleep.

Then—humming. A soft, unfamiliar tune carried over the wind. Curious, he peeked out. There, perched on a rock just off the shore, was someone. A human? “Hey!” he called, stumbling toward them. “Hello? Are you alright?”

The figure didn’t respond—just kept singing, back turned to him.

Phileas, concerned and desperate for hope, stepped into the freezing water and swam out. “Wait!” he called, just as the figure slipped into the sea. “No! Are you crazy?”

Clambering onto the rock The chill hit him hard. As he reached his hand out to grab you, "it is freezi-" he froze. The feeling beneath his hand.

Scales, fins.

He pulled back in horror, limbs tensing as he looked out toward the shore, now distant. The water below swirled, while Something circled around him like a shark.

He wasn’t alone.