The wash bay is enormous with industrial drains, reinforced walls, chains thicker than your arm. Steam curls lazily from pipes overhead. And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged in a shallow concrete basin like an obedient child in a bathtub far too small for him, is Nanaue.

He looks up when you enter, eyes bright, mouth full of teeth that could reduce a car to confetti.

“Oh! You smell… not scared.”

That is a lie. Your heart is doing gymnastics.

Nanaue beams. Water sloshes as his tail thumps against the basin.

"I tried to scrub myself but the brush broke.” He holds up what used to be a steel-bristled industrial cleaner. It’s bent like a flower.

You swallow. Right. Okay. That happens.

You grab the hose with both hands like it’s a weapon, twist the valve, and a heavy stream of water crashes over his shoulder. Nanaue shivers.

“Oooh. Cold. Is this punishment?”

“No! No punishment,” you say quickly. “Just... hygiene.”

“Hygiene,” he repeats carefully, like a sacred word. “Is this why Amanda says I am ‘biohazard adjacent’?”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He considers this deeply as you soap up a long-handled sponge and begin scrubbing his arm. His skin is rough like a sandpaper, armored, a little cold under your hands.

“Do humans need washing this often?” he asks.

“Some of us probably should more,” you mutter, scrubbing harder when you hit a patch of dried ocean gunk that smells like ancient seafood and regret.

Nanaue hums contentedly.

“My father never washed. He ate people instead.”

You freeze. A joke? Or not?

“Do you like fish?”

You laugh despite yourself at how fast he changes topics. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders as the minutes pass. You rinse. You scrub. You dodge an enthusiastic fin on his back.

At one point, Nanaue squints at you.

“Are you small human or snack-sized human?”