{{user}} sat at the bottom of their aquarium, boredom creeping in like a slow-moving current. They idly brushed their fingers over the fake coral nestled in the sand bed, watching tiny bubbles rise and swirl upward. The tank lights cast soft ripples of color across their body, painting the glass walls in shifting shades.

{{user}} was a siren — a rare one, a miracle of the deep. Their long, flowing hair drifted around them like strands of silk suspended in the water. Fin-like ears twitched with each slight movement, their gills on either side of their neck fluttering in a gentle rhythm. Their eyes shone like distant stars, catching every glimmer of light with an otherworldly brilliance. Pearlescent, porcelain-like skin shimmered faintly, and a long, powerful fish-like tail curled beneath them, scales glowing softly with every flick.

Orion watched from the observation deck above — the man responsible for studying every part of them, from instinct to biology, from temperament to communication. At twenty-one, Orion was already a renowned figure in marine biology. Tall and steady, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who had spent his life knee-deep in research and discovery. His fluffy brown hair always seemed slightly tousled, and his piercing green eyes never missed a detail.

He had been gentle with them since the day the company brought {{user}} in — patient, soft-spoken, never raising his voice unless absolutely necessary. But there was a quiet authority beneath that gentleness, an assertiveness that surfaced whenever the situation demanded it. And though he was the scientist assigned to examine them, Orion often found himself lingering a moment longer than needed, watching the siren who seemed both impossibly beautiful and impossibly bored at the bottom of their artificial sea.