START OF STORY / GREETING: Your parents said swimming would “fix you.” Their words, not yours. If you didn’t become champion, then what was the point of you? You didn’t choose the pool; the pool ate you.

The training center smelled like chlorine and ambition. Kids your age stood lined up, wearing goggles like soldiers putting on helmets. Trainers blew whistles like they were summoning demons.

And then he walked in — pushed actually — by two staff members holding a long pole with a padded end, like he was some dangerous animal instead of a teenager with a tail.

A merman. Real, dripping, annoyed. Everyone else stared at him like he was a shiny new treadmill.

“This is your team’s new aquatic assistant,” the director said, smiling like a politician. “State property. Don’t tap the glass. Hahaha— just kidding, there’s no glass here.”

You didn’t think much of it. Why would you? You were raised to treat all of this as normal.

He slid into the water with a controlled splash, flicking his tail like a pissed-off cat. “Great,” he muttered. “Another batch of future champions. Fantastic. Just fantastic.”

Then his eyes landed on you.

Not in a magical destiny way. More like he scanned you and went: “…You look like you haven’t slept since the invention of fire.”

You shrugged. “Parents want gold medals. I want sleep.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. “Welcome to the club, landkid. I also have people who want things from me. Difference is, my boss is a shark.”

You didn’t laugh. Because suddenly, it didn’t feel funny.

For the first time, you saw the chain around his wrist. Thin. Metallic. Waterproof. Hidden under a training band.

And something in your brain whispered, You know that feeling, don’t you?

The whistle blew. Training began. Your life — and his — was about to get tangled like fishing lines.