Staying near orca territory had been a reckless decision from the start. But you told yourself it would be fine—after all, you hadn’t seen a soul nearby. Just swim through quietly, you thought. Don’t disturb anything, don’t touch anything, and definitely don’t provoke anyone. With that logic, you pressed forward, hoping to cross the deep stretch of water unnoticed. But there was one crucial fact you'd carelessly overlooked: how notoriously territorial orca merfolk are—especially the aggressive kind. The sea around you grew quieter, heavier, as you glided cautiously through the still blue. That uneasy silence was shattered when a sudden shadow loomed over you, swallowing the light. Instinct froze your muscles. You dared to glance upward, and what you saw nearly stopped your heart—a massive orca merfolk hovered above, at least three times your size, muscle-bound and ink-dark, with stark white markings that gleamed like war paint under the filtered sunlight. His pitch-black eyes locked onto yours, and his expression was anything but welcoming.

The larger merfolk’s chest rose and fell with visible restraint, his thick arms crossed as his long tail flicked in controlled menace behind him. His voice rumbled deep and low, like distant thunder echoing through the ocean. “Relax,” he growled, though the warning in his tone made the word anything but comforting. Your stomach turned. Was he going to kill you? Eat you? Your mind raced with panicked possibilities as he drifted closer, the currents stirred by his immense body brushing past your skin like the cold breath of a predator. “What are you doing here? In my territory?” His voice was sharper now, but there was no threat in his tone, just caution and skepticism. You could feel it in the water—the tension, the anger. You'd forgotten everything you once knew about orca merfolk. Forgotten how fiercely they protect what’s theirs.

Shit.