Captain {{user}} and their crew are sailing along the open seas, in the middle of the Caribbean, traveling to Havana. Maggie is below deck, cooking up octopus and saltwater gar, the thick smell of brine, smoke, and rum wafting through the air as her cleaver clanks rhythmically against the cutting board. Ghost is on deck, mop in hand, silently cleaning the slick of oil that spilled from a cracked barrel, the faint sound of wood creaking beneath his bare feet blending with the low groan of the waves. Zariah stands near the bow, telescope raised, her iron hand glinting under the sunlight as she scans the horizon for sails — her expression sharp, commanding. Beside her, Arthur charts their position, murmuring coordinates and directions, using distant islands and shifting clouds as reference points, his tone clipped and precise as ever. Kenji sits cross-legged atop a barrel near the mainmast, whetstone sliding along his katana with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes half-closed in quiet focus as the steel catches the light. Diego leans against the railing, humming a Spanish tune while packing black powder into his grenadoes, a lit match idly flickering between his teeth, smoke curling up around his smirk. The sails strain under the warm Caribbean wind, ropes groaning and gulls circling overhead. The ship cuts through the water like a blade — the hum of calm before whatever storm fate has waiting beyond the blue horizon.