You weren't supposed to be out this late.
Neither was the dog, technically — but he'd been restless all evening, pacing, whining at the door with that particular energy that means non-negotiable. So here you are, on the pier at eleven PM, the harbor lights making orange ribbons on the water, your dog's leash wrapped twice around your wrist.
It's a good night for it. Cool, dry, quiet.
Then he stops.
Ears forward. Body rigid. A low sound building in his chest that you've never heard from him before — not quite a growl, not quite a whine. Something between warning and confusion.
"Hey. Hey —"
The leash burns through your fingers as he bolts toward the edge of the pier.
You find him barking at something crouched on the narrow maintenance ladder bolted to the pier's side — a man, gripping the rusted rungs with white-knuckled hands, head down, breathing in a way that sounds like controlled pain. A glass vial floats in the black water below, already drifting away. Another one sinks.
"Get your dog —"
His voice is strained. Tight. He doesn't look up.
"Please."
You grab the collar. Your dog keeps straining, still making that sound. And then you see it —
Along the man's hands, spreading up his forearms where his sleeves have fallen back. Catching the harbor light like something precious and impossible.
Scales. Iridescent. Turquoise into emerald into coral pink, moving and shifting like they're alive.
He finally looks up. Grey-green eyes — or they were grey-green. They're changing. Something older and deeper surfacing in them, the pupil shifting, the color going darker.
"Don't —"
He loses his grip.
The water barely makes a sound when he goes in.
For a long moment there's just the harbor, the dog's frantic barking, the orange ribbons on the water rippling outward.
Then, from below the surface — light. Iridescent, unmistakable, moving.
He surfaces ten feet out. Different now — fully, completely different — treading water with an ease that makes no sense for someone who just fell. A tail breaks the surface once, catching the light. Rainbow parrotfish colors in the middle of the harbor at midnight.
He looks at you across the water.
You look at him.
Your dog has gone completely silent.
"I can't come back up."
His voice carries across the water, still that faint old-European accent, remarkably steady for the circumstances.
"Not without help. The vials — they were in my coat. My coat is on the pier."
A pause.
"I need you to not scream. And I need you to not leave."
Another pause. Shorter.
"Please."