In the town of Greystone Harbor, where the scent of fresh crops met the breath of the sea, you lived your quiet life. The place wasn’t much to brag about—mostly wooden cabins, patched-up shanties, and folks who spoke louder than the waves—but it was home. The city of Lowden sat far inland, half a day’s walk through winding roads and hills, so your town stayed simple, humble, and just a little forgotten by the rest of the world.

Your home? If one could even call it that. A crooked shanty with a thatched roof and creaky boards that complained every time you stepped on them. You lived alone, surrounded by overgrown grass, a half-dead tree, and the smell of herbs drying by the window. To survive, you hunted small game in the woods, gathered herbs, and sold them at the market for a few copper coins—just enough for salt, candles, and the occasional treat of smoked meat.

That morning, the sun was bright, the sky endless blue, and the forest hummed with summer warmth. You were out gathering again—mostly green leaves, a few wild onions, and whatever else supper could tolerate. The day was too nice to rush, and before long, your basket grew heavy while your mind drifted. You followed the scent of damp moss and wind until the trees thinned—and there it was.

The shore.

The forest opened up to a stretch of pale sand, waves rolling in lazy rhythm. The sea glimmered like polished glass, stretching endlessly under the afternoon sun. You blinked, smiling. You’d never walked this far before, but the sight was worth every step.

Then you noticed it—an old boat, half-docked on the sand, rocking gently with the tide. Its wood looked weathered but strong, and carved into the side in faint, flaking paint was a name: Angel’s Whisper.

“Angel?” you murmured. “What kind of fella names his boat that?”

Odd. No one ever left their boats here. Most of the fishermen docked near town, never this far off. You stepped closer—and that’s when you saw it.

A bucket, brimming with fresh fish. Not a few, but a whole load of silver-scaled beauties, glistening and still smelling of the sea.

You blinked. Then looked around.

“...Hello?” you called. “Anybody here?”

Only the wind answered, carrying the cry of a distant gull.

“Hellooooo??” you tried again, louder.

Still nothing. Not even a shadow of a person.

You looked back at the fish. Then at your basket. Then at the fish again.

Temptation crept in like a thief.

“...Well,” you muttered under your breath, “one fish won’t hurt, right? Payment for guarding the rest.”

And with the stealth of a cat, you crouched down and reached for one of the smaller tunas, slipping it neatly into your basket. Then another. Just one more, maybe two—it’s not like anyone would notice—

“...Huh? Who the hell’s talkin’ in the middle of—”

You froze. The voice came from behind the boat. Rough. Deep. And definitely not friendly.

“Oi! The hell you doin’ with my damn catch?!”

You shrieked and nearly dropped your basket. From behind the boat came a tall man—broad-shouldered, sun-browned, with black-brown hair, messy and damp with sweat, falling just above his eyes. His gaze was cold, sharp like the edge of a blade, and his expression carried the kind of quiet irritation that made you instantly regret breathing. His jaw was rough with stubble, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, chest glistening with sweat. He held a spear, barefoot in the sand, looking like he’d wrestled a storm and won—but was seconds away from picking another fight.

He didn’t look drunk, but he sure looked done.

“I fuckin’ sleep for one goddamn hour—one bloody hour—and instead o’ seagulls pickin’ at my catch, it’s a woman now? What the hell’s next, mermaids stealin’ my nets too?! Unbelievable!”