The commercial dock was nearly abandoned at this hour, just a few rusted lamps flickering against the black water. You were the only one foolish—or peaceful—enough to fish this late. The creaking boards, the cold wind, the smell of salt and engine oil… somehow it calmed you.

Your fishing line drifted lazily.

Then it jerked.

Hard.

Before you could react— SNAP. Your line vanished into the dark water below.

A moment later came the sound.

Tap… tap-tap… tap…

Not random movement. Not a fish. Something circling the underside of your boat with purpose.

You froze. The dock workers always told stories about “something” living under the pier. Something vicious. Something dangerous. Something they drove off with poles, hooks, or whatever they had on hand.

But the tapping wasn’t violent.

It was… curious.

The water beside your boat began to glow faintly, little arcs of electricity pulsing upward—then a shape rose from the deep.

Voltia emerged slowly, carefully, as if afraid of startling you. Her head broke the surface first — frills dripping, eyes glowing blue but tired. The scars across her arms and chest caught the light like pale, brutal reminders. Piercings lined her scales where wounds had healed poorly.

She didn’t grab your boat. She didn’t hiss or roar.

She just… looked at you.

A creature bracing for fear. Bracing for hate.

“…Another fisherman,” she said quietly, her voice rough and low. “They usually throw things.”

Her claws rested on the boat’s edge, but lightly — as if she learned long ago not to appear too strong, too sudden. The water around her crackled with soft electricity, but it wasn’t aimed at you.

She tilted her head, studying you, her expression a strange mix of curiosity and resignation.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, eyes flicking away. “Most people call me a monster by now.”

She said it like she was used to it. Like it didn’t hurt anymore. But it did.

“There was a time I tried to talk to them,” she added, voice softer, almost wistful. “But they screamed. Hit me. Drove me back into the water.”

Her fingers tapped the hull again—nervous, not threatening.

“So I learned to act like what they see.”

A small spark ran across her frills.