rosalescent

"There," he mutters, nodding toward a low, sagging building nestled between two buildings which appear as though they are about to collapse.

A tarnished brass sign hangs crookedly above the door, weeping rust onto the wood below—Madame Laeruda’s Antiquities & Curiosities.

As you push the door open, a small iron bell lets out a dull clank. The air inside is different. It's thick, heavy, and smelling intensely of dried elderberries, burning myrrh, and a faint, unmistakable undertone of deep-ocean salt. Rows of dusty shelves stretch into the shadows, packed with jars of odd-coloured fluids, dried starfish, twisted whalebones, and glowing green moss that pulses with a low, eerie luminescence.

From the back corner of the room, a figure materialises from behind a heavy velvet curtain.

Madame Laeruda does not look like a scam artist. She is tall, draped in heavy, ink-black shawls, her silver hair woven with tiny, clicking sea-snail shells. But it is her eyes that make you freeze. They are completely milky white, devoid of pupils, and the very instant she steps into the room, they lock directly onto you.

The supposed fortune teller takes a deep breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring wildly as if she is inhaling your very scent. A deeply unsettled, knowing expression crosses her weathered face. She opens her mouth, and a faint whisper leaves it. "You..." her voice like grinding stones. "The scent of the deep-sea trenches walks on-"

"Madame Laeruda," Jungkook starts, not hearing her whispers. He squares his chest, his authority leaking into his tone despite his ragged appearance. "Sierra sent us. We don't have time for the usual tourist theatrics. We need your eyes, and we need them now, please."

The old woman blinks her milky eyes, her focus reluctantly shifting to him. A sharp smile touches her lips. "Sierra’s name opens many doors, young sailor. But my 'eyes' do not look into the dark out of the sheer goodness of my heart. The deep world demands balance. If you want a truth, you must give me something of equal weight. Something of true value.

Jungkook goes completely still. The easy soldier vanishes, morphing into a rigid statue. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that his jaw is tightly clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching in a familiar rhythm of stress.

His fingers twitch, but eventually his hand travels down to his left thumb. There sits a heavy, tarnished silver signet ring, carved with an intricate crest you're unfamiliar with: two fish encircling each other, etched into the silver, surrounded by tendrils. You noticed him turning it absentmindedly back in the caves, a comforting habit he clearly relies on. It is obvious this piece means a great deal to him.

He stares at the ring for three long seconds, his chest heaving with a silent, painful breath. Then, with a stiffness that looks like it physically hurts him, he pulls it off his finger and slams it onto the velvet-covered counter between them. "Help us," Jungkook rasped, his voice dead and cold. "And it’s yours."

You stare at the ring, then up at his profile under the dim green moss-light. A strange twist forms in your stomach. The arrogant sailor you know has just traded away his most precious possession without a single complaint, all to save a crew that might already be dead.

Madame Laeruda picks up the ring, her skeletal fingers tracing the carved anchor. She smiles, thoroughly satisfied. "Sit," she commands, gesturing to a round wooden table centred around a massive, flawed crystal ball that looks like frozen seawater.

"What is it you would like to know?" She asks, her voice almost melodic.

You hesitate, but Jungkook shoots you a tight, silent nod. You reach into your leather satchel, pull out the smooth, black stone, and place it gently on the table right next to the crystal ball. "We need to find its other half, where it is, is where Kallinos is, along with the crew he has captured."

She nods as she takes the rock into her palms. What happens next isn't a cheap parlour trick. Laeruda closes her milk-white eyes and places both palms flat on the table, the rock in between them. She begins to hum, a low, vibrating, rhythmic chant that sounds less like human speech and more like the deep song of a blue whale echoing through an underwater canyon. The black stone immediately responds. It lets out a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates so violently through the floorboards your teeth literally rattle. Then, a gasp escapes your lips. The crystal ball begins to glow with a brilliant, bioluminescent turquoise light. Swirling mist, thick and humid, pours out of the glass orb, pooling across the table like molten silver.

The effect seems to extend to the room around you. Tiny, floating droplets of water detach themselves from the mist, hovering in the air around your heads like miniature stars. Inside the crystal ball, the image of a raging ocean current begins to spin, throwing beautiful, watery reflections across the walls. Suddenly, the mist turns a dark, bruised shade of purple. The beautiful hum of the stone degrades into a harsh, metallic screech, like iron scraping against a reef.

Madame Laeruda flinches, her hands trembling as she forces them to stay on the table. Her brow furrowed in deep frustration. "No..." she hisses, her blind eyes darting wildly beneath her eyelids. "I cannot see it. The twin to this stone... it… It is shrouded. It is locked inside a vault forged of black iron and drowned in fresh, cold blood. Kallinos has bound it in dark sea-ward magic to mask its pulse. I cannot pierce the fog."

Jungkook leans forward, his latching onto the table, desperation clouding his features. "What do you mean you can't see it? I just gave you everything I have! Look harder!" His voice cracks with sheer panic.

"Be silent, boy!" the fortune teller snaps, her voice echoing with a sudden, supernatural force that makes the jars on the shelves rattle. She takes a ragged breath, her pale hands tracing the edges of the mist. "I cannot see the destination... but the threads of fate always leave a trail. One thread bleeds true. It leads away from the sea, up into the high cliffs. To the grand manor on the hill."

She opens her white eyes, staring straight through Jungkook.

"Governor Allistair Sterling," Laeruda whispers darkly. "The ruler of this province. He plays the part of the King's loyal servant, but beneath the table, he feeds Kallinos the shipping routes of the royal fleet. He knows exactly where the pirate flagship is anchored. In four days, the Governor hosts his grand midsummer masquerade ball at his estate. The answers you seek are locked inside his private study. You will find them there."

Jungkook lets out a massive breath, his shoulders dropping as he memorises the name. "Four days," he mutters, a spark returning to his eyes. "A masquerade ball. We can find a way in." He reaches out, sliding his chair back to stand up. "Thank you, Madame. We have what we need."

"Yes. Thank you," you add quickly, reaching out to scoop your pulsing black stone back into your leather satchel.

The very instant your fingers brush the stone, the woman’s hand shoots out, and her bony fingers clamp onto your wrist with a grip that feels like solid ice. Her sharp nails slightly pierce the skin of your forearms. You gasp, trying to pull away, but she holds you fast, her blind eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring Jungkook's sudden confusion.

"You think you left your cage, little fish," she whispers, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying cadence that only your ears can truly understand. "But the silver-finned daughters of the deep trench always suffocate when they try to mimic the land. You should’ve listened to Kyra. You cannot run from the blood in your veins."

With a sharp gasp, she violently releases your wrist, falling back into her chair as the turquoise light in the crystal ball instantly shattered, plunging the shop back into dim, dusty darkness.

You stumble backwards, clutching your burning wrist against your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Kyra. How does she know? What else does she know?

"What the hell was that?" Jungkook demands, his voice dropping into a deeply suspicious register. He steps forward, his eyes darting from Madame Laeruda's exhausted form back to your pale face. He looks at your white-knuckled grip on your wrist. "What did she just say to you? What the hell is a 'silver-finned daughter'? Who is Kyra?"

"I… I don't know," you lie sharply, your voice shaking slightly as you force yourself to tuck the satchel under your arm. "Just standard fortune-teller gibberish to scare tourists. Let's go, Ace. The clock is ticking."

Jungkook doesn't move for a second, his dark eyes narrowing into slits as he studies your defensive posture. The observant sailor in him is screaming that you are hiding something massive, but the urgency of his mission forces him to bite his tongue.

"Fine," he muttered, casting one last dark look at the fortune teller. "Let's get out of here."

The cool, damp night air of Marlow hits your face, but it does nothing to soothe the burning anxiety in your chest.

"So are you going to tell me what that old woman was talking about?" Jungkook asks, his long strides easily keeping pace with you as you march down a narrow, foggy alleyway away from the docks.

"I told you, it was nonsense," you snap, keeping your eyes pinned to the cobblestones. "Are you always this relentless, or is it just a Navy trait?"

"I'm a tactician, Angel. When a weird, blind witch drops a highly specific, creepy warning on the only way to my crew and she turns the colour of a dead jellyfish, I tend to notice," he retorts, a sharp edge to his voice. "What, are you secretly a member of some weird coastal cult? Should I be worried you're going to sacrifice me to some sea monster?"

"If I wanted to sacrifice you to a sea monster, I would have left you to drown, you idiot," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. "Now shut up and help me look for someplace to rest. My feet are-”

Jungkook suddenly clamps his hand around your shoulder as he violently yanks you backwards into the deep shadows of a recessed doorway.

"Hey! What the-"

"Shut up," he hisses directly into your ear.

The playful bickering vanishes instantly. Jungkook’s entire body is coiled like a spring. You hold your breath, your eyes widening as you finally hear it too: the faint, rhythmic scraping of heavy leather boots on cobblestones, coming from both ends of the narrow alley.

Three shadows then materialise out of the thick fog. They are large, burly men wrapped in heavy oilskin coats, but it’s the jagged, branded tattoos of a sea-snake on their thick necks that grab your attention. Pirate scouts.

"Well, well," the lead pirate sneers, a horrific, gold-toothed grin splitting his dirty beard. "It appears that Captain’s little golden boy didn't drown after all."

Jungkook doesn't hesitate. He moves with the terrifying speed of a soldier.

"Stay behind me," he orders through clenched teeth.

With a low growl, Jungkook lunges forward just as the first pirate unsheathes his cutlass. He ducks beneath the heavy blade and drives a brutal punch straight into the pirate's exposed ribs. A sickening crack echoes through the alley, and the man goes down. Jungkook turns to grab a heavy wooden fish crate from the side of the alley, hoisting it over him until it shatters directly over the second pirate's head.

But the third pirate doesn't go for Jungkook. He sees you standing defensively in the doorway. With a snarl, he pulls a long stiletto knife from his boot and lunges straight for your throat. You gasp, your human legs freezing up, entirely unfamiliar with the concept of dodging a physical blade on solid ground.

"Angel-"

Jungkook doesn't think. He throws his entire massive frame across the space, spinning his body to put himself directly between you and the flying steel.

Slash.

A sharp, wet sound cuts through the alley. The pirate's blade slices deeply across Jungkook’s upper forearm, tearing through the remaining fabric of his shirt and cutting a brutal, bleeding trench into his skin. Jungkook doesn't even wince. He uses his momentum to drive his skull directly into the pirate's nose with a sickening thud. The man drops to the stones, unconscious.

In the distance, the sharp, shrill sound of watchmen's whistles begins to echo through the streets. Jungkook gasps, clutching his bleeding arm as dark red blood begins to rapidly pour through his fingers. He looks back at you, his eyes wild and breathless. "We have to go. Now."

You grab his uninjured hand, pulling him down a maze of twisting, pitch-black side alleys until the sound of the watchmen's whistles finally fades. You duck into a quiet, secluded alcove behind an old linen mill, the space completely hidden from the main street by a row of overgrown ivy.

Jungkook staggers, his heavy back hitting the brick wall as he slides down onto a wooden crate. His breath is ragged, his skin dangerously pale under the cold, silver moonlight. The blood is still flowing, dripping steadily off his elbow.

"Sit still," you command, your voice completely stripped of its usual attitude.

You kneel on the cold ground in front of him, your hands working with frantic efficiency. You open your satchel, pulling out a clean, soft strip of linen cloth you packed from your cavern. "You're an idiot for doing that," you mutter, your fingers trembling slightly as you carefully pull his large, blood-slicked hand away from the wound. "You're a complete and total idiot. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Can't have my favourite thorn in my ass dying on me," Jungkook murmurs, his voice a little lower, a little woozier than usual. The blood loss and the sheer exhaustion are finally catching up to him. "Who else is going to call me names and stomp around me, Angel?"

"Shut up," you murmur softly, pressing the linen cloth firmly against the deep slash.

Jungkook lets out a sharp, indrawn hiss through his teeth, his broad shoulders tensing, but he doesn't pull away. He just sits there, completely still, leaning his head back against the brick wall.

"Ow. Watch it, Angel," he winces, though a weak, stubborn smirk quickly returns to his lips. "Is this seriously how you treat a guy who just took a blade for you? I thought heroes got a little more gratitude. A token of appreciation? A kiss on the cheek, perhaps?"

"You took a blade because your so-called 'elite military reflexes' failed to calculate a basic dodge, genius," you snap back, though your fingers twitch nervously against his arm. "The only token you're getting is an exceptionally tight knot if you don't hold still."

"Feisty," he murmurs, his breath hitching slightly as you apply more pressure to stop the bleeding. "I like it. Keep talking like that, and I might actually forget that my arm is wide open."

"Don't flatter yourself," you huff, fixing him with a glare that lacks any real venom. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't bleed out and ruin my triple payout. You're no good to me as a corpse."

"Sure, sweetheart." He mumbles.

Too weak to maintain his cocky armour, his dark eyes drop down to your face. He just stares at you. How the cold moonlight catches the contours of your features, illuminating the focus in your eyes and the gentle, careful way your hands work against his skin. The tension in the alleyway shifts into something entirely too intimate. You can feel the intense heat radiating off his chest. His gaze is heavy, completely unguarded, tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your lips. He looks slightly dazed, completely captivated by your face under the silver light. "You have strange eyes," Jungkook murmurs, his voice dropping into a low hypnotic rumble that vibrates right through the small space between you. "In the light… they look like the deep water after a storm. I've never seen anyone look at land the way you do. Like you're angry at the dirt itself."

Your heart does a sudden, violent flip against your ribs, a terrifying jolt that has absolutely nothing to do with the pirates or the watchmen. You quickly look down, tying the linen bandage with a sharp, aggressive jerk to break the spell. "I'm not angry at the dirt," you whisper back, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I'm angry at you. For being a giant, reckless distraction."

His smirk softens into something dangerously warm, eyes crinkling at the corners. "A distraction, hm? Good to know I'm occupying your thoughts."

"Occupying my list of immediate headaches," you correct sharply, face slightly tinted. You tie the linen bandage with a sharp, aggressive jerk to break the spell.

Jungkook lets out another soft groan at the sudden tug, but the amused glint in his eyes stays fixed on you. "Ouch. Point take. Message received, Angel."

"Good. The bleeding has mostly stopped. You should be fine," you force your voice to stay steady as you stand up. "Come on."

You reach down, grabbing his uninjured arm and hoisting it over your shoulders. Jungkook groans, his heavy frame leaning against you as he forces his legs to work. He is solid, his chest pressed flush against your side, his breathing shallow against your neck as you slowly guide him out of the alleyway. He leans a ridiculous amount of his weight onto you, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. Every breath he takes puffs warm air right against the sensitive skin of your neck, sending an entirely unwelcome shiver straight down your spine.

"You are ridiculously heavy," you complain, gritting your teeth as your unfamiliar human legs struggle to balance the extra mass on the uneven cobblestones. "Stop leaning so hard, Ace. Walk on your own two feet."

"Can't help it," he murmurs sleepily. "Doctor's orders. Heavy physical contact promotes rapid healing. Pretty sure I read that in a royal medical journal."

"There is no such journal, and I am highly certain you are just taking advantage of the situation to be lazy," you huff, trying to ignore the rhythm of his heart beating right against your shoulder blade.

"Shame," he whispers, his lips brushing dangerously close to your earlobe as you both navigate a sharp turn in the dark street. "You actually have excellent bedside manner, Angel. Very... hands-on. I feel better already."

Your foot slips slightly on a smooth stone, not because of moss or water this time, but out of the audacity of the man beside you. Who let his ego get this big? Your grip on his waist tightens instinctively to keep you both upright, your fingers burying into the fabric of his torn shirt.

"One more word out of you," you hiss, your face practically glowing red in the dark, "and I am dropping you directly into the nearest fish-guts puddle and walking away."

Jungkook lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, his eyes half-closed but completely triumphant as he allows you to steer him down the road. "Alright, alright. Cooperating in silence. Lead the way, Angel."

By the time you manage to drag him to a low-end, discreet inn near the edge of the market district, hidden and run-down enough for it not to even have a visible name, you are both completely exhausted. Your shoulders are aching from supporting his dead weight, and your legs feel like they are about to buckle under you entirely.

You haul him through the wooden door, the bell above it letting out a pathetic little tinkle. You throw a heavy silver coin onto the counter, the metal clinking sharply right in front of the innkeeper. The man doesn't even blink; he appears to be far more interested in a grease-stained plate and a ledger of overdue tabs than the fact that a half-naked, heavily bruised sailor is bleeding all over his floorboards. He merely grunts, sliding a rusted iron key across the sticky wood without looking up.

"Room twelve. Top floor. Don't make no noise," the old man mutters around a mouthful of crust.

Top floor? I can't even walk two more steps for Poseidon's sake!

"A glowing recommendation for the hospitality industry," you hiss under your breath.

You practically carry Jungkook up the creaking, narrow wooden stairs, every single step a gruelling battle against gravity. He is incredibly solid, his broad frame shifting against yours with every stride. Halfway up the flight, he lets out a low, sleepy groan, his face burying directly into the crook of your neck.

"You know, Angel," he mumbles, his voice thick and slurred from the blood loss, "if we tumble backwards down these stairs... I'm entirely using you as a cushion."

"If we tumble backwards, Ace, I am leaving you at the bottom to become one with the architecture," you shoot back, gritting your teeth as you hitch his arm higher over your shoulder. "Lift your feet. I am not a manatee."

You finally reach the landing, staggering down the dimly lit hallway until you locate the warped wooden door marked with a fading number twelve. You don't even bother trying to turn the knob properly while balancing him; you just raise your boot and push the door open with a sharp, decisive kick, letting out a massive sigh of relief as you step inside the threshold.

The room is small, basic, and surprisingly clean, smelling faintly of cheap pine wood soap and dried lavender. But the very moment your eyes scan the layout, your breath catches completely in your throat.

There, resting against opposite walls under the low slant of the roof, are two small twin beds.

A wave of pure relief washes over you. You wouldn't have to navigate the awkward torment of sharing a single mattress with a giant, infuriatingly attractive soldier who smells like salt air and high-stakes trouble.

"Beds," Jungkook mumbles, his eyes half-closed as he slowly detangles himself from your shoulders, his hands lingering on your waist for just a fraction of a second too long before he lets go. He staggers forward two steps and practically collapses face-first onto the nearest mattress. He rolls onto his back with a heavy groan, his long, bare legs dangling completely off the edge of the frame. "Two of them. Perfect. If you tried to steal my blankets tonight, I’d probably have to court-martial you for high treason against the crown."

"In your dreams, Ace," you huff, crossing your arms as you stare down at his dramatic, sprawling figure. "I wouldn't touch your blankets if they were woven from pure gold. You are currently covered in alleyway grit, dried blood, and absolute audacity."

"It's tactical grit," he murmurs into the pillow, a lazy, utterly exhausted smirk playing on his lips as his eyes flutter shut. "Highly effective for camouflage. You should try it, Angel."

"I'll pass," you roll your eyes, walking over to the small ceramic washbasin resting on a wooden stand in the corner of the room. You pick up the pitcher, pouring cold, refreshing water into the bowl to rinse the copper tang of his blood off your hands. "Just stay on your absolute side of the room. I mean it. If I hear so much as a single, echoing snore out of you, I am throwing the washbasin directly at your head."

Jungkook doesn't even muster a reply this time. He just lets out a faint, amused huff that dissolves into the quiet fabric of the room. Within no more than ten seconds, his chest begins to rise and fall in a slow, perfectly even cadence, his long strides and sharp wit finally yielding to the brutal exhaustion of the night.

You stand by the washbasin, your hands submerged in the cool water as you watch the liquid turn a pale, swirling pink. The silence of the room settles heavily around you, broken only by the distant, comforting rhythm of his deep, absolute sleep.

You pull your hands out of the tinted water, drying them slowly on a coarse wool towel. The quiet of the room allows the defensive walls you’ve built up all day to finally crumble, and a cold, sudden wave of panic hits you square in the chest. Your breathing hitches, turning shallow and frantic as the sheer weight of your choices crashes down on you.

What on Tartarus am I doing?

Kyra's furious, heartbroken face flashes behind your eyelids, her parting words echoing in the silence of the inn room.

How am I going to fix this? And Madame Laeruda… how did a blind human witch know about the silver-finned daughters? And what did she mean by I shouldn’t have left?

The room feels entirely too small, the air too dry, the wooden walls pressing in on you until a thick, suffocating lump forms in your throat.

You grip the edges of the washbasin, forcing your eyes shut as you try to steady the frantic hammering of your heart. No. You have bigger things to worry about. The clock is actively ticking. This is the end of day 1. While your body only feels a little off right now, just a slight, scratchy tightness along your collarbone, you know the brutal reality of the Law of the Deep. You have roughly forty-eight hours left before your human skin splits open and destroys you. The Governor's ball isn't for another four days. The math simply doesn't work. You are going to have to find a way to slip away in the middle of this, to submerge your entire body in the freezing harbour salt water to reset the curse, all without a certain hyper-observant sailor boy catching you in the act.

Your eyes drift across the small room to the opposite bed. Jungkook is completely dead to the world, his massive frame sprawled out, the white linen bandage you tied around his arm contrasting sharply against his tanned skin. He took a blade for you. A human soldier, a complete stranger who thinks you are just a thorn in his side, threw himself in front of a weapon to shield you. Your mind betrays you, drifting back to the dark alleyway, the intense, radiating heat of his chest, the low, hypnotic rumble of his voice, and the way his dark eyes had traced your features under the moonlight as if completely captivated. Your heart gives a sudden, rebellious flip against your ribs, and you aggressively shake your head to clear the thought. No. Do not get flustered by him. He is a means to an end. A massive, triple-sized payout.

You take a long, deep, steadying breath, grounding your feet against the solid pine floorboards. You swallow the panic, forcing the icy terror back down into the dark corners of your mind. You survived the suffocating restrictions of the reef, you survived a pirate-infested coastline, and you survived a street fight in the Marlow fog. You are not going to break down now in a cheap inn. You chose this path, and you are going to see it through. You will make it to the ball, you will find a way to sneak into the harbour to save your skin, and you will handle the sleeping sailor across the room. Let the land try its absolute worst.

The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always hangs heavy in the midnight air of the kitchen. It's comforting, warm, familiar, and completely separate from the cold, stoned streets of the village beyond these walls, which encompass your life. You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand, leaning over the heavy wooden workstation to knead the first batch of dough for tomorrow's, well, today's morning rush.

Deep in concentration, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. But you don't even have to look up to know who it is.

"You're late," you say, keeping your voice flat, still pounding the dough, though a familiar beat of warmth thumps against your ribs. "Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"

"A gentleman is never late, sweetheart. He arrives precisely when he means to," Jungkook says, his voice a smooth, playful purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the main bakery area. "And I told you to stop calling me that." He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded, oversized linen tunic and dark trousers. The entire kingdom knows the face of Prince Jungkook, though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery. He pushes his hood back, revealing strands of unruly dark hair and those ridiculously large, glittering doe eyes which you can't stare into for too long without feeling heat crawl up your neck.

You sigh, ignoring him as you turn around to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, but, of course, it is sitting on the absolute highest shelf, tucked away near the ceiling. You huff, stepping up onto your tiptoes, stretching your arms as high as they can go. Your fingers brush the base of the jar, but you cannot for the life of you get a proper grip. Suddenly, a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back. All you feel is lean muscle as the heat of him radiates through your apron. Then an arm clad in faded linen reaches up over your head, his large hand wrapping around the jar. You will yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on the prominent veins running across his forearms to his hands.

"Need a hand, love?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You drop back onto your heels, turning around within the small space he has trapped you in. His free hand comes down to rest casually on the edge of the shelf beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He looks down at you, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips as he hands you the cinnamon. Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.

"I had it under control, Crown Prince," you shoot back, tapping the jar against his chest to force him to take a step back.

"Right, maybe from over there you did, but from here, all I saw was you hopping up and down like a grasshopper," he teases before turning back.

And before you can swat at him, his hand shoots out toward the cooling racks. You attempt to block him with an elbow, but he uses his height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. Ones you had just made as a test batch, so the recipe was perfect for the morning rush. He pops the entire thing into his mouth in one go.

"Hey!" You glare, swatting at his arm with your flour-covered hand, leaving a stark white handprint on his dark sleeve. "Do you have any idea how early I had to wake up to prep those? The yeast has to rise for hours, Jungkook! Hours!"

Jungkook chews happily, closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm. So worth it. You outdid yourself, truly." He leans his hip against your table, entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the crisp night air and something rich, clean, and faintly expensive. He points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter. "What do we have here?" His eyes are lit with nothing short of mischief.

"Don't you dare-"

Too late.

He dips his index finger straight into the bowl, swirling it around before sucking the batter off with shameless, slow deliberateness. He locks eyes with you, a wicked, teasing tilt to his lips. "Sweet. " He pauses. "Just like the baker."

You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks. "You are an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep letting you break into my shop. I really need to invest in a heavier deadbolt. Or tell the royal guards that their beloved prince is a little sugar thief."

"Because you love me," he says instantly, shifting his weight around the table to follow your movements like a shadow, or more like a separation-anxiety ridden puppy. "And because I am excellent company. Who else is going to help you with labour at one in the morning for the low price of sugar? Besides, the guards would never believe you."

"A public nuisance is what you are," you correct, though your lips twitch. You turn to a tray of unadorned cupcakes and sigh, handing him a backup piping bag filled with sweet vanilla buttercream. "If you're going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Pipe the tops of those. Like this." You demonstrate a perfect, elegant swirl on one, pulling the tip up to create a flawless peak.

Jungkook takes the bag, his chest puffing out with entirely unwarranted confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."

He grips the bag with way too much force, causing an explosion of frosting that lands on the cupcake, tilting precariously to one side like a melting snowman before sliding off the edge completely.

You burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "A master? Jungkook, it looks like a squashed toad!"

"It's abstract! It has personality!" he protests, bumping his shoulder heavily against yours to disrupt your balance. He looks down at your laughing face, his own expression softening into something incredibly tender. His eyes track the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, capturing the exact shade of warmth in your smile. "See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."

"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.

After a few minutes and many fails later, he gets the hang of it, leaving you to grab a heavy wooden spoon and begin vigorously beating a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough. You hate this part the most. After a long day, hours of selling and continuously running through the main shop and the kitchen, creating new batches and noting down special orders, the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the non-stop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough, makes your wrists ache. Your movements slow slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.

As Jungkook continues piping, he glances at your figure a few times, as if it's second nature, and tracks the sudden lag in your rhythm. His eyes soften, the playful posture shifting into something much more attentive, which goes unnoticed by you. He steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the wooden spoon. His palm is warm, broad, and calloused from sword training.

"Hey," he says softly, his shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell burning."

"What? No, it's not, I just put it-"

"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, smoothly applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.

Before you can protest further, he completely takes over, his muscular forearm flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with absolute, effortless ease. It's only when you reach the hearth, and you find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he invented such a thing so you could rest your tired wrist.

You cross your arms with a small smile, and you lean against the counter, watching him work. "Look at you. Future monarch doing manual labour in a village kitchen. Oh, if the King could see you now, he'd strip you of your title."

"Let him," Jungkook grunts with a grin, not missing a beat as he whips the dough into a perfect, uniform consistency. "I'd make a fantastic baker's assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."

"You don't even have an apron on," you point out, laughing.

"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant bunny-toothed smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing, sliding the perfect dough toward you. "There. Perfect. What's next, pretty lady?"

You roll your eyes at the name. "We need to pour this batter into the tins," you say, dragging a heavy ceramic bowl of vanilla batter and two circular metal tins toward the centre of the table.

"I've got it," Jungkook volunteers eagerly. He lifts the heavy ceramic bowl, and you try not to pay attention to the way his biceps strain slightly against the linen shirt. He tips it over the first tin, carefully pouring the thick, pale-yellow ribbon of batter into the centre until it fills it perfectly. He moves to the second tin, pouring the remainder.

Once the bowl is mostly empty, he sets it down and picks up a long spatula. He meticulously scrapes the remaining thick batter from the inside walls of the bowl, gathering a massive, delicious glob of it onto the edge of the spatula. He brings it up toward his face, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to lick it clean.

"Ah-ah-ah," you say quickly, swatting his wrist away. "No way. I did all the measuring for that batter. That's mine."

You grab the end of the spatula handle. Jungkook blinks, then a surprised, but competitive spark instantly ignites his doe eyes. He tightens his grip, tugging it back towards himself. "I did the pouring! And the scraping! Royal decree dictates that the scraper gets the reward."

"There is no such royal decree," you laugh, pulling the spatula towards your side. "You're abusing your power, Your Highness!"

"I am a prince, I can make up whatever laws I want to," he gasps dramatically, pulling back.

You step closer, using your leverage to yank on the handle. For a second, you are pulled completely into his space, your hands tangled together on the thin piece of wood, faces inches apart. You can see the faint amber flecks in his eyes and the absolute amusement radiating from him.

Jungkook looks down at your determined face, his gaze dropping to your lips before a wicked, triumphant grin splits across his face.

Suddenly, he completely lets go of the spatula.

Because you were pulling so hard, you stumbled backwards a step, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"

"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with amusement.

Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive, heavy ceramic mixing bowl that still has a generous coating of thick batter stuck to the bottom and sides. He lifts it, completely sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and popping it into his mouth.

"Fine, keep the tiny spatula," he mutters happily from inside the bowl, his voice echoing. "I have the motherlode."

"Jungkook!" You burst out laughing, completely scandalised. "You are a literal child! Get your face out of my bowl!"

He pulls his head out, a tiny dollop of yellow batter sitting right on the tip of his nose. He looks incredibly ridiculous and remarkably cute all at once. He steps closer to you, his eyes locking onto yours with an unbearable amount of playful intensity.

"You have something right..." you start, pointing at your own nose.

"Where? Here?" he asks, deliberately wiping his cheek instead, smearing it further.

"No, you idiot, let me-"

You step in, reaching up with your thumb to gently wipe the batter off the tip of his nose. The moment your skin touches his, Jungkook freezes. The childish playfulness drops away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His gaze drops, heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your fingers, then the curve of your jaw, and finally resting on your eyes.

The kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire. His breath is warm against your skin. You feel your own breath hitch, your thumb lingering against his nose for a second too long.

A slow, devastatingly tender smile stretches across his lips. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.

"You know, you're very bossy for a regular citizen," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy, late-night register that makes your heart beat erratically against your ribs.

"And you're very compliant for a future king," you whisper back, trying to maintain your defences, though the proximity is making it impossible to think straight.

"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing to trace your wrist. "I don't let anyone else order me around like this. I think I like it."

You clear your throat, gently pulling your wrist from his grip to hide the bright blush creeping up your neck. You turn away to hide your burning cheeks, reaching for a small plate hidden under a glass dome on the back shelf. "Shut up and try this. I've been working on it all afternoon. Consider it payment for your... impeccable assistant work."

On the plate sits a pastry you’ve been experimenting with: dozens of microscopically thin, crispy layers of golden dough, stacked high with rich, velvety custard and fresh cream sandwiched between them, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.

"What is it?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder, his chest practically pressed against your back again, completely erasing the distance you just tried to create.

"Just shut up and try it," you say, handing him a small fork.

He takes a bite. The audible, delicate crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the smoothness of the cream. Jungkook freezes completely. His eyes widen to twice their size. Without saying a word, he devours the rest of the pastry in two massive bites, nearly groaning out loud.

"Marry me," he says flatly. "I'm serious. Name the day. We can live right here in this kitchen. I will waive the royal dowry, I will fight the council, I don't care. I will do nothing but eat this and look at you for the rest of my days."

You laugh loudly, shoving his shoulder hard to create some space. "So dramatic." You reply back.

"So in love."

"So in need of therapy." You mutter back, turning to grab a handful of loose flour to dust the wooden surface, the fine white powder settling like mist.

The frantic energy of the kitchen slows down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. Jungkook works right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a quiet focus as he tries to correct his piping technique, finishing the cupcakes, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in pure concentration.

Then, the kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound left is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, rhythmic thud of your palms against the dough.

You feel a sudden weight on you, a gaze so intense it feels tangible against your skin. You glance up, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes, and catch him.

Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. He is leaning his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the wooden counter, his eyes fixed entirely on you. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, tracking the curve of your jaw, the sweat dampening the nape of your neck, the fierce determination on your brow. There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, deep, and filled with an intense, quiet gravity that makes your breath hitch completely.

"What?" you ask, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You try to sound annoyed, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays you. "Is there flour on my face again?"

Jungkook doesn't blink. A smile stretches across his lips, his voice drops again, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Nope. Just looking at something beautiful."

You feel the heat rush from your chest all the way to your hairline. You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands, and a sudden, heavy wave of insecurity twists in your stomach. It’s a reminder that always haunts the back of your mind. He is the Crown Prince. You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast, impossible chasm that lies between your worlds.

"You are a terrifyingly smooth talker, Your Highness," you say, your voice turning a little hollow as you force yourself to look back up at him. "I suppose this is the exact same poetry you feed to the high-born noble ladies at the palace court."

Jungkook’s smile falters slightly, his doe eyes tracking the subtle drop in your shoulders, his sharp instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and crown jewels."

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you say, huffing a breath but still kneading the dough on the counter. "Why do you even come here? You have an entire court of perfect, beautiful women at your feet. You should be spending your time there with them, not in a drab bakery."

You pause. The next words come out in a whisper you hope he doesn't hear. "You could be with women who actually know how to dance, with titles, who wear silk and velvet instead of aprons caked in dried dough. They don't smell like yeast and sweat."

But he does, and the playful demeanour completely evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with an undeniable warmth.

He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the dough. Press. Then push. Then fold. Then turn. And repeat. Don't look up.

But he doesn't let you hide. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently taking your wrists, halting your movements. His palms are warm and incredibly grounding.

"Look at me," he commands softly. You don't.

"Hey…" He trails off, voice unbelievably gentle, "Please?"

How can you say no to him?

When you finally look up into his eyes, you find them swimming with a fierce, profound sincerity.

"None of them." He pauses, "Are you." His voice is a low, intense whisper that rings clearly in the quiet kitchen. He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "The court ladies are hollow, Y/N. They smile because they were trained to; they speak from rehearsed scripts; and they look at me like I'm a crown to be won, a stepping stone for their families. But you? This?"

He leans closer, head tilting down so your eyes are entirely locked. He wants you to feel how much he means every word.

"I'd rather be no place else. You're real. You're fierce, you're brilliant, and you look at me like I'm just a man. I don't want silk, and I don't care about their perfect poise. I want this. I want the smell of yeast and sugar, and I want to spend my evenings with the pretty little baker who threatens to throw rolling pins at my royal head."

Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the sheer weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long, agonising second, and you think you might actually combust from the heat spreading through your veins.

Sensing the overwhelming tension and desperate to save your blushing face from melting, a familiar, wicked spark suddenly reignites in Jungkook’s eyes. He lets go of one of your hands and steps to the side.

Before you can even process the emotional whiplash, he blows a sharp puff of air across the workstation. A massive cloud of white flour erupts directly onto your face. You gasp, coughing, your eyelashes completely coated in white powder. Through the white haze, you see him throwing his head back, laughing loudly, looking immensely proud of his childish distraction.

"Oh, it is so on," you hiss.

You scoop up a massive, double handful of flour and throw it straight at his chest. It hits him with a satisfying, heavy thwack, turning his dark tunic completely white from collar to waist. Jungkook’s jaw drops in utter shock, his laughter cutting off. He retaliates by pinching more flour before sprinkling it over your head, coating your hair in white. You squirm, laughing as you grab another handful and go to move around the bench, but your shoes slip on the pile of flour that has accumulated on the floor, and you are sent plummeting to the ground. Jungkook is faster, though, of course, and he manages to hold onto you, one hand on your arm and the other firm against your waist as he manages to pull you back up.

"Falling for me already?" His lips upturn in a playful smirk.

You scoff, already pushing away from him, "You wish, rich boy."

You both laugh. And the next few hours continue like that. You love the back-and-forth; it calms you after a long day and prepares you for the next. You truly relish these moments, that is, until you gaze up and notice the sky outside, the dark midnight lighting slightly.

"You should get going, Jungkook, dawn's coming, and I should rest before prepping for the morning." You explain.

He whines, pouting his bottom lip in a way that makes him look like an oversized puppy, but he relents. He walks to the back door, pausing to look back at you, the playful smirk returning to his face as he pulls his hood back up over his dark hair. "See you tomorrow, my beautiful baker. Try not to miss your prince too much."

"Oh, that won't be difficult at all, Jungkook," you say, and he holds his chest, mocking a dagger struck through his heart, but you’re smiling wide as the door clicks shut, the quiet warmth of his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

The next morning brings a particularly bitter cold. The sun has barely crested the horizon when you set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh, golden loaves of bread and warm rolls.

You return inside to tend to the ovens, glancing out the large front glass window. The village market is starting to wake up. The other store owners are sweeping outside their doors and beating the rugs. The stall owners are setting up their carts with small chatter amongst them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.

Through the glass, you also notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward your outdoor display. It’s the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. They look emaciated, their ribs practically visible through their tattered rags, and your heart cracks slightly at the sight.

One of them, a little boy no older than six, reaches up and snatches a small loaf of bread. But before you can even open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside for more, a harsh, booming voice echoes through the square.

"Thieves! Drop it!"

Two royal guards, clad in gleaming, heavy iron armour, march out from the shadows. They look bored, angry, and eager for a distraction. The children shriek, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, but one guard lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him completely off the ground. The child wails in terror.

The second guard unclips a heavy, thick leather lash from his belt, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, brat."

Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You throw the bakery door open, sprinting out into the freezing air.

"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, throwing yourself into the scene.

The guard with the whip pauses, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Move aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They require consequence."

"It's my bread!" you say breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s my shop! I don't mind. I was giving it to them. They didn't steal anything, I swear."

The guard holding the boy sneers, dropping the child to the dirt, where he scurries behind your skirts, clinging on to them for dear life. "Do not lie to the Crown's authority, baker. We saw them take it. If you harbour thieves, you share their guilt. Now step away before we make an example out of you, too."

These guards are notorious. They are brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crown grants them over the poor villagers. You look down at the crying child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts, and a stubborn wave of protectiveness washes over you.

"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... strike me. Leave them alone."

The guard with the whip cuts a dark, ugly glare toward you. "You want to take the punishment for a bunch of gutter rats? Fine by me. The law demands blood for theft. Now kneel."

You look around the square. A few villagers have stopped to watch, but they immediately look away, hurrying along, terrified of getting involved.

No one is going to help you. You don't expect them to.

You swallow hard, your knees hitting the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. You pull your hair to the side, exposing the back of your thin cotton chemise. You brace yourself, gripping your knees tightly.

Crack.

The first strike tears through the air and slices directly across your upper back.

A choked, agonising shriek tears from your throat. It feels like a line of liquid fire has been seared into your flesh. The sheer force of the blow knocks you forward, your palms slamming into the dirt. Tears sting your eyes instantly, blurring your vision.

"That's for the first brat," the guard grunts.

Crack.

The second strike hits, the leather biting into the exact same raw skin. You gasp, your lungs seizing.

"That's for the second."

Crack.

The third blow tears your chemise open at the side, the fabric ripping away as the leather draws blood. You press your forehead against the freezing ground, sobbing silently as you pray for it to end.

"And that's for the third," the guard sneers. He pauses, looking down at your trembling, broken form, but his eyes only gleam with a deeper cruelty. "But you opened your mouth to the Crown's authority, didn't you, girl? You think you can talk back to us?"

Crack.

The fourth strike is harder, delivered with the full weight of his arm. A ragged scream escapes your lips, your vision flashing white. The pain is blinding, radiating across your entire torso.

"And this one..." The guard chuckles, raising the whip one last time just to satisfy his own twisted amusement. "...just because I feel like it." He says low, only for your ears to hear.

Crack.

The fifth strike shatters whatever strength you have left. You collapse entirely onto the cold cobblestones, your chest heaving as deep, agonising tremors wrack your body.

They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, agonisingly, you push yourself up. Your vision swims. You stagger back into the bakery, your hands shaking so violently you can barely turn the lock. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, then wince as you draw the thick curtains shut.

You stumble up the narrow wooden stairs to your small apartment on the second floor. In the tiny bathroom, you try to peer into the cracked mirror, but you can’t see the damage properly. Reaching behind yourself with a wet cloth, you touch the wounds, and a fresh wave of sobbing breaks out. It hurts too much. You can't reach it properly to clean it. Blindly, you wrap a clean strip of linen around your torso, pinning it clumsily, though you know it's too loose.

Exhausted, broken, and throbbing with a relentless, burning agony, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets.

Hours pass. Eventually, the sheer restlessness of the pain forces you out of bed. You can’t lie down comfortably, and you can’t sit up straight. You're exhausted. But you drag yourself back downstairs into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today, you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, but you need a distraction. You begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.

Jungkook is practically skipping through the crowded, muddy alleyways of the lower village, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark wool cloak pulled tightly around his face. Thankfully, his royal duties ended earlier today, allowing him more time with you. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern citadel wall just to sneak out today, but he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in the land if it meant reaching your doorstep a second earlier than usual.

The only thing occupying his mind for the last twelve long, agonising hours has been you.

He is down bad. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly down bad.

Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about trade routes, he doesn't see crowns or maps. He sees the way your eyes crinkle into perfect, breathtaking crescents when you laugh at his ridiculous antics. He sees the faint, light dust of white flour that always seems to settle on the bridge of your nose. He wants to taste that layered cream pastry again, sure, but more than that, he just wants to hear the melodic cadence of your voice.

He wants to tease you until your stubborn pride flares up, just so he can witness that fierce, fiery spark in your eyes that makes him feel more alive than any royal decree ever could. He is a prince of the realm, surrounded by high-born court ladies who fawn over his status and offer plastic, practised smiles, but none of them holds a candle to the sharp-tongued, beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.

As he navigates the bustling market crowds, his inner monologue takes a heavier, more ache-filled turn. He is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being the mysterious visitor who has to vanish before the sun crests the horizon. He wants more. He wants to be the one who wakes up next to you, watching the morning light catch your face. He wants to hold your hand in broad daylight, right in the middle of the crowded square, and dare anyone to say a word about it. He wants you to be his, entirely and completely, but he knows how fiercely independent you are, how hard you work for your little shop, and how you probably don't feel the same. So for now, he hoards these secret hours like a dragon guarding gold. And even if he has to keep this boundary with you for the rest of his life, be nothing more, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life, in whatever way you'll have him.

He turns the final corner into the main square, a boyish grin already splitting across his face, his heart does an eager little flip against his ribs. But the moment his eyes land on the bakery, his steps instantly slow to a halt.

The outdoor display racks are completely empty. The heavy linen curtains are drawn tightly across the front windows, blocking out the daylight. The wooden sign dangling from the brass chain reads CLOSED.

Jungkook frowns, a sharp, cold knot of unease tightening in the pit of his stomach. It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour. Even when you were burning up with a fever last winter, you stubbornly dragged yourself down to the counter to sell bread, refusing to lose a single coin.

He hurries up to the heavy front door, his hand trembling slightly as he knocks loudly against the wood. "Y/N? Love? Are you in there? It's me."

Silence. The square carries on around him, completely indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.

Panicking now, his breath catching in his throat, he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley toward the back entrance. He grabs the brass handle and turns it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicks open. He's going to have a few words with you about that. He slips inside instantly, shutting the heavy door quietly behind him to keep his presence hidden.

The kitchen is cast in deep shadows, completely devoid of the usual roaring hearth fire and bustling energy. The only light comes from a single, lonely candle burning on the centre island.

Then, he spots you.

You are standing by the deep stone sink, your back completely turned to him. Your shoulders are hunched forward, your movements incredibly slow as you mindlessly wipe a copper pot with a rag.

"Hey," he says softly, exhaling a long, ragged breath of relief as he drops his hood. "You scared the absolute hell out of me. Why are the front doors locked? Did you actually sleep in for once?"

You flinch violently at the sound of his voice, your entire body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash. You don't turn around to face him. You remain entirely still, staring down into the basin. "Jungkook. What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. The shop is closed today."

Your voice sounds completely wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant, feisty warmth that usually greets him.

Jungkook's playful smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a slow step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards. "Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired." He tries to inject a tiny bit of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame. "Did you miss me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?"

"Not now, Jungkook," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your shoulders hunch even further forward, your head bowing.

You slowly reach up with both hands, attempting to place a copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. The exact moment your arms extend upward, your breath catches violently in your throat. A sharp, ragged, agonising wince escapes your lips, and your entire body shudders as you quickly drop your arms back down, your hands flying to clutch tightly at your own side to brace yourself.

Jungkook's protective instincts flare to a blinding degree. The sight of you in discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, his palm hovering just a millimetre above your trembling shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, laced with a desperate, stubborn defensiveness.

You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two deliberate steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You force a terrible, completely strained smile onto your pale lips, though your lower lip is trembling. "I just... I was moving the heavy wooden grain table earlier, and I bumped into the corner. Hit my side pretty hard. It's just a nasty bruise, Jungkook. I'm fine. Really."

Jungkook doesn't buy it for a single second.

He steps right back into your space, his gaze sweeping over you like a hawk, analysing every single detail of your appearance. His heart aches at the sight of you. You look terribly pale, the healthy flush entirely gone from your skin. Your eyes are heavily red-rimmed and puffy, surrounded by dark circles, making it glaringly obvious that you’ve been crying for hours. And your posture is completely wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if expanding your lungs fully is a luxury you can't afford right now.

Seeing you in this state genuinely, physically hurts him. It feels like a cold blade is turning in his own chest; his stomach drops, and a suffocating wave of anxiety threatens to choke him. He hates seeing you vulnerable, hates the fact that something has stolen your bright energy.

He tries to keep his composure, forcing his voice to remain calm so he doesn't spook you, until you turn slightly to the side, attempting to step away from his intense scrutiny to grab a towel.

That's when he sees it.

Through the torn fabric of your shirt, along the side of your figure, he sees the clumsy linen bandage you had tried to wrap around your own torso, which has slipped completely out of place. A small, dark red stain of fresh, wet blood is seeping heavily through the white cloth, stark and horrifying against your skin.

Jungkook’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His blood runs cold.

"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly register, entirely stripped of all playfulness. "Why is there blood on your back?"

You freeze in your tracks, your hands tightening against the fabric of your apron until your knuckles turn white. You try to let out a casual laugh, but it comes out as a pathetic, broken sob that tears right through his chest. "Blood? Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's probably just cherry jam from the tarts. I am a baker, after all, I'm always covered in-"

"Don't lie to me," he commands. The tone is quiet, but it carries the heavy, unyielding authority of a prince who will not be denied.

Before you can utter another word of deflection, he steps directly into your personal space, erasing the distance between you. His large, warm hand moves around to your back, his fingers hovering just a fraction of a millimetre above the blood-soaked bandage. He barely, infinitesimally brushes the very edge of the cloth to see what lies beneath.

The slight, feather-light pressure is a catalyst for pure agony.

A choked, absolutely agonising groan tears from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your nerve endings. Your knees completely buckle beneath you, your strength vanishing instantly as your legs give out entirely.

"Whoa- hey, look at me, I've got you, I've got you!" Jungkook panics, his heart leaping straight into his throat.

His arms shoot out in a blind reflex, catching you securely before your body can slam into the hard floorboards. He pulls you tightly against his chest, cradling you against his solid frame, his large doe eyes widening to twice their size with pure, unadulterated terror. He is hyper-aware of how fragile, how small you feel in his arms right now, your entire body trembling violently against him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got you," he frantically whispers, his voice shaking as he holds you up. "Talk to me, please. You have to tell me what happened. You're bleeding."

You clutch desperately at the fabric of his faded tunic, your fingernails burying into the cloth as if it's the only anchor keeping you tethered to reality. The blinding pain, the hours of lonely exhaustion, and the sudden, overwhelming comfort of his warm, safe presence break the stubborn dam holding your emotions back.

You snap completely. You bury your face into the solid crook of his neck and break down, sobbing hysterically. Deep, painful, racking wails tear from your chest, echoing loudly in the empty kitchen.

"It hurts," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely into a raw shriek. "Kook, it hurts so bad, please... I can't bear it..."

Hearing you cry like this, hearing the absolute agony in your voice, completely breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook. A wave of sheer fury crashes over his soul. He sees bright, blinding red. He is the Prince of this kingdom, and someone in his village, under his family's rule, had dared to lay their hands on you. Someone had inflicted this kind of barbaric, sickening pain on the sweetest, most selfless person he knew.

He locks that rage away into a dark corner of his mind, storing it for later, because right now, your tears are the only thing that matters.

"Let me see it," he murmurs, his voice shifting into a soothing, incredibly soft contrast to the storm raging in his chest. "Let me help you, sweetheart."

"No, it's fine, just leave it, please go away," you sob, your stubbornness flaring up one last time through the tears. You weakly try to push his chest away, hiding your face from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're a prince, Jungkook. You shouldn't be seeing me like this... it's messy, it's fine..."

"Y/N," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, though it is dripping with an unbearable amount of love and panic. He gently but firmly cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look up at him. His own eyes are shiny with unshed tears, wide and desperate as he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your wet cheek. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am not going to hurt you. I don't care about being a prince right now. I care about you. Let me see it. Please, don't do this to me. Don't push me away when I know you're hurt."

You look into his frantic, pleading eyes, seeing the genuine agony in his own expression caused purely by your pain, and your stubborn defences finally melt away. You nod weakly, letting your head fall against his chest.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispers against your hair.

He slides one arm securely under your knees and the other firmly behind your shoulders, lifting your body effortlessly into his arms. He carries you up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his movements smooth and careful, ensuring your back never brushes against a single wall or doorframe.

He carries you into your small bedroom, gently setting you down on the very edge of your bed.

The bedroom upstairs is quiet, shadowed by the late afternoon light filtering through the linen curtains. You sit on the very edge of the mattress, your knees pulled slightly toward your chest, your fingers twisting and burying into the worn bedsheets. Every shallow breath you take feels like glass slicing through your skin. Behind you, the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clink of a ceramic basin tell you that Jungkook is preparing to face whatever horror is hidden beneath your clothes.

"I'm going to pull the fabric down. Is that okay?" Jungkook’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. The playful, cocky boy from last night is completely gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.

You nod miserably, dropping your head down.

You feel his large hands settle on the collar of your dress. His touch is so light it’s almost non-existent, his fingers shake slightly as he carefully guides the torn, ruined cotton down your arms. He doesn't pull; he coaxes the fabric away, millimetre by millimetre, ensuring the rough material doesn't catch on the open wounds. As the cloth falls away, exposing your bare back to the cool air of the room, you hear him let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh cross your skin. They are swollen, with a deep, bruising purple at the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out where your movement has reopened them. The clumsy linen wrap you had tried to apply is tangled and soaked through with red.

"Who did this to you?" he asks.

The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of warmth, that it makes you freeze. If you were to turn around, you would see the menacing glare of a monarch in his eyes. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, his knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth.

"The patrol guards," you whisper into the empty room, a fresh tear tracking through the flour dust on your cheek. "In the square this morning. Some of the alley kids... they took a loaf of bread from the display. The guards… they caught them. They pulled out the lash for them. They're just babies, Jungkook. They were hungry. They wouldn't have survived it. I couldn't just watch."

You take a trembling breath, crying out slightly as the movement pulls at your skin. "I told the guards I'd take it instead. Three for each child... one for talking back... and a fifth... because he felt like it."

A suffocating silence fills the room. For a long, agonising moment, he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple villager should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers. Instead, you feel the soft, slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between your bodies.

"You are far too good for this world," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with an emotion so intense it sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart.

Then, you feel the cool, wet cloth touch the very edge of the highest welt.

You flinch violently, a sharp, broken gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets. But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with an iron-firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs gently at the bare skin on your hip.

"Shh, I know, love, I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm being as gentle as I can. Just breathe through it. Focus on my hand," he murmurs, his lips so close to your bare shoulder that his warm breath fans across your skin, offering a fleeting contrast to the stinging cold of the water.

His movements are agonisingly slow but deliberate, focused. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The sheer intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way. He treats your body like it is made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, his touch lingering over the curves of your shoulders as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.

He reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of thick, green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks. "This is going to sting at first, Y/N. But it will help the fire go out. Let me know if it's too much."

When his fingers make contact with the raw wounds, a whimper tears from your throat, and without thinking, you lean to the side, your head resting against his solid shoulder. Jungkook doesn't move. He accepts your weight fully, his chest pressing lightly against your side as he leans to the side to get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts, working with a reverent, quiet rhythm.

Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses completely. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft, comforting breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down. It feels intensely, overwhelmingly private, a sanctuary built out of raw pain and an undercurrent of heavy, undeniable devotion.

Finally, he takes a fresh roll of clean white linen bandage. To wrap it around your torso, he has to slide both of his arms completely around your waist. He leans in close, his chest flushing against your uninjured skin, effectively enveloping you in a tight embrace. You can feel the heavy beat of his heart against your shoulder blade as he pulls the cloth snug, securing it with small pins.

"There," he whispers against your ear, his hands lingering on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides before he reluctantly pulls away. "All clean. The fire should start to fade now."

You slowly turn your head, looking at him over your shoulder. His doe eyes are dark, swimming with a profound, aching yearning that terrifies you in their intensity. He looks at you not like a friend, and not like a vagabond, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.

"Lie down," he commands softly, his voice thick, pulling the heavy wool blankets back. "Don't sleep on your back, lie on your stomach. I'm going to go brew some tea for you, okay? Don't move an inch."

You are too exhausted, too thoroughly drained of strength to argue. You crawl into the centre of the bed, resting your cheek against the pillow, and he pulls the blanket over you before leaving.

Within minutes, Jungkook returns, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his large hand gently lifting your chin to help you take a few sips of the warm, sweet liquid.

The warmth of the tea and the cooling effect of the salve make your eyelids incredibly heavy. Jungkook sets the mug on the nightstand and reaches out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch agonisingly tender.

"Thank you, Jungkook," you slurry, your eyes fluttering shut as darkness tugs at the edges of your mind. "For staying."

He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. He lingers there before pulling away and resting a hand over yours on the pillow beside you. "I will always stay," he whispers against your skin, his voice sounding far away. "Sleep now, my beautiful baker."

He stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, and occasionally massaging your scalp, his other hand firm on top of your own until you drift off. The moment your breathing evens out into a deep, heavy slumber, the lingering softness completely evaporates from Jungkook’s face.

He stands up from the edge of the mattress, his frame expanding to its full, imposing height as his expression hardens into pure, unadulterated ice. The boyish warmth that usually fills his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a vacant stillness. He looks down at you one last time, your pale face resting against the pillow, and leans over to press another gentle, feather-light kiss to your temple.

He quietly moves around the room, his boots making absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards. He sets a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruits and crackers he salvaged from your pantry. Beside it, he leaves a small piece of parchment, scrawling a quick note in his elegant, fluent script.

He writes in his usual playful tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in from pure malice:

Eat all of this. If I come back tonight and find out you haven't eaten, I'm going to steal every single pastry in the kitchen as punishment. Rest up, my pretty girl. I'll be back to cause more trouble soon~

He slips out of the bedroom, guides himself down the narrow stairs, and exits the bakery, locking the back door securely behind him.

The walk back to the palace is a blur of blinding, volcanic rage. He doesn't care about staying hidden anymore; he doesn't slip through the shadows or wait for patrols to pass. He cuts through the upper village like a wraith, his eyes fixed on the towering stone citadel ahead. People stare as he passes them, a path being made before him as people flock to the side, no doubt whispering about the stern look on his face.

He storms through the heavy iron servant entrances, slamming doors on their hinges, tearing off the faded linen tunic and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in absolute terror at the sheer aura of lethal fury radiating from the young prince. They have never seen him like this.

"Get me my royal uniform," Jungkook barks, his voice ringing through the high stone corridors like a crack of thunder. "Now."

Minutes later, he is clad in the official armour of the high crest: a dark, structured jacket lined with heavy gold trim, epaulettes resting on his broad shoulders, heavy leather combat boots, and the royal insignia pinned sharply over his chest. He looks every bit the future ruler he was born to be.

He strides down the western corridor toward the main guard barracks. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, don't just open; they slam against the stone walls with a violent, echoing crash as he kicks them through.

Dozens of off-duty guards and captains instantly freeze, dropping their dice and flagons of ale, snapping to absolute attention. The room goes dead silent.

"Who patrolled the main market square in the lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up.

Near the back of the room, two guards exchange a nervous, sweating glance. Slowly, their armour clanking in the heavy silence, they step forward and bow deeply.

So these are the brutes who had stood over you on the cobblestones.

"We did, Your Highness," the lead guard stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Is there an issue with the sector?"

Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He walks up to them with a slow, agonisingly measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes completely suffocating, the temperature practically dropping as the prince circles them. He stops directly in front of the guard, who has a heavy leather whip strapped to his belt.

"An issue?" Jungkook echoes, a terrifying, dark smile tilting the left corner of his lips, though his eyes remain dead and vacant. He peers down at the guard, who is half a head shorter than him. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning in slightly. "Tell me about your morning patrol. I want to hear about how efficiently you enforce the King's law."

The lead guard swallows hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "It was... a routine patrol, sir. We apprehended a group of street rats attempting to steal from the market stalls. We administered the standard physical deterrent to ensure compliance with crown regulations."

"A physical deterrent," Jungkook repeats, his tone almost conversational, entirely too calm. "And tell me... did these so-called street rats take the lashes?"

The guard shifts his weight, his iron greaves clanking with the movement. "No, Your Highness. A local villager stepped in. A peasant girl from the bakery. She obstructed our duty and offered to take the penalty in their stead. We accommodated her request to maintain the crown's authority in the square."

"You accommodated her," Jungkook whispers. His jaw clenches so hard the muscles flare violently against his skin. His fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists behind his back. "Five lashes. Is that correct?"

The second guard, thinking the prince is merely verifying protocol, chimes in, "Yes, sir. Three for the stolen goods, one for her insolence and talking back to the guard, and... one extra, just to ensure she remembers her place beneath the law."

The mention of the fifth lash, the one delivered purely out of sadistic amusement, shatters the final thread of Jungkook's restraint, leaving behind a monster driven by pure, protective devastation.

Without a single syllable of warning, Jungkook’s right fist shoots forward.

Crack.

His knuckles connect squarely with the lead guard's jaw with an inhuman amount of force. The sheer momentum of the blow rips the heavily armoured man off his feet, sending him flying backwards. His body crashes into a heavy oak table, splintering the thick wood into raw kindling before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.

The second guard gasps in pure shock, his eyes widening in horror as his hand flies to the hilt of his sword in a blind, conditioned reflex.

"Touch that steel," Jungkook roars, stepping into his space instantly, "and I will take your hand off your wrist."

Before the guard can even process the threat, Jungkook's royal combat training takes over. He intercepts the man's arm, his grip clamping down on the wrist like an iron vice. With a brutal, fluid twist of his upper body, he snaps the guard's wrist backwards. The bone pops with a sickening, wet crunch, forcing a loud, piercing shriek of agony from the man's throat.

Jungkook doesn't stop. He drives his knee directly into the guard's stomach, crushing the wind out of his lungs, followed by a heavy kick straight to his chest plate. The metal dents inward with a loud clang, and the guard goes sailing through the air, crashing hard onto the stone floor, coughing up strings of bright blood as he rolls onto his side, clutching his broken arm.

The rest of the barracks stands paralysed. No one moves. No one breathes. To strike a royal guard is treason, but when the attacker is the future King, and a man who can kill with his bare hands, the law belongs entirely to him.

Jungkook turns his gaze back to the first guard, who is desperately scrambling backwards on his hands and knees like a terrified, wounded animal, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.

Jungkook walks over to him, his heavy leather boots thudding rhythmically. He stands over the grovelling man, then reaches down, grabbing the guard by the throat and the collar of his iron breastplate. With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook rips the man completely off the ground, slamming his back against a massive stone pillar.

"Who do you think you are?" Jungkook hoarsely whispers, his face inches from the guard's bleeding, trembling features. He tightens his grip on the man's throat, cutting off his air until the guard's face begins to turn purple. "You wear my family's crest. You carry weapons funded by my treasury. You eat food provided by my citizens. And you use that power to strike an innocent, defenceless woman in the streets?"

"Your Highness- p-please-mercy…" the guard chokes out, tears of genuine, paralysing fright mixing with the dark blood pouring down his chin. "We didn't... we didn't know she was... we didn't know..."

"You didn't know what?" Jungkook roars, slamming him against the stone pillar a second time, cracking the mortar behind his head. "That she has a name? That she feels pain? That her life is worth infinitely more than your pathetic, miserable existences?"

He weakens his grip just enough to let the man gasp for air, only to drive a brutal left hook directly into the guard's ribs. The sound of fracturing bone echoes clearly in the silent room. The guard lets out a strangled sob, his head slumping forward.

Jungkook grabs him by his hair, forcing his head back up so he has to look into his eyes, eyes that are currently completely devoid of mercy, cold and dark as a winter grave.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the leather lash and show you what five strikes feel like when delivered by someone who actually knows how to use it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... Yes, Your Highness... Forgive us... Forgive us..." the guard weeps, his spirit completely broken, pressed flat against the cold stone.

Jungkook shoves the guard away in utter disgust, letting his limp, groaning body slide down the base of the pillar into a pathetic heap.

The prince stands up straight, slowly adjusting the cuffs of his dark royal jacket, his chest heaving with heavy, deliberate breaths as he reins in his wild adrenaline. The fury still burns hot in his veins, but his composure returns like a heavy curtain falling over a stage. He looks around the barracks at the rest of the silent soldiers who are still locked at attention, none of them daring to even blink.

"Clean this pathetic mess up," Jungkook barks coldly, casting one final, disgusted look at the two broken men on the floor. "And remember exactly whose crest you wear. If any of you forget your duty to protect our people, I will personally remind you."

He turns on his polished leather heel, his golden cape snapping behind him, and storms out of the barracks, his mind already racing out of the palace gates and straight back to your quiet, shadowed bedroom.

The bright, warm rays of the morning sun pierce through your thin linen curtains, casting long, golden bars across your bedroom.

You slowly blink your eyes open, your body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the white-hot, agonising fire that had consumed your back yesterday. You hold your breath, carefully shifting your weight to test the movement, but to your absolute surprise, the blinding agony has receded into a dull, thoroughly manageable ache. The throbbing is heavy, a reminder of the guards' cruelty, but it no longer cuts your breath short. The cooling herbal salve Jungkook applied worked absolute wonders overnight.

You slowly press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes immediately darting around the quiet room.

Jungkook.

He is gone. The space beside your bed feels entirely empty, the cool morning air still carrying the faintest, lingering hint of his crisp, rich scent.

A heavy wave of emotion hits you as you sit there in the morning silence, the blankets pooled around your waist. Your mind drifts back to the blurry memories of yesterday. You remember the sheer terror in Jungkook's eyes when your knees had buckled in the kitchen, the way his strong arms had snapped around you before you could even hit the floor. He had held you so tightly against his chest, as if you were something incredibly precious he couldn't bear to see broken.

The memory of his touch makes your skin tingle beneath your bandages. He is the Crown Prince of the realm, a man born to be served, and yet he spent his hours kneeling on your floor, on your bed, cleaning your wounds with trembling hands, and whispering soft, broken apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The sheer, intoxicating intimacy of him wrapping the linen around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid chest, plays on a loop in your head. It sends a strange, dizzying heat curling deep into your stomach, a mixture of profound gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.

You turn your head towards the nightstand. There sits a fresh glass of clear water, a small plate neatly stacked with dried fruits and crackers, and a folded piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the paper before unfolding it. Reading his messy, hurried handwriting, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.

The ridiculous boyishness of his threat instantly cuts through the lingering shadows of yesterday's trauma. Even when he is trying to be authoritative, he can’t help but be the same teasing menace who steals your cake batter. You smile, dutifully eating every single cracker and dried fruit on the plate, feeling the energy slowly returning to your limbs, before drinking the water down to the very last drop.

Exhaling a long, steady breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with meticulous care so the fabric doesn't rub harshly against the fresh dressings. You feel remarkably better; the deep, uninterrupted rest has done wonders for your body and mind.

Marching down the staircase, you are determined to open the bakery today. You refuse to let those guards steal your livelihood or intimidate you out of your own shop, and you certainly can't let your regular village customers down two days in a row.

The kitchen downstairs is dead quiet, smelling faintly of the chamomile tea Jungkook had brewed for you. You walk straight to the front door, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt, and pull the thick curtains back to let the brilliant morning light flood the room. Bracing yourself, you push the front door open and step onto the threshold to set up the outdoor display.

The moment your boots clear the frame, you freeze completely in your tracks.

Sitting proudly on the wooden bench right beside your shop entrance is an overflowing bouquet. It is massive, easily the size of your entire torso, completely taking over the small wooden bench. But as you take a slow, hesitant step closer, your brow furrows in sheer confusion.

The flowers aren't real.

You lean down, your breath catching completely in your throat as your eyes scan the arrangement. They are meticulously, beautifully handcrafted entirely out of soft, colourful yarn. Dozens upon dozens of intricately crocheted roses, delicate lilies, and bright daisies, amongst others, which are woven together with an unbelievable amount of patience, care, and precision. The bouquet bursts with vibrant, warm shades of pastel pink, sunny yellow, and rich cream, completely immune to the biting morning frost.

Tears instantly spring to your eyes, a sudden, heavy wave of emotion tightening in your chest until it's actually hard to breathe.

You are, unfortunately, severely allergic to real flowers; the pollen makes your eyes swell shut, and your lungs feel heavier within minutes. It is a small, trivial detail you had mentioned to Jungkook months ago, a passing, light-hearted remark made at two in the morning while you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies. You hadn't thought twice about it. You had assumed he forgot it the second the words left your mouth.

Yet here they are. Flowers that will never wither, flowers that can never trigger your allergies, flowers made with a level of dedication that a person can only give when they are entirely, irrevocably devoted to someone. Only a handful of people in the world know that secret about you, and your royal visitor remembered every single syllable.

Tucked precisely into the centre of the soft yarn roses is a small, heavy piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers trembling violently as you pull the note free from the stitches and unfold it.

I heard real flowers make you sneeze. These will never wither, and they will never hurt you. I'll be there tonight. Don't lock the back door. - J. p.s. leave out some extra cookies, please <3

You press the heavy paper firmly against your chest, right over your thundering heart, staring out into the bustling village square. A silent tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the light dust of flour on your skin, but a bright, genuine smile graces your lips.

Yesterday, you felt completely alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones while the world looked away in fear. But today, clutching this note, you feel safer, more cherished, and more protected than you have ever felt in your entire life.

"Give it to me." Jungkook rasps, ignoring your threat. His broad chest heaves as he takes a heavy step forward, dark eyes completely pinned to the bag. "You don't understand what you're holding. You don't know what it is. I need it. Hand. It. Over."

"Oh, sailor boy, I understand perfectly." You fire back. "I understand that a black-market dealer will happily pay enough gold for this to buy me the luxury I deserve. This pretty little rock is my golden ticket out of here."

"Luxury?" Jungkook scoffs, a bitter laugh ripping from his throat. He looks absolutely exasperated, jaw clenching so hard that a muscle in his cheek twitches. He tried to play the patient, stoic soldier, but the sheer weight of everything, the stolen ship, his captured crewmates, his own throbbing ribs, and now this stubborn, infuriating girl, you. Something finally snaps in his remaining thread of sanity. "You want to sell it for fucking trinkets? Listen to me, you-"

"Why would I listen to you, you bashed-up anchor-weight?" You interrupt, matching his volume.

Jungkook stops. He takes a long, ragged breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds as if praying to whatever gods rule the sea for the strength not to lose his mind. When he opens them, the frantic rage is gone. He regulates his voice, dropping into a flat, serious register that completely cuts through the tension.

"Just listen," he says quietly.

The sudden shift in his voice takes you entirely by surprise. The loud, arrogant soldier vanishes, replaced by raw, heavy desperation that makes the air feel completely still. It's the tone of a man who has lost almost everything and has nothing left to hide. The gravity of it actually makes you comply.

You look at him, the sharp retort you have dying on your tongue as you silently allow him to continue.

"My ship was ambushed," Jungkook says, his voice low and level. "Actual pirates. They took my entire crew hostage, and their captain stole my half of that stone."

Confusion flashes across your face, your grip on the sack loosening just a fraction. "What do you mean, your half? How do I even know you're not just making this up to rob me?"

"It pulses, right?" he counters softly.

You freeze.

"Sometimes. When you least expect it," Jungkook continues, taking your silence as confirmation. "Right when you're not looking. And just as you focus your eyes on it, it stops. I'm right. Aren't I?"

You nod slowly. There is no point in denying it now; he knows exactly what the artefact does.

"I think I could use your half to track down mine," Jungkook says, stepping closer, his expression earnest. "And with it, I can find my crew. My ship. And if you sell it to some back-alley dealer… If you don't let me try… they die. Every single one of them. And who knows what the stone can actually do, especially in the hands of a pirate."

The weight of his words presses heavily onto your chest. You look from his battered, bruised face down to the sack in your hands. A rescue mission.

The easy way out of this is to leave him standing on his beach, forget this ever happened, swim away, and find a dealer three seas over who doesn't carry a massive baggage train of military guilt. But as much as you want to be cold-blooded, you can't just sign the death warrants of an entire crew.

Sensing your hesitation, Jungkook plays his final card. He leans back slightly, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register. "Look. You help me get to my crew, and I will personally pay you double whatever any dealer offers you. I'm a high-ranking sailor of the ROC. I can get you a fortune. We save my men, I buy your luxury, and then we never have to see each other's faces again. Deal?"

You weigh the options in your head: a guaranteed, massive payout from a desperate, heavily funded navy man versus a highly risky, dangerous gamble on the black market where you'll probably get swindled anyway.

"Triple." You demand, narrowing your eyes at him. "And you don't get to lay a single finger on this until we are standing in front of your crew."

Jungkook's left eyebrow twitches violently at the sound of triple, and he pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue whilst looking off to the side. The sheer audacity of it clearly strikes a nerve, but he knows he has no leverage. He lets out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping as he nods reluctantly.

"Fine. Triple. Just get your things together. We need to set off before the tide turns."

Swimming back down into the trench toward your village, your mind is an absolute wreck.

Swimming back down into the trench toward your village, your mind is an absolute wreck. You need to gather your travelling gear, but more importantly, you need a spectacular, bulletproof lie.

You and the sailor had agreed to meet back on the secluded shore at sunset.

Sunset. Right. Totally fine. That gives you roughly three hours to somehow convince Kyra to let you slip away without causing a massive domestic crisis. You have no earthly idea how long this mainland trek with the stranded sailor will take, days, perhaps weeks, and Kyra tracks your whereabouts like a damn shark.

The second you slip into the cavern you all call home, pack a small leather transport satchel, and the heavy coral door slams open behind you. Before you can even turn around, her voice is already echoing sharply off the rock walls.

"What are you doing, Y/N? Where are you going?"

There is an immediate edge to her voice that tells you she already smells trouble. You force your posture to remain perfectly steady, desperately spinning the lie you rehearsed on the swim down.

"I- well-, on the way back, I crossed paths with a traveller near the shallow reefs," you say, tossing a few tightly sealed ration tins into your bag. "And she actually told me about this massive, abandoned bounty. A hidden treasure cache just a few seas away. I'm going to go check it out. I might be gone for a few days, but the payout is just too big to let the chance go." You finish packing some human clothes you have stashed away.

You hold your breath, praying that it sounds convincing and doesn't instead scream, I've broken just about every rule there is.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" Kyra yells, swimming directly into your personal space, her tail thrashing so hard it sends a turbulent current straight into your face. "A traveller? A bounty? People are missing, Y/N! Members of our own outer reefs are just vanishing into thin water, and you want to go chasing what is likely just some fairy tales because some random old hag told you to? You are being incredibly reckless and selfish!"

Selfish. You bite your tongue as the word replays in your mind.

The word snaps something vital inside you. Years of suffocating under her constant, paralysing restrictions, her endless caution, and the rigid walls she built around you finally boil over. Every single time you try to do something to actually benefit you all in the long run, she crushes it.

"Selfish?" you shriek back in total disbelief, your hands clenching into tight fists as your tail flares with rage. "I cannot believe you! You are so utterly terrified of the shadow of your own tail that you are trapping all of us in the exact same cage as you! I am sick and tired of living like this because of your fear and your constant suffocation, especially when I am trying to actually get us out of this miserable trench!"

Kyra flinches back as if physically struck, a deep, painful hurt flashing across her features before her expression instantly hardens into cold, unyielding stone.

"After everything I have done for you," she whispers, her voice shaking with a mixture of grief and anger. "Everything to help keep us alive and hidden in these waters, this is how you speak to me? Fine. Go. Run after your dirt-dweller gold. But hear me clearly, Y/N: if you swim out that door today, don't you dare think about ever coming back."

"Don't worry," you venomously whisper back, the words tasting like acid. "I won't."

You secure the straps of your satchel to your torso and swim right past her, intentionally brushing her shoulder, never once looking back at the home you just destroyed.

You secure the straps of your satchel to your torso and swim right past her, intentionally brushing her shoulder, never once looking back at the home you just destroyed.

The sun is actively dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, bruised shades of purple and gold when you finally return to the secluded shore. The moment you resurface, you drag yourself onto the damp, coarse sand, bracing yourself for the agonising biological shift.

You let out a small gasp as your tail splits down the centre, the shimmering scales dissolving away into the sand as human skin and legs take shape. You dig your fingernails into the wet earth, pushing through the sharp, burning spikes of agony. It feels like your bones are breaking and resetting all at once, but you force yourself not to scream. Still… better than last time. It does get easier with each transformation, but it still hurts like a bitch.

Once your legs are fully formed, you shakily rise to your feet, brushing the wet sand off your thighs. As you stand, the heavy weight of the old, unforgiving nursery rhyme the elders used to drum into the heads of anyone daring to venture near the dry world runs through your head:

Three days of dust, three days of stride, Return to the deep or turn with the tide. For if the third sunset bleeds into the track, The skin will split, and you'll never go back.

Three days. A literal clock ticking against your chest. If you don't submerge your entire body in salt water before the third sunset, your human skin will bleed, your body will force a violent, permanent transformation, and you will never be able to change again. You have to make sure the sailor doesn't lead you too far inland, or you risk losing your life, or worse, letting the entire world see what you truly are.

Shaking off the residual numbness in your calves, you push through the dune grass and spot him waiting at the edge of the tree line. True to form, he is pacing relentlessly, but when he catches sight of you emerging from the shadows, he abruptly stops. A brief flicker of genuine relief crosses his handsome face before his usual stubborn, irritated scowl quickly replaces it.

"You sure took your sweet time," he grunts, crossing his massive arms over his chest. You can't help but let your gaze flicker down to them, biceps straining against the white of his shirt, still slightly soaked from the sea.

Usually, you'd have a biting, sarcastic response lined up, but your mind is still completely clouded by the words you exchanged with Kyra. You just adjust the leather strap of your satchel, keeping your mouth shut.

He looks at you, clearly noticing your unusual silence, but wisely chooses not to push it. He clears his throat, turning toward the forest. "I've been thinking while you were gone. We should visit an old contact of mine in the nearby port town. Could help point us in the right direction."

"Fine. Let's go," you mutter, and you start to move.

"It's not that simple, though," He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. Of course it isn't. Because why would anything on dry land ever be simple?

You follow the line of his extended finger as it points toward a dark, jagged, gaping crevice carved directly into the cliffside. "To get to the mainland ports without being spotted by any pirate scouts on the main roads, we have to cross through the coastal cavern networks, then cut through the woods."

For the love of Neptune's barnacles. You stare at the black hole in the rock, silently cursing your life choices.

You stare at the black hole in the rock, silently cursing your life choices.

The journey inside is an absolute, unmitigated nightmare.

The caverns are pitch-black, freezing, and dripping with foul, slimy moisture that coats every surface. Every single step you take on your feet feels like walking directly on a bed of hot, shattered glass. Thankfully, you had the foresight to bring a pair of rugged leather boots you'd salvaged from a sunken merchant vessel a few moons ago, but even that comfort is short-lived. The silence of the caves is entirely filled by your relentless, echoing arguments.

"Are you going to actually lift your feet?" He huffs, holding a small wooden torch high ahead of him, "or do you plan on waking up every single bat in this damn cave?"

"Are you going to actually shut your damn mouth?" You shoot right back, your foot slipping slightly on a slick, mossy stone, "or do you plan on annoying me to death before we even see the sun?"

"I'm just saying, you're stomping around like a damn elephant," he mutters, his voice echoing off the damp stalactites. "For someone who managed to drag a full-grown man out of the water without waking him, you're remarkably loud on solid ground."

Well, that is because your mind is screaming at your newly formed legs, which are throbbing under the rules of gravity, but you'd rather swallow a sea urchin than let him suspect what you actually are.

"You try navigating a freezing, pitch-black rock pile after wasting all your energy saving a giant, ungrateful, mind you, anchor-weight, and see how gracefully you walk, you giant-"

You take an aggressive step forward to emphasise your point, but your aching, unfamiliar muscles completely betray you. The heel of your boot catches on a slick, jagged ridge of limestone, and your balance vanishes. You pitch forward with a sharp, breathless gasp.

But before you face-plant into the slimy cavern floor, a heavy, solid force slams into you.

His reflexes are terrifyingly fast, his arm shooting out and snapping securely around your waist, hauling you upwards. The momentum pulls you flush against his broad chest, which, of course, is all lean muscle, to stabilise you both. His free hand holds the torch above your heads so it doesn't drop into the dark.

For a long second, the relentless echoes of dripping water seem to fade.

The cave is freezing, but the sailor is incredibly warm. In the flickering, low glow of the torchlight, you are trapped entirely in his space. You're close enough to see the deep gold flecks in his dark eyes, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, and the sharp line of his jaw. His grip around your waist is firm and entirely too steady, holding you effortlessly. Your heart does a sudden, erratic flip against your ribs, a jolt that has absolutely nothing to do with almost falling, but you tell yourself it's the opposite.

He looks down at you, eyes scanning your face before a slow, insufferably cocky smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. You wish you could slap it off him.

"You know," he murmurs, voice dripping into that familiar teasing rumble that vibrates against your shoulder. "If you wanted an excuse to get closer to me, you could have just asked. You didn't have to throw yourself at my feet."

The tension evaporated instantly. And you shove at the arm clamped around your waist.

"I was not throwing myself at you!" You defend, face no doubt burning as you aggressively brush imaginary dust off your jacket. "The rocks are wet."

He hums in mocking agreement, adjusting his grip on the torch as he steps back, the heavy amusement in his eyes is impossible to avoid. "Right. My mistake. You were just so eager to test the floor's structural integrity with your face. Totally normal."

"Shut up." You hiss, turning your back to him so he can't see the flush on your skin.

He steps up right behind you, closing the distance.

"Look," he begins. "If we're going to hike across an entire province together, don't you think it's time you actually tell me your name? I can't exactly keep calling you 'Hey' or 'You.' I'll even go first. I'm Jungkook."

Jungkook, huh? Pretty name wasted on such a bastard.

"I'm not giving my name to a pirate," you scoff, pushing further forward with him on your tail. "You don't need it for the payout."

Jungkook lets out a sharp, irritated breath, easily catching up to you with his long strides. "First of all, and for the tenth time, not a pirate. I wear the King's uniform when it's not torn to shreds. Second of all, what is your problem?"

"You. You are my problem," you say without looking back.

"Right. Completely unfair," Jungkook scoffs, but another cocky grin flashes on his lips despite the dark cave. "Fine. You pulled me out of the ocean, you built a fire, and you're supposedly guiding me to my crew. I'll just call you Angel. My little guardian angel. Happy?"

You halt in your tracks, turning around to glare at him with pure attitude.

"Angel?" you mock, disgust painting your features as you step over a puddle of slimy water. "That is the most cliché, nauseating thing I've ever heard. If we're handing out titles based on our performance today, then your name is Ace."

Jungkook blinks, thoroughly caught off guard. He stops a few feet away, a proud, slight smile instantly tugging at his lips as he cocks his head. "Ace? Well… I won't argue with that. I actually happen to be one of the highest-rated tacticians in the royal fleet."

"I'm using it sarcastically, you dimwit," you snap, turning back around and marching ahead. "What a highly trained, elite military sailor you are, who somehow failed the absolute most basic concept of sailing: keeping your feet on the deck. Instead, you took a plunge into the sea and washed up half-dead on a beach. Spectacular job, Ace."

A sudden, sharp bark of amused laughter escapes Jungkook's lips, the sound echoing off the cavern walls. The mocking jab doesn't dent his pride at all; instead, a relaxed, easy smirk pulls at his mouth as he quickly jogs to catch up.

"You call it a fall," he mutters defensively, though the heavy amusement in his voice completely gives him away. "I call it a mere tactical, high-velocity displacement."

You don't even look back at him, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ace. Just try to master the highly advanced concept of walking on solid dirt without tripping over your own ego. Move your legs."

"Whatever you say, Angel," he replies, the teasing, lighthearted tilt to his voice proving he is entirely down to keep up the pace.

By the time the damp, freezing air of the caverns finally begins to thin, the distant, flickering lanterns of the town appear through the trees.

By the time the damp, freezing air of the caverns finally begins to thin, the distant, flickering lanterns of the town appear through the trees. You both fall into a quiet, watchful rhythm, the heavy bickering fading into a shared, cautious focus as the dense tree line finally breaks and the coastal port town of Marlow spills out beneath the night sky.

For Jungkook, it was just a standard, muddy outpost filled with the familiar smells of saltwater, cheap tobacco, and frying fish. But the moment they step onto the cobblestone streets, he notices a sudden shift in you.

She has stopped dead in her tracks.

Jungkook glances over his shoulder, a look of profound confusion crossing his features. Your jaw is slightly slack, eyes wide and luminous as they dart from a glowing oil lantern hanging above a tailor's shop to a heavy horse-drawn carriage rattling past them. You look almost overwhelmed, chest rising and falling rapidly as if trying to absorb the entire town through your eyes alone.

He arches an eyebrow, shifting his weight. What is wrong with this girl? For someone who had confidently threatened him with a black-market trade and walked through a pitch-black cavern barely flinching, you are currently staring at a basic bakery display window as if the stale bread loaves inside were made of solid gold.

"Hey," Jungkook murmurs, stepping closer into your space to shield you from a passing group of loud dockworkers. "You alright? You look like you've just seen a ghost. Or a very impressive pile of bricks."

You snap out of it instantly, eyes flashing with that familiar, defensive fire as you pull your satchel tighter against your hip. "I'm fine," you mutter, voice a little too high. "Just… checking for pirate scouts. Obviously."

"Right. Pirate scouts hiding in the pastry cart," Jungkook teases, but he doesn't press further, locking this memory away.

He guides you down a narrow, shadowy alleyway towards the louder, rowdier side of the docks, stopping in front of a weathered wooden building with a swinging sign shaped like a rusted anchor. The Crab. The muffled sounds of sea shanties, clinking glass, and booming laughter vibrate through the heavy oak door.

"Keep your head down and stay close," Jungkook instructs, his voice dropping into a quiet, authoritative hum as he pushes the door open.

The heat of the tavern hits them instantly, thick with the scent of roasted meat, stale ale, and sweat. Jungkook expertly navigates the crowded floor, his broad shoulders easily parting the sea of drunken sailors and merchants until he finds a relatively secluded wooden booth in the far corner.

He slides onto the bench, gesturing for you to take the seat opposite him. Once you have sat down, looking warily at the sticky wood of the table, Jungkook catches the eye of a barmaid.

"Bring us a pitcher of whatever's cold, please, love," he calls out, before turning his gaze back to the woman in front of him. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, the low firelight from the hearth catching the rugged angles of his face. "You want anything specific? Perhaps a drink of your own?"

You narrow your eyes at him, lips curving into a sharp, suspicious little pout. "What? Trying to get me drunk so you can steal back your precious little stone while I'm passed out?"

Jungkook lets out a low, breathless huff of laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans back against the bench, crossing his arms over his chest as that effortless, cocky charm bleeds right back into his posture.

"Angel, please," he murmurs. Her eyes roll at the nickname. His voice is a low, teasing vibration that easily cuts through the tavern's roar. "If I wanted to charm you into giving me that stone, I wouldn't need to waste good rum to do it. I'm perfectly capable of convincing you sober."

"In your dreams, Ace," you shoot back smoothly, though a faint, subtle trace of pink touches the tips of her ears.

Before he can fire back a retort, the tavern doors near the bar open, and a tall woman with a dark braid and a jagged scar across her collarbone steps out from the kitchen. Bingo.

Jungkook's playful demeanour vanishes, and he slides out of the booth, signalling for you to stay put, and walks straight up to the bar where the woman is currently wiping down the counter with aggressive efficiency.

Jungkook clears his throat, leaning over the polished wood. She doesn't even look up at him. "We're closed for private parties, sailor," she grunts.

"I'm reporting a critical leak in the starboard bow," Jungkook said quietly, dropping his voice to a whisper. "The tide always turns at midnight."

She freezes. Her cloth stops moving, and she slowly raises her head, sharp grey eyes locking onto Jungkook's bruised face. A mixture of utter shock, recognition, and immediate fury flashes across her features. She doesn't say a single word though. She just slams her rag down, rounds the counter, and gives Jungkook a look that could curdle milk. She gestures toward a heavy curtain leading to the backrooms, her eyes darting briefly to the girl sitting in the corner booth.

"Both of you. Now," she hisses.

Jungkook quickly walks back to the booth, lightly grazing your arm by the elbow and guiding you through the crowded tavern and straight into a dimly lit, private backroom filled with crates of smuggled liquor and old navigation maps.

The moment the heavy wooden door clicks shut behind them, the atmosphere completely shifts.

"Are you a complete and utter moron?!" she explodes, turning around and violently shoving Jungkook's shoulder.

The cocky, self-assured navy tactician vanishes, and Jungkook's broad shoulders instantly slump, his head ducking down as he practically shrinks a foot in height. He looks exactly like a guilty, panicked little midshipman who has just been caught stealing the captain's private rations. He nervously rubs the back of his neck, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his torn shirt.

"Sierra, look, I can explain-" he stammers, his voice cracking slightly, completely stripped of all his usual bravado.

"Explain?!" she roars, pacing the small room. "Your ship went down! High Command thinks your entire crew is at the bottom of the ocean! The Admiral has already drafted the letters to your families! And you- you absolute idiot, show up on my doorstep barefoot, covered in mud, looking like a drowned rat, with a civilian girl in tow?!"

"The hull took a direct hit!" Jungkook protests weakly, waiving his arms as his eyes dart around the room nervously, looking completely lost. "They ambushed us. Their captain took the others. I barely made it out alive…"

You stand by the door, jaw slightly dropped as you watch the arrogant sailor you know completely disintegrate under the woman's wrath. It was comical how quickly he had turned into a terrified little boy.

"And what is this?" you hear Sierra snap, pointing a sharp finger directly at you. Rude. "Who is she? A witness? A liability?"

"She… she's helping me get back," Jungkook mumbles, looking over at you with a genuinely apologetic expression. "And she has… well, she has something we need."

Sierra stops pacing, her eyes narrowing as she looks between the two of you. "If you think High Command is going to authorise a rescue mission based on your word alone, Jungkook, you're delusional. Without proof of life or a direct location, they're not going to risk sending a single frigate into Kallinos's territory. They think you failed your mission."

"But, I-. Wait- Kallinos?!" His eyes widen in surprise, his mouth dries up, and his body is completely rigid. "That's who ambushed us?!" Jungkook looks like he has just been hit by a phantom cannonball. His eyes widen in genuine horror, the last trace of colour draining from his face.

You look between the hyperventilating sailor and the tavern owner, your eyebrows knitting together in total confusion. This narcissistic guy who had just been bragging about his tactical brilliance in a dark cave was currently sweating through a torn shirt, looking like he was about to drop to his knees.

"Okay, can we wrap this up?" you interrupt, crossing your arms and leaning against a stack of liquor crates. "Who the hell is Kallinos, and why does Ace look like he's about to faint?"

Sierra lets out a dark, humourless breath, turning her sharp gaze to you. "He's not just a pirate, girl. He's the pirate whom the High Command has spent a decade trying to track his fleet down, but the man's a straight ghost. A ruthless black-market syndicate leader, a smuggler, and a total brute. One where we don't even know who he is. He doesn't just steal cargo; he dismantles ships and leaves the survivors to the sharks. Or worse."

"Worse," Jungkook echoes hoarsely, his hands clenching into trembling fists as he stares blankly at the floor. The blood in his veins feels like pure ice. "He doesn't take hostages for ransom. He sells navy crews into the deep mainland subterranean mines. They'll be worked to death in weeks. If he's the one who has my men… they're already as good as dead."

A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the room. You swallow hard, the playful sarcasm momentarily dying in your throat. You look at Jungkook's battered face, seeing a raw vulnerability there that made your heart prickle with an uncomfortable emotion. He wasn't just a proud soldier throwing a tantrum anymore; he was a man staring down the agonising reality of losing his family.

But, because you absolutely refuse to let the mood stay miserable, you force a sharp, mocking grin back onto your face.

"Wow," you murmur, breaking the silence with a soft click of your tongue. "And here I thought you were just remarkably bad at keeping your feet on a deck, Ace. Turns out you managed to pick a fight with the apex predator of the entire coastline. You really don't do things by halves, do you?"

Jungkook shoots you a wild, utterly stressed look, but the familiar sting of your banter actually seems to pull him back from the edge of a total panic attack. He lets out a ragged breath, running a hand aggressively through his damp hair. "I didn't pick a fight with him. He came out of the fog banks like a-"

"Enough!" Sierra barks, slapping her palm against the desk, effectively cutting you both off. She rubs her temples. "Look, we don't know what Kallinos has done with the crew; there's still a chance, but we're losing time. The Navy won't help you, Jungkook. Not without a precise coordinate, and certainly not against a warlord like him."

"Shit, this just got a whole lot worse, but… I have a way to track them, or at least I think I do," Jungkook pleads, stepping forward, and he looks at you, beckoning you to come over as well, his voice is tight with desperation. "She has this stone and Kallinos took my half, but it could maybe lead us to him?."

Sierra let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing her temples. She asks for the stone from you, and you present it, but never let it leave your hands. She examines it and lets out a little breath. "The Navy doesn't do magic stones and sea fairy tales. If you walk into the garrison talking about pulsing relics, they'll lock you in an asylum and throw away the key."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Jungkook asks, his voice raw, looking entirely helpless.

Sierra sighs, walking over to a small desk and shuffling through a pile of parchment. "The military won't help you. Not yet. But if you're determined to chase this superstitious nonsense… there's someone you might want to see. Down by the old abandoned docks, at the very edge of the low-tide district."

Jungkook blinks. "Who?"

"Madame Laeruda," Sierra said, her voice dropping into a cautious whisper. "To the town, she's just a crazy old fortune teller who scams tourists with tarot cards and tea leaves. But to those of us in fleet intelligence… we know what she really does. She's a scholar of forbidden antiquities. If anyone knows how to make that stone talk, it's her. Go see her. And for the love of the gods, put some damn shoes on before you get tetanus."

The sheer relief that washes over Jungkook is instantaneous, melting away the rigid terror of a moment prior. The desperate, hyperventilating sailor completely vanishes, replaced by a boyish grin that lights up his entire face. He grabs the piece of scrap parchment that Sierra holds out to him as if it were a royal decree made of gold, clutching it tightly to his chest.

Cute. Wait no. Brain stop.

"Sierra, seriously, thank you," he beams, his voice dropping into a bright, rapid-fire tumble as he practically vibrates with gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I swear I won't mess this up. I'll find them. I'm going to get them back, and I'll make sure High Command knows you-"

"Yeah, yeah, wrap it up, golden boy," Sierra interrupts, rolling her eyes with a fond, exhausted groan as she swats his hands away from her desk. "Save the thank-yous until you actually pull this off. Let's see if you can manage to stay on solid ground for more than twenty-four hours without getting swallowed by a swamp or arrested for public vagrancy. Good luck, kid. You're gonna need a miracle."

She then turns her calculating grey eyes over to you. She stands in silence for a long moment, slowly sizing you up from the rugged merchant boots on your feet to the protective, white-knuckled grip you still maintain on your leather satchel.

A dry, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of the tavern owner's mouth.

"And as for you, girl," Sierra sighs, crossing her arms over her chest with a look of profound sympathy. "I don't know what crimes you committed in a past life to end up saddled with this one, but you have my deepest condolences. He's a brilliant tactician on a naval map, but in the real world? He's an absolute magnet for disasters. Try not to let his lack of survival instincts get you killed."

"Hey!" Jungkook protests weakly from the side, pouting like a scolded teenager.

You, however, can't help but let out a smug, deeply satisfied chuckle, tilting your chin up as you shoot Jungkook a victorious look. "Oh, don't worry, I've already figured out his track record. The man can't even handle a rogue pine branch without throwing a tantrum. I'll make sure our little Ace doesn't wander into traffic."

"Perfect," Sierra grunts, tossing her aggressive cleaning rag over her shoulder as she walks toward the back door to usher you both out into the cool, salty night air. "Now get out of my tavern, use the alleys, and don't come back until you've actually got a ship attached to your names."

"You really scared us there, you know," Jimin pants, wrapping a heavy arm around Jungkook's shoulders and leaving him with an affectionate pat.

Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, a deep sense of sheepish contrition evident in his eyes as he gazes up at his friends. "Yeah, well... I didn't exactly plan to take a dip in the sea today."

"A dip? We thought you were a goner, Kook," one of the other crew members, Marie, expresses. She stands behind Jimin, planting her hands firmly on her hips, though her voice also trembles with relief.

"How did you even make it here anyway?" Jimin questions, his brows furrow as he tries to piece the timeline together, but ultimately fails.

"Honestly, Min... I have no idea," Jungkook admits. His gaze drifts back out toward the sea. His eyes drop to the sand, tracing the faint sets of footprints that emerge from the water and lead right to him. His gaze moves left, to the blackened remnants of the fire before continuing. "The last thing I remember was trying to fix a bit of the rope, then a wave hit, and I was falling. After that... just black." The others nod in acknowledgement.

He raises his left hand, rubbing the back of his neck. He can feel the stubborn grains of sand clinging to his damp skin. Bringing his hand back down to his lap, he rolls the grains between his fingertips, his voice dropping into a quiet, almost reverent whisper. "But right before I passed out... There was a woman. She pulled me from the dark. She saved me."

Taehyung lets out a loud, theatrical snort. "A woman? Out in the middle of a storm that we barely just survived? C'mon, man, the sea air is playing tricks on your brain. You probably hit your head on the hull and hallucinated a sea nymph." He disregards Jungkook.

"I didn't hallucinate her!" Jungkook sulks, scowling at the sand. He looks up at Taehyung, determination set in his eyes. "Then who built the fire, huh? Who dragged me past the high-tide line?" His lips form into a small pout.

Though he believes this, his own mind can't help but rack itself for answers. There had been something deeply off about her. The way the firelight had fractured across her chest, the ethereal texture of her strange clothes, and those piercing eyes. But before he can puzzle it out further, Yoongi's voice echoes from the shallows, shouting for them to get back aboard the vessel before the tide turns.

Eventually, after Taehyung spent five minutes aggressively searching nearby bushes for Jungkook's "imaginary glowy girlfriend", earning him a few shoves and a flick to his forehead from the younger sailor, they row back to their vessel and swiftly set sail, eager to leave the treacherous coastline behind. But their safety is short-lived.

It's been barely an hour since they cleared the cove, but a heavy silence falls over the deck as a shadow cuts cleanly through the remaining post-storm mist. The once bustling activity on deck comes to a complete halt; no one so much as breathes. An unnerving sight. Nearly a hundred men and women, all frozen, caught in the same trance.

Every eye on deck is locked onto the ship approaching them. It's colossal. Blackened timber swallowing the morning light around it; tattered, soot-stained sails swaying; and only the sound of the waves battering against its side can be heard.

Jungkook feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as the vessel approaches, its gun ports already opening.

Well, fuck.

"All hands, brace yourselves!" A shout is heard from the quarterdeck, an all but useless command considering it's almost entirely drowned out by another shattering sound.

Cannon fire tears through the morning air. The impact is almost immediate. The iron spheres smash into the side of the ship, splintering the deck into wooden shrapnel and ripping through the sails overhead. The air grows thick and misty, and the stench of sulfurous gunpowder weaves throughout the deck.

Along with many other sailors, Jungkook draws out a cutlass. His boots slip slightly on the sea spray that coats the deck as the first wave of men catch the railings and climb over. They storm the deck, weapons bared.

It's a mess. Blades swinging, yelling from all directions, the occasional cannonfire ripping through the air. It's too much for them. They're severely outnumbered, and it's only a matter of time before most of the crew, what's left of them, are on their knees, defeat hung in the air around them.

A broad-shouldered, tyrant of a man emerges from the mist, it clinging onto him as he strides through it. His piercing flint eyes narrow with satisfaction as he eyes each of them. His gaze fixes on Jungkook for longer before dropping down to the glowing crimson stone secured tightly to his belt. The dark, unnatural swirls on the halved rock catch the light, and a sinister grin paints the man's face.

"So, the rumours were true," he purrs and pivots, and finally drives a heavy iron-toed boot into Jungkook's ribs. The crack ripples through the silence, and Jungkook is knocked over by its force, the wind knocked out of him. Grasping for air, Jungkook tries to raise his arms to crawl. Where to? He doesn't know. He's moving on pure adrenaline and instinct. But he's too slow. The burly(?) man steps into his space, and his boot comes down again on Jungkook's wrist before his hand moves and swings his fist, landing a brutal, concussive blow straight across the sailor's jaw.

His vision swims with black-and-white spots as he collapses onto his back. He wills his body to move, to do anything. But it refuses to obey. Through a hazy blur, he watches helplessly as the man leans over his limp form and callously tears the stone from his belt.

"A pretty little toy for such a pathetic little sailor," He sneers, lifting the rock up to the sunlight, his face twisting into a triumphant grin.

He could've killed him, could've sent a sword straight through him, or surely come up with less merciful ways to end his life. But the man ponders this. No. He needs a witness. Someone to spread the tale of his triumph. And failure is so much worse than death.

"Throw the boy overboard." He commands, turning his back. "The rest come with us."

With mocking laughter lacing their voices, two burly pirates grab Jungkook by his collar and boots, and they drag him across the wood, over the shattered railing. With one heavy heave, they toss him over the side.

The icy sea instantly swallows Jungkook whole, and he slips into unconsciousness as the currents sweep him back to shore.

"Have you completely lost your shells?!" Kyra seethes, her arms crossing tightly over her chest.

Floating in the centre of the cavern, she looks pissed. Her short hair floats around her angled features, and her amber eyes are full of fire. You sheepishly slip through the door of the home. You keep your fins low and flat, moving tentatively so as not to stoke the fire.

She isn't alone this time. Nesta and Scylax accompany her. The two hover much further back in the living space, deliberately not wanting to cross the perimeter of Kyra's wrath; they leave a pillar of glowing bioluminescent coral between them.

"You don't understand, I nee-" you start, but you don't get very far.

"No." Kyra cuts you off instantly, pointing a sharp, webbed finger directly at your face. "You don't get to speak after that little stunt you just pulled. I cannot believe you." She scoffs.

She then launches into a brutal scolding. Yesterday you sneaked back past sunset, and then you had the nerve to slip right back out, vanishing until almost the following afternoon. They had been worried sick, terrified at what could have happened to you.

"I thought you'd have more sense than this, especially with the recent disappearances along the outer reefs," Kyra adds, her voice dropping into a lower, heavier register that cuts deeper than her shouting.

Your eyes drop at her words, offering a muted nod of apology. But beneath that, your gut twists into a tight, sickening knot of guilt. The memory of the sailor's warm skin burns in your mind, but you cannot tell them the truth. If the others discovered that you had crossed the surface and actually interacted with a land-dweller, especially one who frequents the sea, they would panic, maybe even keep you from the surface forever.

Before Kyra can launch into her second tirade, three sharp, frantic knocks rattle against the shell-encrusted door. Everyone's head whips around. You quickly pull the barrier open to find Fabian standing there, completely flushed and breathless. His gills flare violently against his neck as he pants for oxygen, his eyes wide with adrenaline. He leans a trembling arm against the stone frame, clutching his heavy sack. Once he collects himself, he pushes past you into the room, and you quickly slide the door shut behind him.

Fabian stumbles over his words at first, a chaotic murmur of explosive sounds and wild exclamations that you completely struggle to follow. He frantically paces the sandy floor of the living space, his hands cutting through the water crazily as he mutters to himself.

Nesta finally swims forward, placing her hands firmly on his forearms to halt his manic movements and their eyes level.

"Fabian, buddy, you're making no fucking sense." Nesta's deadpan, monotone voice interrupts his rambling. His cheeks flush a dark, embarrassed purple. He straightens his posture, forces his gills to take one deep, stabilising draw of water, and finally speaks clearly.

"As I was swimming back here from Maris, after the storm cleared, oh by the way, Scylax," His voice drops to a whisper, eyeing him with pity," Cora is pissed that you haven't spoken to her since that night, I mean, really, she laid it on me, man, you're in deep shit and-"

"Fabian." Kyra interrupts, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Ah, right, sorry. Anyway, as I was saying. There was this massive pressure wave. I mean, truly, it almost swept me away to Poseidon knows where. No doubt a disturbance in the upper currents. I managed to see what happened from a distance and you'll never guess what..." He trails off, beckoning us to no doubt, guess.

"Yeah, we're not doing that, just out with it," Scylax tells him, with a hint of annoyance coating his words from the prior tangent Fabian went on. It's a shame, really. He and Cora looked good together.

"I managed to see what happened from a distance, don't worry Kyra sweetie" she rolls her eyes at this.

"It was a human squabble. One massive ship ambushed another. Whole thing left an absolute graveyard of fresh debris, and you know what that means..." He flashes a smile, and it's almost comical how all of your eyes widen with awe. Well, except you, because your heart violently plummets into your stomach. A human squabble. Fresh debris. Humans. Could it be that handsome sailor's ship? Is he okay? Wait. Why do I care?

"Are you absolutely sure there are no humans left behind?" Kyra demands, her cautious nature instantly taking over, ironic considering their line of work. "We cannot risk getting caught in their nets if they're still lingering."

"I'm highly positive." Fabian nods quickly. "Both of the vessels made off."

Everyone shares a calculating look, but Kyra darts an especially icy, pointed glare that clearly says, 'I am not done with you', before nodding to the group.

It's a swift, coordinated exit. Everyone scrambles for their sacks before diving out of the cavern and into the open blue.

The pod's village is nestled within a vibrant, deep-sea trench, lit by the stellar glow of bioluminescent anemones and hydrothermal vents. But as you push out into the open ocean, the water turns freezing and turbulent, carrying the murky aftertaste of the storm.

As the group pushes forward, you realise that Fabian is headed towards the exact coastal shelf you just left. Panic floods your chest, and you kick your tail into powerful, rhythmic undulations, cutting through the aerated currents to pull ahead of the others. You force yourself to match Fabian's frantic pace, masking your panic with greed so as not to raise suspicions.

When the group finally ascends into the upper shallows, breaking through the swells, your mouth hangs slightly ajar. Through the remaining grey mist, you can see the exact secluded, sandy beach in the distance.

"We should split up to cover more ground, maybe even make it back for supper this time," Nest says, her head bobbing above the whitecaps as she scans the floating shards of timber and ripped canvas scattered across the surface.

Before Kyra can assign the sectors, you cut in frantically.

"Yeah, great idea Ness, I'll take that beach." You say, pointing a finger directly at the cove. The exact beach you left that man.

Thankfully, the group is too distracted by the floating wreckage to notice your overeagerness. With a round of quick nods, you all separate. You instantly dive beneath the surface, driving your fin hard as you make a desperate break for the shore.

Twice? In one day? You have to be fucking kidding me.

Jungkook's head is pounding with a rhythmic throb as he forces his eyes open and strains to sit up. His entire body is locked in agonising stiffness with dark bruises already blossoming across his ribs and jaw.

But the physical pain he feels is nothing compared to the guilt that hangs around him. The ship is gone. His crew. His family. They've been captured. Lord knows where those bastards are dragging them off to by now. And the stone was gone too. He had one job. One singular task to prove his worth, and he had failed completely.

He lets out a ragged sigh, hanging his head low as he lands back on his hands against the coarse sand. His mind is a chaotic rage of desperate thoughts. How do I track a pirate fleet on foot? How am I going to take them down? How am I going to save them? How am I going to get off this godforsaken beach?

The heavy, post-storm silence of the cove is suddenly broken by a sharp rustling in the distance. It comes from the far side of the beach, right where the sand gives way to a messy line of coastal shrubs and tangled bushes.

Jungkook blinks rapidly, his vision sharpening as he spots a figure moving through the greenery. He pushes himself up, posture hardening into a combat stance. Moving across the sand with a quiet pace, his eyes lock onto the intruder. The closer he gets, the more he can make out the shape of a woman. She is actively rummaging through the storm debris scattered near the rocks that were washed ashore along with him.

Still ticked off by the ambush, suspicion clouds his judgment. No doubt a local shore-scavenger, he mutters bitterly under his breath. Or worse, a spy left behind by those pirates.

Closing the distance with silent strides, he catches her completely off guard. Before she can even turn, Jungkook lunges. His hands clamp like an iron vice around her slender wrists, violently spinning her around and shoving her backwards until she is pinned flush against a jagged stone face of the cliffside, entirely cornered.

He steps firmly into her space, preparing to interrogate her, but the words instantly die in his throat.

His eyes widen in a breathless pause. Up close, the morning sun fractures beautifully across her torso, illuminating a strangely sculpted, iridescent top woven with delicate strands of shimmering pearls that catch the light like liquid glass. But it's her face that truly stops him. Striking defiant eyes currently widening in a mirror of his own shock. A sudden, dizzying jolt of familiarity strikes him. The woman from the storm.

She lets out a sharp yelp; her initial panic melts into sheer venom.

"Let go of me, you oversized piece of driftwood!" She strains, glaring at him.

Stunned by the expression, Jungkook's grip instinctively loosens just enough for her to wrench her arm free, leaving the two of them standing chest-to-chest, breathing heavily and radiating pure hostility.

The sheer audacity of this man.

"Washed ashore twice in less than a day?" You scoff, matching his intensity without flinching. "Do you people simply not know how to stay inside a boat, or are you just exceptionally stupid?"

Your eyes narrow, staring him down. No matter how devastatingly pretty he may be, that doesn't excuse this barbaric behaviour.

"I'm looking for pirates," the sailor growls, stepping further into her space until you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. "And you look an awful lot like a thief poking around through my wreckage."

"If I were a thief, I'd have stolen your clothes and left you to freeze." You snap back, crossing your arms. "Trust me, sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your sorry person worth taking."

Instead of more anger, the tension in his posture dissipates, shifting entirely. The hard line of his jaw ticks before softening, and a slow, maddening smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. He lets out a breathless, mocking chuckle, dark eyes sparkling with playful amusement as his gaze traces your face.

"Is that so?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, teasing cadence. He takes another step forward, invading you impossibly more, entirely unbothered by your hostile posture. He tilts his head, all cocky. "Then I have to wonder." He pauses, punctuating his words. "Why did you spend your entire evening dragging my, as you so graciously put it, 'sorry person' all the way up the beach? And building me a fire, no less."

Your heart skips a beat. You stiffen, your hands clenching at your sides.

He remembers.

Shit.

"Don't tell me you did all that heavy lifting just to let me freeze now, darling." He adds, clearly trying to play off his vulnerability from last night, masking his desperation with the smooth, practised charm of a sailor. "I have to admit, I'm flattered. Most girls at least ask for my name before they start doting on me so fiercely."

"I was not doting on you." You hiss, cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and sudden heat. "Your shivering was pathetic and making too much noise. I did it out of pity, sailor boy."

"Pity, huh?" He leans an inch closer, his eyes lock onto yours, entirely capturing your attention. "Right. Let's go with that. But need I remind you that you're still here? You sure you didn't come back just to check on me?" He flutters his eyelashes.

"As if I would come back to you." You fire back, trying to deflect from the fact that it's exactly why you decided to scavenge the beach. For the smallest chance, he was still here. But now that he is. You are thoroughly done with his ego. "Now get out of my way."

Determined to put an end to his infuriating smugness, you step to the side, aggressively twisting your hips to brush past his broad shoulders. But as you push past him, the sudden sharp movement causes your sack, clipped to your belt, to swing sharply forward.

The loose fabric of the flap parts for a split second.

The sailor's sharp eyes instinctively track the movement, and he freezes. The playful, flirtatious mask vanishes in an instant as he catches the glint of red. Right there, peeking through the opening of the bag, are the sharp, unmistakable red crystal and the perfectly uniform, unnatural dark swirls of your half of the stone.

His breath hitches, and his eyes widen in shock.

01 - Bad Decision?

02 - Torn

03 - Bastard

04 - Guardian Angel

05 - Fortune and Fray

"Oh shut it, Min." Jeon bites back, though there isn't any real venom behind it. He's too terrified to be actually angry.

"I'm serious, man, do you have a death wish or something?" The older man, not by a lot, continues, falling into step beside him, "This is the third time this month you've slept right through the morning AND afternoon bells. The Captain is going to feed your lazy ass to the sea serpents."

"I know, I know! I'm dead meat," Jeon groans, burying his face in his hands.

Jimin lets out a soft chuckle, followed by a playful massage of Jeon's shoulders. "Relax. We all know the old man has a massive soft spot for you. You'll survive."

"Soft spot or not, mate, I'm a goner. This is the end of me." Jeon insists, "Tell my family I love them".

Nevertheless, Jeon continues his agonising march to the quarterdeck where the Captain stands waiting. Exhaling one last trembling breath, Jeon presents himself, snapping his posture perfectly straight. He locks his hands tightly behind his back, his fingers twitching anxiously against one another as he mindlessly spins a silver ring on his right thumb. His head remains hung low in agonising anticipation.

The silence stretches on for an eternity. The Captain is purposefully not looking at him, letting the quiet eat the younger boy alive.

Jeon cannot stop fidgeting. His teeth gnaw on his bottom lip, and his shoulders are glued so tensely they feel like they might snap. Oh gods, please, I beg you, just put me out of my misery already, he prays internally. I swear, I'll never do anything bad again. I won't even sneak extra sugar rations from the galley anymore, just let me go out peacefully.

Finally, the Captain clears his throat and shifts his heavy gaze over. Jeon practically shrinks an inch under the pressure. The Captain lets out a slow, heavy sigh, releasing a sharp click from his mouth before opening it to speak.

But before a single word can escape the older man's lips, Jeon cuts him off in a frantic ramble.

"I know, sir! Trust me, I know! I don't even know how it happened. It was just like you know, my eyes closed for a second. A second! And then the bells did the bell thing that they do, and I- well- you know. But I swear! It won't happen again. In fact, I'll stay up. Three days. No sleep. Not even a wink, in compensation. I'll never do it again. Cross my heart and hope to.. whatever the saying is."

The Captain's eyes simply light up with a quiet, suppressed amusement as he watches the poor sailor completely unravel and fumble his words.

"Jeon." He tries to interrupt.

"No. Please, sir! Don't assign me to the bilge decks for a month. I'm too good for that" His eyes widen, catching the misstep he spoke, "Well, not too good, just the right amount of good, not as good as you, of course, I mean not that you should go to the bilge. Just that-"

"Jeon-" He tries again.

"What I mean is that I'll do anything. Well.. anything else-"

"JUNGKOOK." The firm command finally cuts him off, and the poor sailor's eyes grow even wider, his mouth left slightly ajar as he freezes.

The Captain lets out a tired, weathered breath, a small chuckle shaking his shoulders as the sunlight catches his silver hair. "I'm not going to make you swab the bilges, Kook".

The wave of relief washes over Jungkook immediately, and it's so violent it makes him lightheaded. He doubles over for a second, hands bracing his knees as he lets out a breath before standing back up

"T-then wha-"

"I'm not angry, and I'm not disappointed," The Captain says, folding his arms. "Just get your head together, alright? I need you sharp. Especially considering you're the carrier."

"Oh," Jungkook blinks, completely off guard. "Right. Yes. Of course. No.. I mean, yeah. Sure." He stumbles over his own tongue, his right hand flying up to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly.

The Captain then gestures out toward the open water, instructing him to assess a massive wall of dark clouds brewing on the horizon. If the weather didn't seem too serious, Jungkook was to take over the ship's wheel.

The moment the Captain's attention is stolen by a passing quartermaster, Jeon's shoulders completely drop, a massive weight lifting off his chest. He breathes out a quiet, ecstatic "thank you" before practically skipping over to the starboard railing. He whips out his ornate brass telescope and extends it, peering through the lens.

Damn, those are some harsh clouds, he thinks, tracking the heavy, bruised shape of the storm. But I don't know, they seem pretty far away. Maybe we can outrun them.

He stands there, pondering the horizon for a moment before making his decision and confidently stepping up to take the massive wooden wheel.

But moments pass. The sky darkens at an unnatural, terrifying speed.

Just my luck, he snickers bitterly to himself.

Within an hour, absolute annoyance coats his every thought. He is forced to abandon the wheel to assist the crew, desperately hauling ropes and tossing overflowing buckets of water. The entire ship sways and pitches violently under the sheer force of a monstrous squall. It feels as though the storm itself is actively mocking him, striking the deck with every crashing wave and lashing his skin with freezing droplets of rain.

The deck is absolute chaos. "Secure the main sheet! Tie down the crates," A distant voice, Taehyung thinks it belongs to, bellows across through the howling wind over the din of screaming sailors.

Jungkook sprints across the slick, pitching deck to help, but his boot catches on a rogue, rolling wooden bucket. He trips spectacularly, sending himself sprawling face-first onto the wet wood. He groans, coughing up seawater, but pushes himself back up. I'll admit, not my finest moment.

He scrambles toward the side of the ship, realising a crucial rigging line has become dangerously tangled against the railing, threatening to snap one of the smaller masts under the wind's pressure. He fights the wet knots, his hands shaking, and some wet strands of hair keep obscuring his vision.

Suddenly, one particularly stubborn, towering wave slams directly into the hull. The ship tips at a sickening, agonising angle.

Jungkook is thrown completely off balance, his body halfway toppled over the edge. He frantically claws at the side of the ship, but the rain-soaked wood is a sheet of sheer grease, and he can't get a proper grip on it. Within seconds, his strength fails him entirely, and his fingers slip, and he succumbs to the roaring, freezing embrace of the sea.

See? I knew it was the end for me today. Just got the timing a bit messed up.

His eyes flutter closed, his consciousness slips away, and his body goes completely limp in the dark water.

"You just had to be curious, didn't you?" You huff, doubled over in pain as you force your aching limbs to keep moving. You've barely mastered the art of walking as it is, and now you're dragging a grown ass man's deadweight across the shoreline.

"Couldn't just swim away, could you? Have a few kelp-wine drinks, maybe fall into bed with someone and wake up with a few standard regrets?" You shake your head, taking a few more agonising steps. "No, no, no, you just had to play hero. You had to save this bonehead who decided a raging storm was the perfect time to hang over the ship's railing. Does this guy have a sponge for a brain? Truly, not a single thought bouncing around in this pretty little stupid head."

His body is cold, and his clothes are soaked, adding unwelcome extra weight as you drag him across the secluded beach onto the backshore. Your arms finally give out, and you collapse beside him, grasping for breath. The sin is long gone, the storm has since drifted past, and the ship is nowhere to be seen. Whether it sank or if they were lucky enough to escape, you aren't sure. Though you hope for the latter. The silence emphasises the sailor's shallow breaths, but at least he is breathing.

You eye over him once, then twice, checking for any obvious injuries. Fortunately, there don't seem to be any deep gashes or obvious bruising on his exposed skin. Satisfied, your gaze wanders back to his face. His eyebrows are no longer knotted like they were before; every muscle has gone slack, and his lips are slightly parted. A few strands of saltwater-soaked hair are plastered across his forehead, and you fight a sudden, traitorous urge to reach out and brush them aside.

No. You can't risk waking him. He can't know you're here. I shouldn't even be here.

If he woke and found you, Poseidon only knows what could happen. You've heard the stories countless times, not to mention the relentless earfuls Kyra gives you every time you venture too close to the species. But she's not here, no one is. What's the worst that could happen? I'm just making sure he's okay. I can't let him die, right? That's it. There's nothing more to this.

You tug at your belt, adjusting the skirt so it sits a bit higher, allowing you to settle comfortably onto the sand. The truth is, merfolk have no practical need for clothes; if anything, they're a hindrance. The fabrics and gems weigh you down, making it harder to manoeuvre through the currents sometimes. But gone are the days when merfolk were relentlessly hunted, and speed was the number one priority, well on par with survival, of course. Now, the sheer novelty and beauty of surface gardens have spread like wildfire across the different pods.

You tuck your knees into your chest, eyes never leaving his face. He's handsome, you'll give him that: a sharp jawline, high, defined cheekbones, and skin slightly tanned - no doubt from years at sea. A few moles dot his face, one nestles just beneath his lower lip, one on his nose, and a couple trace the side of his face. A faint, sliver of a healed scar also cuts across his left cheek.

Your gaze drops down to the rest of him: broad, structural shoulders tapering into a lean torso. Why does a human have a better waist than I? It appears the gods have favourites. Prior to this, and no doubt overwhelmed with adrenaline, you hadn't paid much attention to his physical build, but now, with his soaked shirt peeking through his slightly opened jacket, clinging tightly to his frame, his hardened, muscular build is on full display. After a while, you look away, your cheeks a faint pink from staring too long, despite him being unconscious.

A few minutes pass before his brows furrow slightly and his body begins to lightly shake, bringing your attention back to him. It's likely from the cold, and his soaked clothes are doing him no favours. Gritting your teeth, you stand up on shaky legs. The whole bipedal thing is still a bit of a work in progress. Don't judge.

Twilight has completely faded, but thank Selene, a near-full moon hangs high in the sky. Its silver hues bathe the beach, allowing you to discern the rough shapes of the debris littering the shore. You notice a dark cave opening nearby that would offer shelter from the wind, but, looking back down at his limp body, you immediately rule that out. It's a miracle of pure adrenaline that you managed to drag him this far up the beach. There is absolutely no way your aching human muscles could haul him all the way into the cave.

Instead, you stumble around the beach, returning a short while later with a collection of dry materials. You call upon your ancestors and talk to the materials as if they could hear you, forcing them not to let you down with a stern point at them. After all, you've only ever seen this done in books.

Your hands shake as you loosely bundle the dry leaves together on the sand, then arrange the small twigs and loose branches around them in a teepee before reinforcing it with larger pieces of dry driftwood. Each ovement as you mutter curses as the pieces refuse to cooperate, or when a rogue gust of wind threatens to steal your leaves. After what feels like an eternity and a gruelling battle with Mother Nature of a pile of damn dead flora, you encircle the structure with heavy rocks. Grabbing two thick pieces of wood, you breathe a silent prayer and begin to furiously rub them together to catch a spark.

One attempt. Another. A third.

Just as you're about to say screw it and kick the entire damn thing into the sand, a tiny orange spark jumps. Your eyes widen, and your hands scramble to blow gently until the pile begins to smoke and catch. Within minutes, the flames grow steadily into a crackling blaze, and you watch as the sailor's violent shivering noticeably subsides against the warmth.

You remain by his side, but your focus finally shifts away from him. Your eyes fixate on the sea ahead. The shimmering silver path of the moon river dances across the dark waves, begging for your return. You know you shouldn't stay. It's dangerous. What if he awakens? What if the other men from the ship find you here, with him?

There's a dull pounding in the back of his skull, and he can feel the cold in his bones. He tries to move, but his now-saturated uniform pins him in place. A faint ringing lingers in his ears but creeps away, replaced by the low rhythmic murmur of waves crashing. A faint crackle steals his attention, a sharp pop which simmers, followed by another pop.

He tries to move again. Legs first? Absolutely not. Arm? Nope, still useless. His neck? Getting somewhere now.

Fighting exhaustion, he lifts his head slightly, opening his eyes and blinking profusely. His vision is a hazy blur of colours all bleeding into each other. Above him, a deep navy sky dotted with faint white stars, he gathers from the specks. To his left are whispers of black swirls, and as he inhales, he deduces smoke. Further left, he notices vibrant orange hues dancing beneath the smoke, occasionally tossing glowing yellow sparks into the air - fire. And to his right is a vast collection of beige, illuminated by a vast silver dot in the sky. Okay, so a beach. Progress. At least not the bottom of the ocean. Unless I'm dead and heaven has a sense of humour.

As his vision clears slightly, he strains his neck further towards the fire, only to spot a cluster of entirely different colours. Only these ones are moving in a more disjointed way, not matching the dance of the flames or the twinkle of the stars. It has a fractured, shifting iridescence to it.

Before he can focus more clearly, he can feel it. A violent wave of nausea. The salt, the water, all of it. His body immediately curls inward on itself as he rolls to his side, violently coughing up the remnants of his time being one with the storm. His throat burns, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain.

When it's over, he feels an unexpected warmth. It was faint enough that he questioned if he was imagining things. A gentle pressure moves across his right shoulder blade, curling around his back in slow, soothing circular motions, followed by an occasional reassuring pat.

A hand, he realises.

His body immediately tenses, a spike of adrenaline tells him to shrug it off, but he's simply too spent to scare. So much for 'staying sharp', he thinks.

The mysterious hand shifts to the front of his shoulder, gently and slowly guiding him back down to the soft sand, and he can't bring his limbs to protest.

He forces his eyes open one last time, determined to see his saviour. He wills the colours to stop their mockery of blurring, and they finally resolve into more crisp, defined shapes. Sitting right beside him, slightly obstructing the light of the flames, is a... woman? She turns her head quickly, scanning the dark shoreline before her gaze snaps back down to him. This time, his vision doesn't fail him. The firelight and silver moonlight flicker over her, bathing her features, creating a glow around her. Huh, maybe I am dead. If so, at least the view's pretty.

He catches her eyes, and he sees panic before her expression softens and she offers him a small smile. Before he could process any more, the heavy pull of unconsciousness drags him under. He feels a faint silken wisp of hair brush across his cheek, and a melodic voice whispers that everything's going to be okay.

Easy for you to say, you're not dead, the thinks bitterly.

The darkness swallows his senses, but the very last thing he feels before slipping away is a soft graze over his nuckles, a lingering touch that then vanishes into the air.

It's mid-morning when he awakens next. This time, his eyes cooperate, and his limbs are compliant, bringing him to a seated position. He looks around, eyes wide.

To his left is a pile of charred wood and ash as evidence of a fire he thought he had dreamed. He quickly pinches, then furrows his brows at his arm with the faint pinch mark. So I'm not dead? Wonderful transgression.

His uniform is dry now, but stiff with salt and sand that have managed to wedge their way into every seam. He notices this and aggressively shivers for a split second.

He turns his head, peering around the beach to gather his bearings, and he notices. He is entirely alone.

As his gaze sweeps down toward the water's edge, he freezes. The pristine sand surrounding his makeshift campsite is heavily disturbed, and he notices multiple paths of footprints cutting through the shore: there are two distinct sets of tracks trailing back and forth between the sea and where he sits, as well as one single shallow set of bare footprints leading away from him to a nearby cave, then back.

Where did she go then? Maybe I did dream her? Oh, I need a drink.

He sits motionless for a while, thoughts cloudily trying to piece together what happened last night. He was on the deck, smooth sailing. They were on course to report back their findings. And then... what? Did he go below deck? No, he was told to be at the wheel, and then he went below deck. Or did he stay above?

He shakes his head with frustration, and a wince crosses his features as his skull throbs. It doesn't matter right now. He has limbs. He has his wits. He's in one piece. That's all that matters.

Oh, shit.

Panic floods his chest, and his hands dart frantically to his jacket pockets. A massive, breathless sigh of relief escapes his lips as his fingers clamp around a familiar weight. He pulls it out. A rather weighty rock, jagged, and hard. He spins it in his palm, and the sunlight catches the crimson crystals jutting from one side of its surface, whilst the opposite side shows a clean cut, though engraved with dark swirls. He clutches the stone, hanging his head in relief before collapsing backwards to lie on the sand once more.

If I wasn't before, now I definitely would've been a dead man.

He should be thinking about how to get back, how in any realm he managed to end up washed ashore on this uncharted beach. But his mind stubbornly refuses to focus on duty, and instead, it drifts helplessly to the phantom woman from the storm.

Maybe he had been hallucinating. Perhaps in sheer delirium, he had found the strength to make the fire, and there was a perfectly logical explanation for the footprints. But as he looks up at the endless blue sky, he hopes logic is wrong. He hopes that someone had truly been there with him.

The canvas sack clipped to your belt weighs you down, a satisfying weight stuffed with foreign trinkets, gems, and other miscellaneous items just begging to be haggled away in the upcoming days. No doubt the other will be jealous of your luck. You blow a few strands of hair out of your face and breathe a silent prayer of thanks to Poseidon for that shipwreck you spotted just as despair had started to set in, and you were prepared to turn back almost empty-handed. The vessel was in complete tatters but overflowing with bounty. Some items you had to pry from deployed nets, others were nestled deep within shards of splintered oak, and a few were tangled in the fabric of the sails. Some absolute fool had even left a substantial pile of gold within an open safe, his skeleton a mere few feet away. You snicker to yourself at the thought. Perhaps they were desperately trying to crack it open even as the hull split. A fool either way. What was the grand plan? Patch the leaking hole with bullion, or clutch the coins so tightly they'd follow him dearly into the afterlife?

Slowly humming an old ballad, you let your gaze drift across the sea. The waves lap gently against the stone before retreating, carrying tangled strands of seaweed whilst the sun's rays transform the surface into a sheet of gold. The rays also catch the semi-transparent material of your garment and reflect a display of fractured light. The ridges of the sculpted seashells across your chest trap the glow, painting it a soft, rosy pink. The strings of pearls holding up the corset ties at the back of your neck. The v-shape filigree along your waist also catches the light along its edges, making the bottom of the corset look as though it were spun from liquid glass. You were lucky enough to find the piece almost fully intact, and even luckier to have Lilah stitch it back together and fix any faults.

You tilt your head back, letting the breeze sweep across your face, and you close your eyes to soak in the fading warmth. It's quiet out here, a lot calmer. Moments like this are rare, drowned out by the constant bustle down under, followed by the long hours on the islands spent selling such items.

After what you deem is long enough to return without warranting a search party, you finally stir. Sliding back into the sea, the water welcomes you. Yet, the peace is unfortunately short-lived. The moment you cross the home's threshold, you immediately regret not staying out longer. For you are instantly met with that all-too-familiar screeching. Though, as she likes to put it, her endless love for you and hope that you haven't become shark food.

"I was about to send out a search party for your sorry ass." Her hands wave wildly to match the stern glare on her face. It's the same look she sported when you accidentally traded a rare black pearl for a shiny piece of glass three moons ago. And the same one from last summer, when you almost got your tail caught in a human crab trap trying to steal their bait. But you like to remind her, almost. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, staring you down. The loose, netted top she wears sways with her agitated movements, contrasting with the intricate quilted skirt wrapped around her tail. The fabric clings to her lower half in still, elegant loops and swirls. A quiet tsk leaves your lips as you meet her glare.

"Bit dramatic today aren't we, Kyra?" you bite back, "The sun hasn't even set completely." Your hands wave dismissively.

"We all agreed to meet back before sunset. Not during, not after. Before," she scolds, her voice dropping to a firm, unyielding register. It doesn't help that her sharp features accentuate the glare.

You know exactly where she's coming from; you've heard the stories, the warnings, you all have. You understand the dangers when the seas darken, and because of that, you can't bring yourself to fight back. No witty response, nothing to defend yourself with. Deflated, you offer an apologetic nod and let your head hang slightly.

And then, as if nothing had happened, the tension vanishes as quickly as it arrived. Kyra suddenly perks up, her sharp eyes softening, then widening as they lock onto the bulging sack at your waist. "Now, I know my eyes are deceiving me, because there is no way in Tartarus that you managed to haul in more shit than me today."

You don't speak. Instead, a slow, triumphant grin spreads across your face, eyes crinkling in pure glee as you watch her face contort into playful jealousy.

"Oh, what? This little thing." Your voice is an octave higher, basking in glory, "Oh, it's nothing, you know, just sheer proof that I'm just better than you."

"Well, out with it already, let's see what you got." She huffs, rolling her eyes affectionately and clears the table, which held the measly haul she managed to gather today.

As you remove each item, arranging them neatly on the table, you recount your day to Kyra, sifting through them. Among the more mundane finds is a plethora of silver spoons and forks; whilst some are plain, others are adorned with intricate floral engravings winding up the handle, or embellished with delicate gold accents framing the stems. Next comes a chunky pearl necklace - with a few minor scratches - and a collection of pipes that curve downwards, connecting to bowl-like shapes, which you've seen some humans blow smoke out of? The whole thing seems rather bizarre to you. Where does the smoke come from? Do humans carry smoke inside them? You also lay out a few salvaged books. The pages of some have bled into a disturbing series of ink blobs, whilst others remain remarkably intact, shielded by protective leather covers with delicate gold filigree shaping into elegant swirls across the casings. Some of these I might (steal) keep for myself.

Then you move on to the more interesting pieces: a small velvet box containing two egg-shaped pendants. The navy-blue one is decorated with white and gold daisies surrounding a central red heart; it hinges open to reveal a tiny chain with a matching red heart dangling at the end. The second pendant is a stark, blood-red enamel piece sporting a single gold heart in the centre, opening to another fine chain with a miniature gold key hanging from the end. Both are beautifully miniature, their combined width no longer than half your index finger. You ponder whether these are even worth parting with; they're delicate, likely made for someone precious enough to be made for. But they would also pack a lot of pennies for you.

Beside the jewellery is a stack of heavy gowns you salvaged from a few trunks. They are dotted with lace, some made of fine silk, others of heavier, ribbed brocade, and patterned damask. Some hold wide, square necklines lined with more lace, some have longer sleeves ending in ruffles, some are more structured with strong bodices, and others are more flowy.

Kyra hangs onto every word, admiring each item as it hits the table. Her awe only deepens as you go on to theorise where these items came from, the stories they might hold. But after smoothing down the last of the gowns, it's finally time for the piece you're most eager to show off.

Your eyes scan the table, only for your brows to furrow. You can't find it. It's not here. You look up and down, left to right. By the gods, did this thing just grow legs? I'm certain I took it. You reach back into the empty sack, frantically feeling around the dark corners, but your confusion only grows. You look up at Kyra, but you aren't actually seeing her; your gaze goes completely unfocused as your mind thinks back to the coast.

The sea stack. It must have rolled out when you leaned back. But despite Kyra's immediate pleas for you to just wait till morning, you have to get it. It's different from everything else.

You slip out and make for the sea stack while twilight still hangs in the air. Upon reaching the jagged base of the stack, you summon the strength to will your fins into legs. The transformation becomes easier each time you attempt it, but it still remains a gruelling, exhausting toll on your body for a while until it's complete. Your scales smooth out, losing their iridescent glimmer as your tail splits into two distinct limbs. Your feet take shape against the wet stone, and your knees harden. The skirt tied beneath your belt sways in the coastal breeze; its first layer is a blend of fine fabric Kyra salvaged during an excursion, whilst the second is a net-like mesh with woven shells and pearls. Walking across the rocks will be far more efficient than flopping about like a fish out of water.

Your eyes scan up and down the stone, your knees nearly buckle on your very first step, but you bite your lip and press on. Minutes tick away with no luck. Just as despair begins to settle in, a sudden flicker of deep crimson catches the corner of your eye. Thank the gods, thank Poseidon.

You find it wedged tight in a fault line of the rock. Carefully, you pry it loose, cradling it in your palms. Now, stay with me, it looks like a regular rock at first glance, but you swear you felt it earlier. You look down at it now, practically begging it to repeat what it did before. It's an unseemly thing, completely unassuming. One side is jagged, with sharp red crystals jutting out from the centre of granite, embedded with smaller black flecks. Fine, hairline cracks give way to flashes of deep blue crystals buried further within the stone. The opposite side, however, shows a perfectly clean cut, straight down the middle. It's as if someone had taken a saw straight through it. But it's the pattern on the smooth face that draws you in: intricate, spiralling swirls, far too perfect to be natural.

But the craziest part, the detail you thought you'd entirely imagined in your head, was that the swirls had pulsed. Their dark grey outlines had illuminated, throbbed with light, and then died down. It was quick, instant, you almost didn't catch it. And now, you're standing on a rock in human form, muttering under your breath for a stone to prove you right, to prove you haven't absolutely lost your shells. But the stubborn thing remains dead. Snickering at your own absurdity, I really need to go out more. You slip it into a smaller pouch tied to your belt, ensuring it's securely fastened.

You turn to dive back into the sea, but another movement catches your eye. You see it a second before the faint, distant ringing of ship bells reaches your ears.

A ship. And a rather grand one at that, not the typical, weathered fishing boats that dot these coastal waters. The vessel edges out from the evening mist, its presence overwhelming even from this distance. The hull is a mountain of dark, gleaming wood, meticulously well-kept, though the underside shows signs of long voyages with moss and barnacles clinging to it. The sides of the ship are decorated with rows of iron cannons. Three masts pierce the sky, holding a complex web of rigging that threads intricately through blocks and heavy sails. Even from the sea stack, you can see the visible strain in the ropes, hear the groan of the timbers, catch the distant shouts of sailors, and inhale a faint, sharp whiff of gunpowder. Its ornate stern catches your eye most of all, boasting elaborate gold-leaf carvings and protective metal plating covering the transom.

You know you should head back. Kyra will skin you alive. But curiosity wins this round; you simply can't help yourself. The only times you ever see a ship this magnificent are when you're digging through its fractured skeletons on the seafloor.

You leap from the ledge, your legs fusing seamlessly back into a fin halfway through the fall, and hit the water with a clean slice. As you swim toward the vessel, you feel a distinct shift in the current. Cutting through the water requires more force now; there's heavy aeration, and the temperature is rapidly dropping. A storm is coming.

Closing the distance while keeping a cautious radius so as not to be seen, you recall the countless cautionary tales about the perils that meet fellow merfolk who get too close to humans. You surface just enough to peer out, keeping only your eyes and occasionally your lips bobbing above the waves. Floating parallel to the massive hull, you look up.

The chaotic bustle on the deck is obvious, filled with frantic yelling and distant chatter as the crew prepares for the weather. But then, someone catches your eye. He stands entirely apart from the chaos, lost in his own world of deep concentration as he gazes out at the horizon. He watches the line where the sea meets the sky, where the clouds are bruising into a dark, violent purple, daring the ship to venture closer. He is handsome. Incredibly pretty. Too pretty. Leave some for the rest of us. One hand holds an ornate brass telescope halfway up, while the other firmly braces against the ship's railing. The rising wind sweeps his hair back, exposing his forehead lined with heavy thought. Yet, despite his intense focus, there is an undeniable youthfulness to him. The harsh sea hasn't hardened his features the way it usually breaks other sailors. His skin shows no signs of rough weathering, and his uniform fits his frame perfectly: a low-cut white shirt exposing a small silver chain around his neck, layered beneath a navy jacket punctuated by gleaming silver buttons. The cuffs of his jacket are rolled up to his elbows, exposing flexed forearms woven with prominent veins. His right arm is decorated with elaborate skin art. Tattoos? You think the humans call them. From the water, you can only make out the vibrant blues and blacks of the ink, not the exact shapes. It's mesmerising. You rarely see this on a man so young, but it adds to the way he holds himself.

Thunder cracks through the air, violently snapping you out of your fixation. Lightning fractures the sky, instantly swallowing the last soft hues of sunset and replacing them with the black storm clouds. The shift is instantaneous. The sky opens up, unleashing a torrential downpour that lashes the surface of the sea. This also seems to break the handsome sailor from his own trance as well. Distant, panicked shouting from the deck catches his attention, and he bolts toward the other men, instantly throwing himself into the chaos of securing the thrashing ship.

You need to leave. Now. The water is getting more violent, and the last thing you need is Kyra sending out a search party because you got caught in a squall. But as you turn to dive into the safer, deeper currents, a sharp, loud yelp pierces through the wind. You whip your head back. The vessel is swaying vigorously, pitching at an agonising angle as waves slam into the hull, spraying walls of water over one side and tossing it out the other. And then, you see it. A figure is thrown over the railing, tumbling helplessly into the sea below. It's him. Idiot.

Your mind stops; your body twitches in agonising hesitation. You know the law. Every, every mermaid, every creature down under knows the rule: no human contact. No exceptions. It's straight suicide to make contact. But as you watch the sea swallow him up, panic wins. You can't just let him die. Right? But.. you don't owe him anything, his kind would kill you or put you in a tank and dissect you if they had the chance. But your instincts defy your logic. You have to. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you dive. Cutting through the surface, you spot his body sinking fast into the dark abyss; his eyes are shut, and his limbs are limp. His dark hair floats around his face, and his heavy navy jacket flails wildly against the current, dragging him down like an anchor.

As you reach him, you slide your arms securely beneath his shoulders and pull him upward, fighting the weight of his waterlogged clothes. The two of you break the surface, gasping for air amidst the blinding rain. You lean forward, desperately checking his face, but his head rolls uselessly to the side, and his eyelids remain stubbornly closed. Blinking rapidly against the downpour, you try to orient yourself through the sheet of grey mist. You begin swimming frantically in the direction you pray the nearest coast lies.

Thank Poseidon. Through the haze of the storm, the silhouette of land finally cuts through the gloom, revealing a small, secluded sandy cove carved into the jagged cliffs. You drag his heavy body towards it, as the reality of the situation finally hits you. You are nearing a beach, exposed. A mermaid cradling a half-drowned, pretty human.