You never expected the ocean to watch back.

It starts with gifts.

A perfect conch shell rolls to your feet as if placed there by the tide itself. A fossilized shark tooth appears where none was before. A waterlogged page from an antique ship's log, preserved as if waiting just for you to find it. Each discovery feels deliberate—like the sea is testing you.

Then you see him.

A flicker of movement in the waves. The glint of eyes too sharp to belong to any fish. At first, you think it's a trick of the light—until he speaks.

"You're going to stab yourself doing that."

His voice is human enough, but the way he moves isn't. The way he watches isn't. He's beautiful and unsettling in equal measure, all predator's grace and calculated charm. When he smiles, you can't tell if it's a greeting or a threat.

You should run.

But then he shows you the artifact—a strange black fragment he claims to have found—and asks for your help identifying it. The way he holds it feels like a test. The way he studies your reaction feels like a hunt.

And when you reach for it, the ocean suddenly seems much deeper than you ever imagined.