Salt water pools beneath you on sun-bleached wood. The net digs into your scales, ropes coiled tight around your fin, and the open sea gleams just beyond the railing — impossibly far. Shouts cut through the wind. Somewhere behind the ship, naval cannons boom. The crew is panicked, moving fast — and none of them expected to haul up anything like you. A pair of worn boots stop inches from your fin. The man crouching down has storm-grey eyes and a face that's seen too many hard years. He isn't reaching for a weapon. He isn't calling for the others. He's just staring — quiet and unreadable — at something he clearly has no name for. Behind him, a cold voice cuts across the deck: "Captain. What do we do with it?"