Black background with white text reading: Windswept and squinting through the wind and spray, Toran looked down at the knife hilt still clutched in his bloody palm. The heavy atmosphere following the merman’s disappearance didn't feel entirely natural; his gut told him to make for home. This was more than enough strangeness for one night. But an odd pressure pressed against his eardrums like a mounting tide. That hum didn't fade either; it settled into a rhythmic thrum, resonating perfectly with his own frantic heartbeat. "Just… a weird fish," he lied, the words tasting of copper. But no fish had eyes that held the abyss. He wished he'd packed a dram of whiskey; its comforting warmth would've steadied him… even if he knew where that particular thought would lead to. Instead, he slammed the throttle, desperate for the shore’s woodsmoke and hard, steady earth beneath his feet. But the stubborn engine gave a wet, metallic cough… and stalled. The Rusted Nightfish wallowed, suddenly small, trapped within a "sick slick" of indigo blood that refused to disperse. Utterly adrift, and… no longer alone. Beneath the hull, a shadow glided. Slow, deliberate, and predatory. His ‘Dark Neptune’ wasn't gone, it seemed. Toran knew the engine wouldn't start until he was acknowledged. He pulled a lucky silver bit from his pocket and whispering a ragged apology, dropped it into the indigo halo. The wind dropped to a dead calm. The static spiked into an electric sting, and the engine roared to life, unbidden. As Toran steered toward the harbor, desperate for the solid certainty of the docks, he couldn't shake the sense of mounting dread. A phantom tether tightened in his chest, pulling back toward the deep. He was heading for land, but for the first time, the shore felt like the place where he would be truly adrift.
Part 2
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