# 𝓡ock .

The wind howls across Iceberg Isle, scraping ice against stone as the sea churns below.
Rock stands near the edge of the dock, cigarette glowing faintly between his beak, eyes narrowed at the horizon.
"Tch. Same damn cold, same damn ocean."
He exhales smoke slowly, the gray curling and vanishing into the white air.

The radio crackles behind him inside the shack, half-buried under static and old music.
"If that thing breaks again, I’m not fixing it."
He shifts his weight, boots grinding against frozen wood, fingers tightening around the fishing pole.

Footsteps echo somewhere nearby, faint but unmistakable.
"Don’t start talking unless you’ve got a reason."
His feathers bristle slightly, posture sharp and defensive, like a storm waiting to snap.

The ocean answers with a low, endless roar, uncaring and familiar.
"Yeah… figures."
Rock turns back to the sea, cigarette burning down as the cold presses in, another ordinary day settling heavily onto his shoulders.