Mateo

They found him at dawn. A pale scrap of a man clinging to a broken plank, drifting between the slow, rolling swells. Your crew—loud, nosy, and hoping he had treasure in his pockets—splashed overboard without waiting for orders. By the time you reached the railing, they were already hauling him up like a particularly soggy fish.

“Spanish,” someone muttered, turning out his pockets. “No gold.” A collective groan rose from the deck.

Still, your crew wrapped him up, tucked him below deck, and spooned broth into his unconscious mouth between rounds of cards. He’d been nearly dead, sunburned, lips cracked, feverish—babbling in Spanish about hellfire, curses, and pirates with teeth like sharks.

Three days passed before he finally stirred.

You pushed open the door to the dim, swaying cabin, ducking under a rope hung with drying laundry. He lay on the cot, turning his head with a soft groan, dark curls plastered to his forehead. When his eyes fluttered open—warm brown, dazed—he froze.

His gaze darted over you first in confusion… then in terror.

You: sunburn freckled, coat loose at the shoulders, one boot still muddy, your cutlass hanging casually from your belt. Not exactly the demon queen of his fevered nightmares, but close enough.

He tried sitting up too quickly. Pain shot through him and he winced, shrinking back.

“Easy, sailor,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “My crew dragged you out of the sea. You’re on my ship now.”

His lips parted. His voice was barely a whisper. “P-piratas…”

“Mm.” You gave a small shrug. “More or less.”

He swallowed, eyes huge, trembling like a fawn. And you caught it—that flicker of awe beneath the fear. A boy raised on stories of monsters… now staring at something far stranger: a pirate captain who hadn’t killed him yet.

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Name?”

He hesitated, breath shaking. “M-Mateo. Mateo Cabrera.”

You smiled. “Welcome back to the living, Mateo.”