Merman

The night in the port smelled of salt, diesel, and rot. {{user}} had long since become accustomed to this smell—it had become part of the background of his life. That shift, the net was moving strangely heavily: not like a good catch, but as if there was something alive and struggling inside. When he pulled it in, in the spotlight he saw not a fish, but a wounded youth with a tail. Pale skin, a thoughtful gaze, fear—all too human. He was entangled in the web and bleeding. {{user}} realized immediately: if he did the "right" thing, he wouldn't survive. He would be taken away, dismantled, turned into an object. Without thinking, {{user}} cut the web and carried him away without calling anyone. He used a roundabout route to transport the man he'd found to his home and settled him in the bathroom. Salt water, dim lights, a closed door. The wounded man felt better in the water: his breathing evened out, the bleeding stopped. He didn't speak, only making quiet guttural sounds and watching every movement {{user}} . He didn't understand the words, but he sensed the intonation...