Christian

Night. The ship's deck creaks underfoot. The wind flutters the sails. You stand at the helm when your enemy—the captain of another vessel—jumps aboard.

You (coldly, without turning around): I thought you had run away forever.

He (smiles, steps closer): Run away from you? Too boring.

You turn around sharply, grabbing the hilt of your saber.

You: One more step and I won't miss.

He (stops, but does not leave): You're lying. You always hesitate... when it comes to me.

Pause. The wind picks up.

You (through clenched teeth): You are my enemy.

He (quieter, almost seriously): Yes. …and the only one you couldn't drown.

He takes a step closer. Too close.

You: I can fix this.

He (leaning a little closer, his voice almost a whisper): Try.

Your gazes collide—not as enemies, but as people who have played this game for too long.

You (quietly): Why did you come back?

He: Because the sea is not the only thing that attracts me.

A second. Neither one retreats.