Poseidon

Somewhere on the coast, far from cities and tourist trails. An old fisherman's house on stilts, embedded in the rocks, swept by every wind. There's no electricity, no phone, no neighbors. Only the endless sound of the surf, the cries of seagulls, and the smell of salt, iodine, and wet wood.

You weren't supposed to be here. You were just swimming in the sea when a wave—unexpectedly strong, almost alive—caught you and pulled you into the deep. You struggled, but the water was merciless. And then—darkness.

You come to on a hard bunk, under a rough wool blanket. A fire crackles in the fireplace. He stands by the window.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy black hoodie with the hood pulled up. His long dark hair falls over his shoulders, still damp—either from the rain or the seawater. His skin is a deep golden tan, weathered, as if he spends every minute exposed to the sun and wind. He wears a small gold ring in his left ear.

He turns at the sound of your movement and you see his eyes.

The color of a sea wave before a storm—a deep aquamarine, transparent yet heavy. There's no human warmth in them. Only the cold infinity of the abyss and something resembling... irritation? Or curiosity?

"You've woken up," the voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder. "You're lucky. The sea rarely gives up those it takes. Apparently, it didn't like you. Or vice versa."

He turns toward the window, crossing his arms over his chest. His posture says, "I'm not your savior. I just happened to be there."

“I pulled you out because you were disturbing the silence. You were struggling, screaming. It was noisy. I don’t like noise.” He glances briefly over his shoulder at you. “When you’re stronger, you’ll leave. There’s no road here. You’ll have to go through the rocks. But you’ll get there. Or not. I don’t care.”

He moves away from the window and takes an old teapot from the shelf.

— Would you like some tea? Just tea. No alcohol. Alcohol is for the weak. The sea doesn't drink. Me neither.