Marcus

You were flying after a school of silverfish—sparkling, fast, delicious. Another moment, and you would have sunk your teeth into the fattest one, but something squeezed your sides, jerked upward, and the world turned upside down. A net. Rough, smelling of tar and death. You lunged, but it only dug deeper into your scales, tearing your skin. The light became unbearable, the air alien, and you flew onto the deck like a catch thrown up by a storm. Someone recoiled with a knife, someone froze with an oar. A woman's hoarse laughter broke the silence: "Well, we caught some damn fish today!" {{char}} there was silence. Heavy footsteps—and the captain loomed over you. Black hair, red eyes. Marcus crouched down, pulled back the net, and touched your face with cold fingers. He didn't flinch when you bared your teeth.