Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

𝓕ish, when they die, keep their eyes wide open. The sudden stop of movement locks their gaze, unblinking, staring into nothing. There’s no peace in it—just emptiness. Their eyes never close, never find rest. They are trapped in that final, rigid stare, their bodies twitching briefly before the life drains completely from them.

Jeongguk thinks about his last catch, a bitter disappointment weighing on him. The fish were smaller, barely half the size of those he had pulled in a few weeks ago.
The catch wouldn’t even feed him for two days. These fish were barely enough for a meal, let alone worth selling or trading. He didn’t dare bring them to the village.

Business hadn’t been going great lately. Of course, there were always times when the catch was light, and others when the sea seemed generous. But these past weeks—maybe even months—had been nothing but bad. 

"20 bucks," a sudden voice broke Jeongguk’s thoughts.

"Wasn't it 15?"

Yoongi shrugged, his eyes glancing at the product. "They sell bad," he muttered, sliding the new fishing net over to Jeongguk. "And you’re gonna need this if you want to make anything decent. Grandma made it."

In their small village, a few fishermen managed to do decently, trading with others and pulling in enough to get by. Most of them sewed their own nets, built their own equipment. They were skilled, resourceful, and knew the sea like the back of their hand.

Perhaps Jeongguk was a bad fisherman because he possessed only half of the skills.
That’s why he often came to the shop.

He had the basics but not the heart of it, and the more he fumbled with his gear, the more it seemed like the sea was just waiting for him to admit it.

"How’s it going?" Yoongi nodded at him, leaning casually against the counter.

Yoongi was the owner of a small shop in the village, selling just about everything—fishing gear, food, tools, even the odd trinket. He’d been running the shop for years, and over time, he’d built up a quiet reputation for being the go-to person when you needed anything.

He’d been running the business for a while now, and over the years, he and Jeongguk had become quite acquainted. Jeongguk, being one of his main customers, had found himself in here more times than he could count, whether it was for new nets, bait, or supplies to fix up his boat. Yoongi had always been easygoing, his dry sense of humor and quiet demeanor a perfect match for Jeongguk's introvert personality.

"Bad," was all Jeongguk said, his mood souring as he thought back to his last catches. 

“Aye, so not much better than the others,” Yoongi hummed, his gaze shifting to Jeongguk’s tired expression. 
"Other fishermen have been coming around asking for newer gear," Yoongi said, his tone casual, "Faces I’ve never seen. Seems like things have been going downhill in the sea."

Jeongguk frowned. He only knew a handful of other fishermen, most of whom stuck to the southern shoreline of the village. They had their own routines, their own spots, and rarely ventured beyond them. Either their usual waters had dried up, or the sea was pushing them out, just like it seemed to be doing to him.
"Did they say anything?" Jeongguk asked, glancing up at Yoongi.
The shopkeeper shrugged, reaching for a crate behind the counter. "Not much. Just complaints. Smaller catches, rougher tides. Same as you." 

Jeongguk sighed, running a hand through his hair before reaching for his coin pouch. More expenses, more problems, and still no guarantee that tomorrow’s catch would be any better.

                                                   _________________

"How about trying a new fishing spot?" 
Taehyung suggested, his voice casual as he stitched Jeongguk’s shoe back to its sole.

Jeongguk glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"Don’t fishermen always stick to the southerlies? What if you went the other way?" Taehyung grinned up at him, maneuvering the needle with ease.
Kim Taehyung—a shoemaker by trade, not a fisherman—had a habit of offering advice on things he knew little about. 

Taehyung’s aunt owned a small clothing sewer shop, one of the few places in the village where you could get clothes repaired or altered for a fraction of the price compared to other shops. Taehyung had been helping out there for as long as Jeongguk could remember, his hands deftly stitching and mending under his aunt’s watchful eye. It wasn’t much, but the shop was a staple in the village. For Jeongguk, it was one of his main stops when his clothes needed fixing.

"Oh, don’t listen to this stupid boy!" a woman’s voice called out from behind a few stacked boxes. "The northern lines are dangerous."
Taehyung’s aunt came into view, setting down another box with a huff. Her sharp eyes flicked to Jeongguk, then to her nephew, who only grinned in response.

"People avoid those waters for a reason," she continued, dusting off her hands. "You’d be wise to do the same."

"Ah, c’mon," Taehyung drawled, his accent thick as he waved a dismissive hand. "Those stupid fairy tales. The man needs to make a living—he can’t go getting scared over a few old village stories!"
His aunt shot him a sharp look, unimpressed. "Fairy tales, huh?" She crossed her arms. "Tell that to the ones who never came back."

Jeongguk stayed quiet, glancing between them. He wasn’t one to believe in old stories, but the way the villagers avoided the northern waters had always unsettled him. 

Taehyung scoffed, shaking his head. "What are you talking about?"
His aunt exhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron. "The northern waters. People have always avoided them, and not just because of the tides. They say Fishermen who’ve gone too far don’t always come back. Those who do—" she paused, her gaze flicking to Jeongguk, "—aren’t the same."

"Kang Sunjin," Taehyung’s aunt said, her voice firm. "One of the fishermen who dared to fish near those waters. He came back completely traumatized." She set her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing slightly. "Didn’t speak a word for the rest of his life. Whatever happened out there took his voice with it."

Taehyung rolled his eyes. "Well, I don’t know a man named Kang Sunjin."
A sharp smack landed on the back of his head. "Of course you don’t," his aunt huffed. "He’s dead, after all."

"Now finish your work, you lazy fool!"

"Who are you calling lazy? I’m basically done already!" Taehyung shot back, holding up Jeongguk’s newly mended shoe as proof. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, despite the glare his aunt sent his way.

Jeongguk took the shoe, turning it in his hands."Thanks," he muttered, slipping it back on.

                                                 _________________

A light fog clung to the village, muting what little color it had. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of salt and fish, and the streets felt quieter than usual.  

The last few days hadn’t been any better for fishing. Jeongguk had considered talking to the other fishermen about it, seeing if they were struggling just as much, but his introverted nature quickly dismissed the idea. He wasn’t one for small talk, let alone admitting his failures out loud.  

He knew he needed to change something if he wanted to keep making a living, but the thought of it only added to his frustration. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just pick up and switch professions whenever he liked. The village didn’t offer much else, and he had no other skills to fall back on. The sea was all he knew. All his family had ever known. And if he couldn’t make it as a fisherman, what else was there for him?

He had thought about what Taehyung had said a few days ago—maybe it was time to switch up his usual spot. The southern lines were always considered the hotspot for fishing, the place where the best catches were made.

A wave of unease settled over him. Maybe it was because Jeongguk wasn’t a big fan of change, especially when it came to something as unpredictable as the sea. But there was more to it—those strange rumors about the northern waters. 

It was the first time Jeongguk had heard of the stories about Kang Sunjin. Curious, he had asked one of his few friends, Namjoon, who was known for his knowledge. 
Namjoon had seemed just as confused when Jeongguk brought it up the other day.
"Never heard of him," the tall man had said, scratching his head. "If it's true, it's nothing anyone talks about. But then again, a lot of people don’t speak of the northern waters much at all."

The villagers don’t speak of the northern waters.

Now that Jeongguk thought about it, even his father had never mentioned anything about the northern side. The man had always stuck to the tried-and-true routes—the southern shores, the deep water near the reefs. When Jeongguk had taken over, he was taught the same way. The hotspots were where the fish were, where the money came in. The northern waters had always been a distant, unspoken area, a place that wasn’t worth considering.

A fisherman can't afford to fear the sea
Is what he thought as he set his boat toward the northern lines.
The wind tugged at his clothes, the air sharp and colder than he expected as he steered the boat further into uncharted waters.

The closer he got, the quieter it became. The usual sound of waves crashing against the hull of his boat, the gentle slap of the water, all faded into an unsettling stillness. It was as if the sea itself had decided to hold its breath. The air grew thicker, heavier, the silence oppressive in its weight.
Jeongguk’s unease deepened, a knot tightening in his stomach. The sea, the sky, the fog—it all felt like it was closing in on him.

The water around him was dark, almost black, as if it absorbed the light itself. The mist thickened, creeping along the surface, shrouding the horizon. Jeongguk's heart pounded in his chest as the boat glided deeper into the northern waters, the silence pressing in like a heavy hand on his shoulders. He could almost hear his own breath, each inhale sharp and quick as though the air itself was thinner here.

The moment he reached his destination, Jeongguk wasted no time. He forced himself to push aside the unease, focusing instead on the task at hand. With steady hands, he prepared the nets he had recently bought, unraveling them carefully before lowering them into the dark water.  

The nets disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths in a slow, eerie descent. He watched them sink, following them with his eyes until they vanished completely, lost to the blackness below. A shiver crawled up his spine, but he ignored it.  

Turning away, he reached for his fishing rod, fingers tightening around the worn handle. The sooner he got his work done, the sooner he could leave.

As he sat in silence, he hoped.
He hoped the nets would fill, that the northern waters would offer him something—anything. That he wouldn’t return to shore empty-handed yet again.
The boat rocked gently beneath him, the only movement in the still and quiet. The usual sounds of the sea—the distant cries of gulls —were absent here. It was just him, the water, and the heavy weight of anticipation settling in his chest.

At some point, he spaced out.

Jeongguk had a talent for it—drifting off into his own head while waiting for a catch. It made the long hours pass faster, blurring the lines between patience and mindless emptiness. The rhythmic rocking of the boat lulled him into that familiar haze.

But then—his fishing rod jerked.

The sudden movement yanked him out of his thoughts, his body tensing on instinct. His hands tightened around the handle as he felt it twitch again, the pull strong enough to send a thrill of anticipation through him.

But as he braced himself to reel it in, something about the weight felt... off.

It was heavy—heavier than anything he had reeled in for a long time.
His muscles tensed, instinct taking over as he pulled, the motion burned into him from years of fishing. The weight on the line was staggering, dragging against him like something unwilling to surface. His grip tightened, arms straining as he fought against whatever was beneath the water.
The boat creaked under the force, the stillness of the sea now feeling suffocating. Every inch he gained felt like a battle, the resistance unnatural. His breath came in short, sharp exhales, sweat beading at his temple despite the cold air. 

And then, with one final heave, he pulled it up to the surface—his breath catching in his throat.

His eyes widened.

The line was taut, the weight still there, but there was nothing hooked at the end. No fish, no seaweed, not even a trace of a struggle. Just the empty, dripping line swaying above the water.
Jeongguk’s pulse pounded in his ears. That wasn’t possible. He had felt it—something heavy, something real. His hands still ached from the pull.

Jeongguk let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself. Maybe the fish had thrashed free at the last second, slipping back into the depths before he could see it. 

It happened sometimes.

With a sigh, he reset his line, shaking off the strange feeling creeping up his spine. It was just a missed catch. Nothing more.

Jeongguk sat back down, a strange feeling settling in his chest.
Disappointment, mostly. He needed this catch and losing it right at the surface left a bitter taste in his mouth. 
He looked around, trying to gauge how much time had passed.
A few hours? More? It was hard to tell. The fog hadn't lifted at all. There wasn’t much difference between now and when he had first arrived—just the sinking realization that the day probably had slipped away without him even noticing.

Jeongguk sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. He should head back soon.
This trip had already been a waste—nothing but lost time, aching muscles, and that lingering unease he couldn't quite shake. He moved to retrieve his nets, his hands working automatically as he prepared to pull them back up.

And then—he froze.

Something drifted through the air, weaving between the fog and the silence. Faint, almost too soft to catch. A melody.

It didn’t belong to the wind, nor to the waves.

He must be delusional.
The silence had been pressing down on him for so long that his mind was probably playing tricks on him, filling the emptiness with something that wasn’t there.

Jeongguk’s hands worked on autopilot, pulling the nets up despite the growing discomfort gnawing at him. The melody swirled in the air, persistent as he hauled the rope in.
But something felt off. The nets were heavier than they should have been, weighing down with a strange force that he couldn’t explain. He frowned, confused. It wasn’t possible—empty nets should feel light, almost weightless.
And then, as the net crested the surface of the water, he saw it.

Fish.

A lot of fish. Larger than any he had caught in months, maybe even years. Their bodies glistened, scales reflecting the faint light that cut through the fog.

Jeongguk's heart hammered in his chest. He couldn't believe it. This was the catch he had been waiting for. And yet, as he stared at the writhing fish, the weight of them felt wrong.

It wasn’t just the size. There was something unnatural about them, something that made his skin crawl. The melody in the distance grew louder, almost as if the sea itself were singing for him, coaxing him to take what he didn’t deserve.

                                                  _________________

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."
He glares at Yoongi, unamused.

Jeongguk had lost sleep that night.

And every night since he had fished at the northern line. 

The fish he had caught were the best he’d seen in months, no doubt about it. They tasted good, fresh, and when he sold them, people praised him for getting such a great catch, especially after so many had returned empty-handed.

Jeongguk felt uneasy with the praise.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could hear that melody—faint and distant, like a whisper just out of reach. He couldn't shake the feeling that the waters were calling to him, pulling him in deeper, dragging him toward something he wasn’t meant to understand.

And Jeongguk found himself humming more often than he cared to admit.

It started off as a casual thought, a fleeting attempt to recall the melody he had heard on the water. But the more he tried to recreate it, the more it lingered in his mind. He couldn’t help it. The soft, eerie tune seemed to have planted itself deep in his chest, an echo that rattled through his bones. 

"Heard your last catch was a good haul."
Jeongguk barely spares Yoongi a glance as he checks the product in his hands, fingers running over it. "Guess so," he mutters.

Yoongi clicks his tongue, unimpressed. "No need to sound so thrilled about it." He watches Jeongguk for a moment before leaning in slightly. "Word’s been going around. Some of the other fishermen aren’t too happy. Said it doesn’t make sense how you’re pulling in fish when the rest of them are coming back with empty nets."

Suddenly, Jeongguk feels uncomfortable under Yoongi’s gaze. He shifts his weight.
"Tried a different fishing spot last time."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. "Okay?" clearly expecting more.

Jeongguk doesn’t offer it.

Yoongi exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You always this cryptic, or is today special?"

He shrugs. "Nothing more to say. Just fished somewhere else, got lucky."

The shopkeeper doesn’t look convinced. "Uh-huh. And this ‘somewhere else’ wouldn’t happen to be north, would it?"

"You know," Yoongi says, voice casual, "most people around here don’t go north for a reason." Jeongguk finally meets his gaze. "And you believe in those reasons?"
The man behind the counter studies him for a moment, then scoffs. "Doesn’t matter what I believe. Just seems funny, is all. Fish suddenly biting where they shouldn’t be?"

Jeongguk hums, not wanting to engage in the conversation more than necessary.

"Are you trying to fish a shark with these?"
"Huh?"
Yoongi nods at the product in Jeongguk’s hand. It’s not the usual bait he goes for. These ones are bigger, heavier.

Jeongguk glances down at them, then shrugs. "Just ring it up."

As he pays, he can feel Yoongi’s gaze on him. Jeongguk doesn’t acknowledge it. He takes his things, gives a curt nod, and steps out into the thick, salty air.

And get some sleep!" Yoongi calls after him. "Can’t have you walking around my store half-dead—you’re scaring away my other customers!"

"There are no others."  Jeongguk retorts over his shoulder.

He hears Yoongi scoff just as the door swings shut behind him, cutting off whatever comeback was on the tip of his tongue.
Jeongguk adjusts the strap of his bag and starts walking, the weight of his new bait heavier than it should be.

Bigger bait. Bigger catch.

or something like that.

                                                 _________________

The fact that Jeongguk would go back to the northern line was nonnegotiable. He knew it the moment he left with the fish he caught that day.

Although Jeongguk dragged it out for as long as he could, the truth was unavoidable. He sold most of the fish to the village, making a decent bit of money off of them. He froze quite a few for himself as a food source too, trying to stretch it as long as he could. The idea of running out, of needing to return to the sea too soon, gnawed at him.

So he ate sparingly until he couldn’t anymore.

The morning he set out in his boat, steering it toward the northern line, the fog fortunately wasn’t there. There was that uneasy feeling again, creeping up his spine like a cold whisper. Perhaps it hadn’t left at all—maybe Jeongguk had just gotten used to it. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. His routine felt mechanical, the motions automatic. He baited the nets, watching them sink into the depths with a hollow sound.

This place was weirdly quiet. No birds, no chatter of distant boats, just the slow creak of his own. thick. He set his anchor and sat back.

He waited, his breath steady, eyes fixed on the calm, endless water. And then, it came again. Or was it in his head?
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a shiver crawling down his spine. Goosebumps prickled across his skin, his pulse quickening with the rhythm of the song.

Jeongguk tightened his grip on the rod, knuckles white, he couldn’t just leave yet.
So he decided to ignore it. He pressed his lips into a fine line, willing his body to stay still. 

What even is it? This melody..
Jeongguk squeezed his eyes shut. 

The water beneath him started to change. The once calm surface began to shift, waves rising unnaturally, unsettling the boat with each jolt. Jeongguk barely registered it at first, too lost in his thoughts.

It wasn’t until the tupperware with his bait was knocked overboard, the plastic skidding across the edge, that he snapped back to reality.

He startled, his heart leaping in his chest as the container disappeared into the water. Without thinking, he stood, a sudden, instinctive movement to recover the bait, but it was a terrible idea. His balance faltered, the rocking of the boat throwing him off, and for a second, he swayed dangerously, his feet scrambling to find purchase on the narrow floor.
The boat creaked under his shift in weight, groaning as the waves hit harder. Jeongguk gripped the side, trying to steady himself, but his eyes locked onto the water below. 

The bait was floating there.

He bent, looking over the edge, trying to stretch his arm towards it. His fingers brushed against the cool surface, but the boat tilted again, sending a fresh surge of panic through him.

Jeongguk’s mind couldn’t catch up to the chaos unfolding around him. Everything happened too fast—the sudden crash of another wave against the boat, throwing him off balance. His feet slipped, and he stumbled, arms flailing as he leaned dangerously over the edge. 

His eyes barely had time to register the shift in the water before a hand shot up from the depths, faster than he could react. His breath caught in his throat, but there was no time for a scream. Something cold gripped him, and he was ripped forward, pulled harshly off the boat and into the icy abyss below.

                                                _________________

Icy water rushed into his ears, muffling everything but the frantic thud of his own heartbeat. Panic surged through him like fire in his veins. He twisted violently, muscles burning as he kicked against the pull dragging him deeper. 
His arms thrashed, fingers clawing at the water, desperate to find something—anything—to hold onto.
The grip on his shoulder was unyielding.
He twisted hard, trying to wrench himself free, his nails digging into flesh—cold and smooth, not human. His legs pumped furiously, but it was like fighting against a riptide, his efforts dragging him nowhere.
Bubbles escaped his lips in a strangled grunt as he swung his other arm wildly, aiming for whatever held him. His fist connected with something solid. 
The force yanked him down harder, like punishment for trying.

When Jeongguk saw it, his thrashing stilled, his chest burning for air and panic coursing through his veins. The figure before him was like nothing he had ever seen—a being both mesmerizing and terrifying.

The fisherman’s lungs were burning for air as he struggled against its hold. Its upper body was eerily humanoid, with silvery-white, gray skin that seemed to shimmer like shadows kissed by moonlight. The creature's lower half, however, left no doubt about its otherworldly nature—a long, powerful tail covered in sleek black scales that reflected the faint light of the depths.

Jeongguk's chest burned. He needed air. Now.

Then, just as suddenly as it had grabbed him, it let go.

A sharp push against his chest, a force stronger than any current, sent him shooting upward. His body swam instinctively, muscles burning as his lungs screamed for oxygen. When his head broke the surface, he gasped so hard it felt like his chest might crack open. The icy air hit his throat like shards of glass, and he coughed violently, expelling water from his lungs in desperate heaves.
His body convulsed, every muscle clenching as it struggled to pump life back into him. He flailed blindly, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, until his fingers grazed the rough edge of the boat. Clinging to it with everything he had, he hauled himself up, his arms shaking so badly it felt like they might give out at any moment.
With one last, desperate surge of strength, Jeongguk collapsed over the edge of the boat, his drenched body hitting the wooden floorboards with a thud. He lay there, trembling uncontrollably, every gasp of air rattling through his chest. Water dripped from his clothes and hair, pooling beneath him as the cold seeped into his bones. His heart pounded in his ears, wild and unrelenting.

He forced himself onto all fours, his body still trembling with the remnants of panic. Gasping for air, his mind raced, the reality of nearly drowning sinking in. As his eyes flicked to the edge of the boat, staring back at him from the water, was the creature. Its locked onto him, as though it were letting him have another look, this time with the luxury of breath.

It was beautiful in a way that made Jeongguk’s stomach twist. A beauty that didn’t belong to the living, but to the kind of stories meant to keep fishermen like him away from the sea.

The man could barely finish his thought when, without warning, the creature disappeared beneath the surface once more. And his body, drained of every last ounce of adrenaline, finally gave in. The exhaustion hit him like a wave, and his limbs, once trembling with fear and fight, turned to dead weight. He collapsed, feeling as though the very bones in his body had turned to lead, his chest still heaving, but his strength gone. The world around him spun, and he could do nothing but let the darkness creep in.

Chapter Text

𝓐t some point, Jeongguk’s consciousness clawed its way back through the fog of exhaustion and cold. Awareness seeped in slowly, a dull ache radiating from every limb as the biting wind cut through his soaked clothes. His body was shaking uncontrollably, a violent tremor rattling his bones, but the disorientation was worse—like he wasn’t fully anchored to reality yet.

A sharp breath stung the fisherman’s lungs as he forced his stiff arms to move, pushing against the slick wooden floor. The world around him tilted, blurred at the edges, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse again.

The boat rocked beneath him, gentle but steady, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Dark water stretched endlessly around him. Jeongguk swallowed hard, the memory of what had happened, slamming into him like a freight train. The cold grip dragging him under. The suffocating pressure of the deep. The thing he had seen—the thing that had let him go.
His breath hitched, and instinctively, his hands flew to his arms, his chest, searching.

On his shoulder, he found deep, jagged scratches—too large and precise to be from mere fingernails. The sight of them sent a shudder down his spine, but it wasn’t until he saw the wounds that the pain truly registered.

A sharp, searing sting bloomed across his shoulder, the torn skin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, fingers ghosting over the raw flesh. The edges were swollen, the wounds fresh—proof that what happened hadn’t been some fevered hallucination.

He pushed himself up with unsteady hands, forcing his trembling legs to hold his weight. His vision swayed, the boat rocking beneath him, and he stumbled—barely catching himself on the wooden railing. He was in no condition to be moving, but staying here was worse.

Jeongguk needed to get back. 

If he didn’t, he’d either bleed out or freeze to death. He pulled up his nets with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, desperation fueling his every move. His body was already on the edge, his soaked clothes clinging to him like ice, his fingers numb as he fumbled for the oars.

Jeongguk spat out a curse, his vision blurring again as the waves rocked the boat too sharply.

Every instinct screamed at him to stop, to lay down and surrender to the exhaustion, but the sheer panic of what could happen if he did kept him pushing forward.

The evening was quiet, the faint glow of the lanterns casting a soft, warm light across the small shop that Seokjin had turned into his own makeshift pharmacy. It was a cozy space, shelves lined with herbs, salves, and vials of various remedies. The gentle scent of lavender mixed with something earthy, comforting. Seokjin had gotten used to the routine—small things, like the occasional scraped knee or a fevered woman needing a bit of care.

But tonight, as the door flung open with a violent gust of cold wind, Seokjin barely had time to look up from the counter, and complain about the closed sign on the door, before a figure staggered in, barely keeping himself upright. The man was drenched, his clothes clinging to him in heavy, sodden sheets, his skin pale and shaking.

Seokjin rushed to stand.

His gaze flicked over the stranger, his eyes immediately locking on the blood soaking through the man’s clothes, the deep, jagged scratches that marred his skin, glistening in the dim light. The man was barely conscious, swaying, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Hey—hey, hold on—" His voice was sharp, cutting through the moment as he lunged forward, catching the man just as his knees gave out. The stranger’s weight hit him hard, and Seokjin barely managed to keep him upright.
“What happened to you?”
But the stranger barely responded. His lips parted, a whisper of sound escaping—too faint, too weak. His head lolled to the side, and Seokjin’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He didn’t have the training or the medical equipment to handle something like this, but he had no intention of letting this man collapse on the floor in front of him. His hands worked quickly, getting the man into a chair, wiping away the blood, and assessing the wounds as best he could. The cuts were deep, too deep, and Seokjin couldn’t help but wince at the sight.
"Hold on, just... stay with me," Seokjin muttered under his breath, his mind already racing to figure out what needed to be done. The man’s pulse was thready, weak, but it was still there

"Needle, needle, needle," Seokjin muttered under his breath, his voice low and steady despite the panic bubbling up inside him. His hands shook as he grabbed the necessary supplies from the small drawer. His fingers fumbled with the needles for a moment—thankfully, he had some stitches in stock, though he wasn’t sure how well they'd hold in such deep wounds.

The first wound was the largest, stretching from the man’s shoulder down his arm, deep enough that the muscle was visible beneath the raw flesh. Seokjin winced but forced his eyes to focus.

Seokjin froze, his mind halfway through the preparation as the realization crashed over him like cold water.

He had no anesthetic. Nothing strong enough to numb the searing pain the man must be feeling.

“I'm sorry,” Seokjin muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The needle slid through the skin, and Seokjin winced, his heart pounding in his chest. The man's ragged breathing turned into groans, letting out sounds of pain.

Seokjin’s hands shook, but he forced himself to focus. Each pull felt like an eternity, the sound of the needle tearing through flesh making his stomach churn, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate.
The man’s breathing was erratic, sharp gasps of pain that made Seokjin’s heart ache.

He worked quickly, trying to finish the stitching before the man’s strength gave out. He could see the sweat beading on the man’s forehead, his face contorted in pain, but Seokjin had no choice but to keep going.

The stranger was gripping the edge of the seat so tightly his knuckles were white, his jaw clenched to keep from crying out.

The last stitch went in with a near-silent sob from the stranger. His body collapsed forward slightly, and Seokjin quickly caught him, steadying him as he whimpered in pain, too weak to even lift his head. Seokjin didn’t know if he was still conscious or if it was just the lingering shock of the pain that kept him from completely passing out, but the man’s condition was slipping fast.

When the last stitch was in place, Seokjin allowed himself a small, shaky breath.

Jeongguk drifted in and out of consciousness over the next few days. And for the brief moments he was awake, he didn’t remember much.
Blurred flashes of lanternlight. The scent of dried herbs. A warm cloth pressed against his burning forehead.

Then darkness again.

When he finally woke for real, it was to the quiet creak of a wooden chair and the soft clinking of glass. His throat burned. His skin felt too tight. His fingers twitched against the rough fabric of a blanket.

Jeongguk blinked, vision swimming before settling on a man sitting at a worn wooden table, grinding something into a fine powder. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with bottles, cloth, dried herbs.
He tried to speak, but his voice barely scraped out. “Where…”
The man’s head snapped up. Brown eyes met his.
"Finally awake?" His voice was flat, but Jeongguk caught the flicker of relief before he stood and crossed the room. “You’ve been out for days.”
Jeongguk swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He shifted, but pain lanced through his side, sharp and unforgiving. He hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t move too much.” The man pressed a cup of water into Jeongguk’s hands, his grip firm, steady. “Drink.”

Jeongguk drank. The coolness soothed the ache, but his mind remained sluggish.

He licked his lips. “What happened?”

Seokjin — his name surfaced from somewhere in the haze of Jeongguks mind— sat back, arms crossed. He studied Jeongguk for a long moment before saying, “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Jeongguk’s stomach twisted. His head pulsed at the effort of thinking.

He remembers the pressure in his lungs.

His pulse quickened. His fingers curled against the blanket. He had been dragged down.

Seokjin must have noticed the way he tensed because his expression shifted. “You were barely standing when you bursted through the door,” he said, quieter now. “Your wounds—deep, jagged. Like something clawed into you.” His gaze flickered, hesitating. “And you reeked of saltwater.”

Jeongguk’s fingers tightened around the cup, the warmth of it grounding him. He kept his gaze low, watching the ripples in the water as if they held the answer.
He couldn’t tell Seokjin the truth.
“I don’t remember much,” he murmured, voice hoarse. It wasn’t entirely a lie—most of it was still a blur.

Seokjin didn’t look convinced. “Nothing at all?”

Jeongguk hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “An animal,” he said, keeping his tone flat. “I think.”

Seokjin’s eyes flickered to his bandaged side, the scratches peeking through. “What kind of animal does that?”

Jeongguk shrugged, “A big one.”

Silence stretched between them. The lanternlight cast long shadows against the wooden walls, making the space feel smaller, more suffocating. Seokjin was still watching him, expression unreadable.

Then, finally, he sighed. “Fine,” he muttered. “If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you.” He stood, grabbing a jar from the shelf. Giving his patient a bit of space.

Jeongguk looked down at himself. His clothes had been changed—no longer the heavy, soaked fabric of his fishing gear, but something lighter, more comfortable. He ran a hand over the simple tunic, the fabric soft beneath his fingertips.

The pharmacist expression remained thoughtful as he arranged some supplies on the counter. After a moment, he glanced at Jeongguk, his tone casual but laced with an underlying honesty. “I’m not a certified doctor,” he said, his hands still moving. “This shop... it’s a pharmacy, not a full medical practice. You’re lucky I was even able to help.”

Jeongguk's gaze flickered down to his hands, resting in his lap. "I wasn’t looking for a doctor. I just... I hoped you’d help.” He shifted uncomfortably but pressed on. “A friend of mine—he always speaks highly of you. And I wasn’t really in the right state of mind."

For a moment, Seokjin studied him, the faintest flicker of understanding in his gaze before he returned to his work. "You know,” he said, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone, “I’m not a certified doctor, but I’m pretty sure I just saved your life. If that’s not a good enough reason to owe me dinner, I don’t know what is.”
Jeongguk blinked, taken aback. Seokjin winked before adding with a smirk, “But I’d suggest you skip the seafood for now. I don’t think either of us are ready for a repeat performance.”

The light humor broke the tension, and Jeongguk couldn't help but let out a small laugh. It was brief, but enough to shift the mood.

After Jeongguk is sent home from Seokjin’s care, something restless and unsettling takes root inside him, something that feels dangerously close to obsession. The unknown has always lured mankind, an endless pull toward what lies just beyond reach. For centuries, humans have chased after the mysteries of the world, desperate to understand, to uncover.  

And yet, curiosity killed the cat in the end.

In the few books he possessed—old, worn volumes inherited from his father—Jeongguk searched for answers.

Among the pages were countless entries about fish, most of which Jeongguk already knew by heart. There were also mentions of sharks and sea lions, creatures that rarely strayed into these waters. Nothing unusual. Nothing that explained what he had seen.

After several checkups at Seokjin’s pharmacy, he was eventually cleared to move around more. His body still ached in places, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.
Jeongguk knew that if he went to an actual doctor, news of his attack would spread through the village like wildfire. Whispers would turn into rumors, growing more exaggerated with each retelling. And that was the last thing he wanted, for more reasons than one.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice called out as Jeongguk stepped into the dimly lit store.

He glanced around briefly, feeling the weight of the musty air and the quietness of the room.

 "Uh, do you have books on sea creatures?" 

She raised an eyebrow, "yea, follow me."

She led him down a narrow aisle, shelves brimming with dusty volumes, some old and weathered, others neatly stacked but with a faint layer of dust. As they reached the back of the store, she stopped before a section marked with faded labels. "Here," she said, pulling out some thick, leather-bound books. "These cover a wide range of sea life, both common and rare."
Jeongguk took it in his hands. He opened to the first page, scanning through illustrations of creatures he recognized. It wasn’t really what he was hoping to find. 

"Anything specific you're looking for?" the woman asked, probably picking up the young mans disappointment.

"I don't know. Just... anything unusual?"

She glanced at him odly "Like, uh, fantasy tales or something?"
Jeongguk shrugged, feeling a bit out of place. His gaze drifted to the pages in his hands, not really sure what he was looking for anyway.

She pulled another book from the shelf, its cover adorned with faded gold lettering. "This one’s got myths and legends, though it’s more folklore than science."

He took the book she handed him, the cover a little worn but sturdy. It looked like something people would tell their children before bed.

"That will do it, thanks."

„Sure, you’re welcome."

To say that he devoured the book was an understatement. The moment he opened it, he was consumed by the pages, each one filled with intricate details about fictional creatures. Entire pages were dedicated to them, exploring their origins, their ways of living, their habits, and the myths surrounding them. It was as if every entry in the book was an entire world in itself, a universe waiting to be explored.

As his eyes moved across the pages, they suddenly locked onto one specific illustration. Its humanoid upper body was sleek and silver, glimmering under the light, while its tail, long and powerful, shimmered with seemingly reflective scales. The description beneath it seemed to blur in his mind as his heart picked up pace.

𝓢𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓷.
𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘤, 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥—𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴.
𝘛𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳.

𝘈𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰, 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

— кαηg ѕυηנιη

Who was Kang Sunjin? And where had he disappeared to?

Jeongguk’s mind raced with questions, the name etched on the bottom of the siren entry. The author, a man who had apparently written about creatures that lurked in the deepest, darkest waters. But there was no further mention of him—no record of his life, no trace of his whereabouts.

How had Sunjin known about the siren? Had he encountered it himself?

Jeongguk’s head throbbed, the weight of the incident, the book, and the missing man pressing down on him.

"Fifteen bucks."

Jeongguk blinked, "Wasn’t it twenty?"

"Yeah, but you still look like shit," Yoongi
replied, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I’m being nice."

Jeongguk threw Yoongi an insulting look. Despite the sarcastic remark, the shopkeeper's words rang true. His injury was healing, but his thoughts—relentless and consuming—kept him awake at night.

Sleep was a stranger now.

"I haven’t seen you in a while," the man said, his voice casual as he leaned his usual lazy stance against the counter.

“Yeah, been busy.”

„Busy huh, I bet.“

Jeongguk bites his lips, feeling uncomfortable. Yoongi seemed to sense his growing uneasy.

“Whatever it is, just don’t drown in it, alright?” The shopowner grabbed a bottle from the shelf, setting it down in front of Jeongguk. “On the house. You look like you need it.”

Yoongi didn’t push him further, allowing the silence to stretch between them as Jeongguk tried to gather himself and swiftly pays for the net. 

"You should probably talk to someone. Eases the mind a bit."

"Yea, I’ll think about it."

His backpack, his movements automatic as he sent a quick goodbye to Yoongi. He was almost out the door when something made him stop, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
"Hey, by the way, do you know someone called Kang Sunjin?"
Yoongi looked up from the counter, the question catching him off guard. He paused, thinking for a moment. "The name doesn’t ring anything. Why?"

„Nevermind.“

Jeongguk must have lost his mind. There was no other explanation for it.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stood at the edge of the dock, staring down at the small boat bobbing gently in the water. The night air was cool against his skin, yet he felt feverish. Probably the fault of Yoongi’s liquor—something in it must have loosened his restraint, made his thoughts reckless, his body bold enough to act on the pull that had been gnawing at him since the moment he woke up on Seokjin’s pharmacy.

He untied the rope, pushed the boat into the water, and climbed in. The village lights faded behind him, swallowed by the vast stretch of sea. The further he drifted, the quieter the world became.

The waves lapped gently at the hull as he continued further into the northern waters. Jeongguk hadn’t bothered to bring any of his usual fishing supplies. There was no point in pretending—he wasn’t out here to fish. He didn’t even try to mask the way his hands tightened around the oar, steering with purpose toward something he should not. 

Over the past few days, his wound had begun to itch, a sign that it was healing. But it felt deeper than just flesh mending itself. The ache sat beneath his skin, Like an unshakable reminder of what had happened. 

And now, like some damned fool, he was chasing after it.

A lingering haze of alcohol still clouded his mind, muting the usual weight in his chest as he neared the spot. 
There was a dullness to it, a fog between him and his better judgment. Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was exhaustion.

Just as he adjusted his grip, something in the water ahead caught his eye.

At first, Jeongguk thought it was a lost buoy, maybe a tangled fishing net set adrift. But as his boat glided closer, the shape sharpened, its details emerging beneath the pale glow of the moon. A shoulder, bare and ghostly pale, dipped beneath the water before rising again with the current. Unmoving.

A person.

His breath hitched.

Panic gripped him as he leaned forward, the boat rocking beneath his weight. He didn’t think—just acted, reaching out with a shaky hand to pull them in. His fingers hovered over their skin, hesitating for only a second before finally making contact.
The cold jolted through him instantly. Too cold. Like the body had been in the water for hours, lifeless.
Jeongguk turns the Body further.

And then—
eyes snapped open.

Luminous. Unnatural. 

Jeongguk's heart slammed against his ribs as the inhuman eyes locked onto his, glowing faintly beneath the moonlight like twin lanterns in the dark abyss of the sea

He froze for a moment, unable to look away, the cold spreading through his fingers like ice creeping up his bones.

Then, instinct kicked in.
He shrieked, his voice cutting through the silence, high pitched with terror as he yanked his hand back, the boat rocking violently in response to his sudden movement. 
He scrambled backward, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, but the creature didn’t move.

It just stared.

The silence between them stretched unbearably, only the quiet lapping of water against the boat filling the space.

A low tremor racked Jeongguk’s body as he watched, his mouth dry. He could barely process the sight before him. It was impossible.

"Siren..." he whispered, the word slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

He clenches his fist, knuckles white, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself away. The temptation to speak to it—to somehow understand what was happening—gnawed at him.

"Why are you here?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible against the quiet ripple of the water.
The siren’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, Jeongguk thought it might answer. The air around him grew colder, and the faintest ripple ran through the water. 

Then, suddenly, the siren dipped beneath the surface, vanishing into the dark waters with a fluid, eerie grace. Jeongguk held his breath, every nerve in his body screaming for him to move, but he stayed still, forcing himself to wait, to watch. 

His eyes darted across the water, searching for any sign of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

A ripple.

At first, it was barely noticeable—just a slight disturbance in the water—but it grew, slowly, methodically, as if circling the boat. Jeongguk’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. His eyes widened as the water around him began to shift, the boat rocking ever so slightly. The siren was moving, and it was close.
He tensed, holding onto the oar as though it could somehow protect him, but the boat creaked ominously under the pressure of the unseen force beneath.

Jeongguk swallowed hard, gathering what little courage he had left. "What do you want?"

After a while, it disappeared completely. 

The way home is a blur.

Salt still clings to Jeongguk’s skin, hair stiff with it. He smells like brine and fear, but his mind is somewhere else entirely—locked in the deep, endless dark, where that creature’s eyes had met his. It wasn’t just the sharpness of them or how inhuman they had looked. It was the way they studied him. 

He barely remembers climbing the docks, slipping through the back alleys behind the small village shops, still shivering though the night is calm.

At home, he doesn't sleep.

Instead, he lies stiffly on his side in bed, clothes still damp. His room is dark but his eyes refuse to close. Every time he blinks, he feels it again—the pull downward, the way water had closed over his head like a grave, the pressure of claws around his ankle. And that face.

Not a monster. Not entirely.

His fingers twitch. 
He pushes himself upright and lights on the lamp beside his bed. His sketchbook lies untouched on the small desk. It had once been for harmless things—quick drawings, practice figures, the way the sea looked at dusk.

Now, his pencil doesn’t hesitate.

He draws in sharp lines. The eyes first. Wide and luminous, tilted in a way that was too perfect to be human. A nose. Lips, slightly parted. Gills along the neck, delicate like feathers. The chest was lean, pale, defined, the hint of a shoulder arcing into something reptilian—a ridge of black scales.

He doesn’t even realise he’s shaking until the pencil drops from his hand.

"Shit," he mutters, breath ragged.

He sits back. The image stares up at him.
It’s not exactly right. No sketch could be. 

He should be afraid. He is.

But fear isn’t the strongest thing he’s feeling.
Curiosity gnaws at him. Wonder, even.

He looks at the drawing again, slower this time. 
And without meaning to, he whispers, “What do you want?”

His room doesn’t answer.

But from outside, down the hill where the sea laps quietly at the rocks, there’s a faint sound like a hum—so soft it might just be the wind.

 Or not.

He doesn't go to the window.
But he doesn’t go back to sleep either.