Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ness’s lungs burned, his legs heavy with fatigue, but the clock still ticked. Two minutes left. Just two. Bastard München was clinging to a 2–1 lead, and Union Berlin wasn’t letting up. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown.

The crowd roared, a wall of red and white noise closing in from all sides. Sweat dripped into Ness’s eyes as he pushed forward, weaving between defenders like a ghost in black.

He didn’t have time to breathe. A sharp one-two pass. He sprinted, pivoted, sent it wide. His chest ached, but he kept moving.

Then he saw it, Lucas Tousart on the ball, eyes scanning for a pass, pressure building.

Now.

Ness lunged, not reckless, but fast, precise. His foot sliced between Tousart and the ball, snatching it in a flash. The contact jolted through both their bodies. Tousart stumbled back.

Ness didn’t wait.

One touch.

Then another.

A pass so slick and clean, and just in time , threading through a narrow gap in Union’s back line.

The stadium gasped.

The pass carved through the pitch like a blade, but Union wasn’t done yet.

Just as Ness’s teammate went to fire his boots set, shot lined up and a blur of red crashed in. A Union defender slid across the grass with perfect timing, cleats clashing with the ball, sending it spinning off course with a violent thunk. The shot was blocked.

“Shit!” Ness hissed, whipping around to recover. His heart was hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists, lungs clawing for air.

Union wasn’t slowing down. They launched the ball upfield in desperation — a long, high pass, but Bastard München’s center-back was already there, leaping into the air, chesting it down, clearing it like his life depended on it.

The counter never came.

Then the whistle blew.

Three sharp blasts, piercing through the chaos.

Game over.

Ness stood frozen, breath fogging in the cold Berlin air, soaked in sweat, heartbeat echoing in his ears. Around him, teammates roared in celebration. Bastard München had done it, they had scraped out a 2–1 win against one of the toughest teams in the league.

But Ness didn’t move right away.

He stared toward the Union crowd, their voices still shouting, drums still pounding and then up to the black Berlin sky.

Ness had already showered, now dressed down in Bastard München sweats his hoodie up, loose joggers, both stamped with the club’s sleek logo. His damp hair stuck to his forehead as he settled into his seat on the team bus. They were headed to Dortmund next for another match in two days. No rest, just rhythm.

He leaned his head against the window, watching Berlin pass him by in fractured reflections of streetlights and blurred shop signs. He had to admit , Berlin was a pretty city. Cold, loud, alive. It had a strange hum beneath it, something old.

They were still waiting on Ali and Theo. The two had run off to grab something from a store nearby, supposedly “real quick,” but it had been almost fifteen minutes. Ness figured some fans had probably spotted them, Theo always loved the attention anyway.

His phone buzzed. It was Theo.

Free Headache

YO
Bro this cashier is totally digging me man😏
She asked for my number so I gave her yours lol

Ness
ARE YOU SERIOUS
Theo.
This is the THIRD time I’ve had to change my number because of your dumbass
What is actually wrong with you 🤬

Free Headache

Lmao chill
She was cute and you’re single so I did you a favour
You’re welcome 😌

Ness

A favour?! Bro I had someone text me “Hi daddy 😽” at 3 in the morning
You’re gonna be the reason I go into hiding one day

Free Headache

Stop being dramatic
Anyway, come help
We bought too much and we can't carry it all
Ali's already whining and I think I pulled something in my soul

Ness

I am literally on the bus.
In a hoodie.
Comfortable.
What part of that makes you think I’d leap into action to save you???

Free Headache

Fake friend alert 🚨
This betrayal will not be forgotten.
Smh.
Can't trust anyone these days, not even your bro

Ness

Cry harder
You’re so annoying

Free Headache

So you’re just gonna leave me?
Me.
Struggling. In public. Like a peasant???
What about “through sickness and health,” bro??
What about “til death do us part?” 😩💔

Ness

FIRST OF ALL we’re not married
SECOND OF ALL you have Ali
THIRD OF ALL I hope you drop something breakable

With an exaggerated groan, Ness let his phone flop onto his chest like it betrayed him personally. He slouched even harder into the bus seat, dramatically sliding down like life itself was too much to bear.

Then, after a few seconds of glaring out the window and muttering curses under his breath, he straightened up and yanked his hoodie off with all the aggression of someone who just lost an argument with Siri and put on a windbreaker.

Still grumbling, Ness stalked up to his coach and muttered, “I’m going to help those two idiots. They overdid it again.”

The coach barely blinked. “Figured.”

It was basically tradition at this point, Ali and Theo disappearing into a supermarket like they were hunting for rare treasure, buying too much, staying too long, and eventually summoning Ness like some reluctant delivery goblin. He complained every single time.

But he still went. Every single time.

I have no backbone.

He stomped down the bus steps like it was a heroic sacrifice. Hoodie half-on, phone back in his hand, he texted one final message:

Ness

I’m coming.
If you made me leave my seat for instant noodles again, I’m pushing you into traffic istg

Ness stood in front of Lidl, arms crossed, staring down his two dumbass teammates and the mountain of grocery bags at their feet.

“…Were you two prepping for the apocalypse and just forgot to tell me? Should I be worried?”

Ali at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed, scratching the back of his neck and mumbling something about “discounts.” Theo, on the other hand—shameless as ever—just tossed Ness a Chocomel like it was a peace offering.

Ness caught it midair without blinking, raised a brow, then sighed and stabbed the straw in with a dramatic stab. “This better be the caramel one,” he muttered, taking a long sip like it was going to give him the strength to deal with them.

He eyed the bags again, squinting at the sheer bulk of them. “Do I even want to know what's in there? You do remember we have a game in, like, two days, right? Or have you decided to switch careers and become competitive eaters?”

“Less sass, more lifting, drama queen,” Theo rolled his eyes, squatting to grab a bag.

“Don’t act like I’m the crazy one here,” Ness retorted, flipping one of the bags open. “There are eight kinds of chips in here. Who needs eight kinds of chips? And what is this? Two whole crates of Chocomel?”

“Those are the essentials,” Ali said, completely straight-faced.

“I swear, you two have the combined impulse control of a toddler in a candy store.”

Ali lightly smacked the back of Ness’s head. “You talk too much. Talk less, carry more.”

Ness scoffed, dramatically picking up a bag like it weighed his entire life. “You know, just once, a thank you would be nice. Something like, ‘wow Ness, thank you for always saving our dumb asses.’ But no. Nothing. Just abuse.”

“Thank you, Ness,” Theo said in a monotone. “So much. Truly. Your sacrifices shall be remembered.”

“Eat cement,” Ness shot back, elbowing him in the side.

Their jabs at each other continued as they started walking back toward the bus, bags rustling, insults flying—until Ness’s eyes caught something across the street.

A small, ivy-covered bookstore stood nestled between two buildings like it didn’t quite belong in Berlin. It looked like it had been pulled out of one of his old fantasy novels—the kind he still secretly read on quiet nights, curled up in his hoodie when no one was looking.

But it wasn’t the bookstore that made him stop mid-step.

It was the man walking out of it.

Tall. Blond. The ends of his hair shimmered with pale blue highlights, catching the streetlight like water. His face—sharp, cold, beautiful—looked like it had been carved out of something ancient.

And for a split second, the world around Ness dropped into static.
Like a wave had crashed inside his chest.

His heart stuttered.

He knew that face.

Or at least—he felt like he did. Not from TV. Not from a dream. From something else. Something buried deep, deep inside him that made his lungs tighten and his body move before his brain caught up.

“Hold these,” Ness said abruptly, thrusting his grocery bags into Theo’s arms with no warning.

“Wait—what?” Theo yelped, nearly dropping one. “Dude—”

Ness didn’t answer. He was already jogging across the street, weaving between cars and people, calling out,

“Hey! Excuse me—wait up!”

The man didn’t look back.

But Ness kept going.

Something inside him needed to know.

Ness weaved through a couple lingering pedestrians, nearly tripping over a child on a scooter and muttering a rushed “Sorry!” as he kept his eyes locked on the man’s back.

“Hey! Excuse me!” he called again, louder this time.

The blond figure slowed—not out of surprise, but more like he was annoyed someone was calling for him in the first place. He turned around just as Ness reached him, breathing a little harder than he wanted to admit.

Up close, the man looked even more unreal. Pale, piercing blue eyes that didn’t look quite natural—too deep, too still. His cheekbones were sharp, jaw tight, his lips held in a slight, unreadable frown. He was dressed casually — black hoodie layered under a tailored trench coat, dark jeans slung low on his hips — but he wore them like armor.

“…Do I know you?” Ness asked, slightly breathless.

The stranger looked at him for a long, uncomfortable second.

“No,” he said, flatly.

Ness blinked, thrown off. “Are you sure? You just—you look really familiar. Like… we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

A pause.

The stranger’s gaze flicked over him quickly. Judging. Calculating. But there was something else too—something that passed like a shadow across his expression. Recognition. The tiniest flicker of it, buried under years of defense.

But then it was gone.

He scoffed lightly and turned slightly away, one hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket.

"No, we haven't. Why?" he drawled, dry as dust. "That your idea of a pickup line?" A slow, mocking smirk curled at his mouth. "Hate to break it to you—it's not working."

Ness’s eyes widened. “What? No! I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Heat flooded his face, and he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a second. His heart was still racing, but now it was from a different kind of panic.

“I just thought—sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered quickly, taking a step back.

The stranger gave him one last glance, something unreadable behind his cold expression. Then, without another word, he turned and started walking away again.

Ness stood there frozen, watching his figure disappear down the street. The world slowly faded back in—honking cars, chattering strangers, the rustle of grocery bags being juggled and Theo yelling from across the sidewalk.

“NESS! I swear to GOD if I drop my food because of you, we are THROWING HANDS!”

But Ness didn’t answer. He just stared down the street, heart pounding in his ears.

He’d definitely met that man before.

He just didn’t know when. Or how.

And the worst part was—he was pretty sure that man remembered him too.

He couldn’t breathe.

One moment, everything was fine. The sun above, the waves gently lapping at his feet. It was supposed to be just another day at the beach. But then—

Suddenly, everything changed.

One wave crashed over him. Just one. A harmless one. Or so he thought. But it was enough to knock him off balance, enough to drag him under before he could even prepare.

No—he wasn’t just feeling like he was drowning. He was drowning.

Ness could feel the sea’s current pulling him with unforgiving strength, stronger than anything he could fight. His limbs, usually so quick, were slow. Heavy. His chest tightened, and panic started to claw at his throat.

Just a moment ago, his siblings had practically begged him to swim, to "switch it up" from his usual running routine. "It’s better for you, Ness," they’d said. "You need to work on your stamina. Swimming’s great for that."

It was easier to agree than argue. And now he was here, struggling in the water, alone.

It was supposed to be fun, just a quick swim.

He dove in, arms slicing through the water, feeling free for a moment. But when he glanced back, they were gone. His family, his siblings, had disappeared. The shore was empty. No one was there.

Confusion washed over him, but before he could swim back, before he could call out to them, a wave slammed into him. It was bigger this time. Stronger. He didn’t have time to react before it took him under, pulling him deeper, further from the shore. The salty sting of the water burned in his nose and throat. He fought, struggling to reach the surface, but when he broke through, the panic was already setting in.

He was farther out now. Much farther. And before he could even try to swim back, another wave crashed into him. His body was too tired to fight it, too weak to swim against it. The water was relentless, dragging him deeper with each passing second.

The oxygen he desperately needed was slipping away, and his body felt heavier, weaker with each breath.

I can’t— His arms were like jelly. His legs wouldn’t move. The fear had him in a death grip, squeezing the air from his lungs, suffocating him.

His vision blurred as the sea continued to pull him down. The shore was just a memory now, too far away to be real. His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to keep him afloat.

He was too far.

No one saw him. No one was there. They were all back on the beach, unaware that he was drowning.

I don’t want to die. The thought rushed through his mind, terrifying and real. He had just signed with Bastard Munchen’s Junior Team. His future was ahead of him. He was supposed to be something. He wasn’t supposed to die like this, in the cold, unforgiving sea. Not now. Not like this.

His arms flailed, but it felt useless. He was sinking. Slowly. More deeply.

And then—something inside him broke.

God, I know I don’t believe in you. But if you’re there…

The words were quiet, barely a whisper, but they were the only thing that seemed to make sense. He didn’t care about being an atheist anymore. He didn’t care about the doubts that plagued his mind. Didn’t care about the science his family was preaching.””

The water pressed in around him, the waves dragging him deeper. His lungs burned. His limbs felt like they were made of stone. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t—

Everything went black.

He was sinking.

The cold wrapped around him like a second skin, his body limp, lungs burning, thoughts fading into white noise. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore. Couldn't remember which way was up. Even panic had abandoned him now—there was only the crushing pressure of the sea, and the slow, terrifying silence that came with surrender.

So this is it, Ness thought hazily. This is how I go.

He wanted to cry but couldn't. The tears would’ve just blended into the ocean anyway.

He stopped kicking.

He stopped fighting.

He gave up.

And in that moment—when everything slipped into numb, aching stillness—hands grabbed him.

Strong. Cold. Real.

Ness's heart jolted weakly. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even process what was happening. But something—or someone—was pulling him. Moving him upward. He could feel it: the change in pressure, the slight sting of returning air brushing against his face, the faint sensation of rising.

An angel? his broken mind whispered. Damn... so God is real? Have I died?

He felt himself being cradled, dragged through the water with shocking ease, like he weighed nothing.

I really fucked up then, huh? I'm not exactly heaven material. His thoughts turned strangely calm, even detached. Wonder if hell’s worse than this.

And then—light.

Heaven?

He breached the surface, coughing violently, lungs rejecting the seawater that filled them. He was half-conscious, his body too heavy to move on its own. He gasped and choked, and somewhere in the chaos of his thoughts and spasms—

“Pathetic,” a voice muttered above him.

The tone was cold. Disinterested. Annoyed, even.

He felt himself being shifted—someone rolled him to his side with a grunt, like he was a particularly heavy sack of potatoes. More coughing. His lungs fought like they were rebelling against him.

Am I still dying?

But through his bleary vision, he saw something—someone.

A boy, maybe around his age. Dripping wet. Pale skin. Long blond hair that clung to his face in soaked strands, it reminded him of the manes of a lion. Sharp blue eyes staring at him with a scowl. He wasn’t wearing a wetsuit. Or even clothes. Just—

A tail.

A long, iridescent tail, deep blue with hints of silver and seafoam green, glimmering in the sunlight. It swayed slightly in the water, the fins moving with a grace that didn’t belong to any human.

Ness blinked.

Once. Twice.

But the vision remained.

The boy narrowed his eyes at him like saving Ness had ruined his day. “You owe me, idiot,” he muttered.

And then—everything shattered.

Ness woke with a violent gasp, bolting upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. His shirt clung to his chest, his breaths were ragged and uneven, lungs heaving like they were still fighting for air.

His wide eyes scanned the dark room.

The faint city lights of Munich spilled in through the massive glass windows of his penthouse, casting pale streaks across the ceiling. The hum of traffic far below was a quiet whisper against the silence inside.

It took him a few seconds to remember where he was.

Not drowning.

Not fifteen.

Not gasping for life in saltwater.

He was home. In his bed. Safe.

His hands were still shaking. He ran one through his messy curls, dragging it down his face as he tried to calm the pounding in his chest.

It was that dream again.

No—not a dream.

A memory.
A haunting one.
One his brain refused to file away, even after all these years.

He stared up at the ceiling, the remnants of the ocean still burning in his lungs like phantom pain. And just like every time, right before he woke up, he’d heard it again.

That voice.
Harsh, distant— yet curious in a way.

“Pathetic.”

Ness pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan.
"It wasn’t real I made it," he muttered into the dark, repeating the mantra.

The ocean breeze whipped through Ness’s curls, tugging at them wildly no matter how much product he’d used earlier. He let out an irritated huff, dragging a hand through his hair, trying in vain to smooth it down. It wasn’t the hair that bothered him, though. It was the place.

He stood still, hands shoved into the pockets of his Bastard München windbreaker, the collar zipped up high like armor. He didn’t know what he was doing here.

That was a lie.
He knew exactly why he’d come. He needed closure. Needed to know that he wasn’t crazy, that it was real

His eyes scanned the beach — the same one he had nearly died on. The same beach where his life had split in two: before and after. He took a hesitant step forward, the crunch of sand under his shoes sharp and too loud in the quiet of early morning.

It looked… the same. Exactly the way it had five years ago. As if the ocean had a memory, too.

Ness stopped walking when he was still a good few meters from where the waves licked the shore, the wet sand gleaming like it was waiting for him. He didn’t dare get closer. Not yet.

The fear had dulled over the years — he could handle pools now, even open water if there were enough people around. But this beach? It still gripped something tight inside his chest, like the sea was daring him to come back in.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, kicking at the sand like a restless kid. Then he started walking again, slow and aimless, following the curve of the coastline.

The waves crashed and pulled and rolled in their endless rhythm, moving with a kind of grace Ness might’ve found beautiful — might have, if the sight didn’t send a cold dread crawling up his spine.

He wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing the sleeves of his jacket for warmth, even though it wasn’t that cold. Just... ghostly. Unsettling.

When he was fifteen, he’d come back here over and over again. Trying to piece it together. Trying to figure out whether the boy — the one with the tail, the one who’d pulled him from the jaws of death — was real or some hallucination his oxygen-starved brain had invented.

But the memory was too vivid. Too there.
He still remembered the voice. Low. Almost regretful.

“You owe me.”

God, what did that even mean?

Sometimes, when his brain was half-asleep and his heart was racing, he still felt phantom fingers on his arms — strong hands dragging him up, out of the abyss.

His body remembered what his mind was told to forget.

Eventually, his parents had banned him from coming. Said it was obsessive. Said it was keeping him from healing. Said the only way to move forward was to stop opening the wound over and over again.

But Ness had never been good at leaving things unfinished.

Now he was back. Older. Stronger, at least he hoped he was. Or maybe just more stubborn.

The sea roared softly in the distance.
And for a second — just a second — he swore he felt something watching him.

Ness glanced over his shoulder.

That feeling again — the distinct itch at the back of his neck, like someone was watching him. He scanned the beach, heart beating a little faster. Maybe he was being watched. Wouldn’t be too surprising; ever since Bastard München took the Bundesliga title, he’d been getting a lot more attention. Recognition, interviews, the whole nine yards.

Probably just a fan, he told himself.
Hopefully a fan.

But there was no one. Just empty sand and the endless murmur of the ocean.

He started walking again, a little slower this time, his eyes tracing the familiar curve of the shoreline. Then he stopped.

Perched a bit further up the beach, half-hidden among the jagged rocks where the sand met stone, stood a figure. A boy — no, a young man — standing on the smooth platform above, casual, unmoving.

Ness’s breath caught.

Him.

The same guy from Berlin. The one who walked out of that ivy-covered bookstore like he belonged to another world. And here, against the backdrop of the sea and crashing waves, something about him looked even more out of place — and yet perfectly right.

It hit Ness like a punch to the chest. A sharp, dizzying rush of déjà vu.

His feet moved before he could talk himself out of it. Climbing the slope, weaving between the rocks until he was standing just a few feet away, looking up at him.

The guy hadn’t moved. Just stood there, watching him approach with that same unreadable expression. Distant. Sharp. Familiar in a way that made Ness's stomach twist.

Still catching his breath, Ness offered a half-smile. “Seems like we meet again. Hey.”

The glare he got in return could’ve cut steel. The guy raised a single brow, the movement so smooth, so cocky, it practically said “Why are you talking to me?” without a single word.

But Ness didn’t back down. He never did.

Ness didn’t mind. He was used to walls. He just wasn’t used to ones that felt like they’d been built specifically around him.

He tried again, tilting his head, searching his face. “Berlin... right? Outside that bookstore?” A flicker of a smile, sheepish. “That was a while ago, though. You probably don’t even remember me. Sorry.”

A pause. Then, coldly, “I remember.”

Ness blinked. “Oh. Cool. I thought— I don’t know. You just looked really familiar, even then.”

The guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not aggressively. Just enough to make Ness feel like he was being dissected. Weighed. Dismissed.

“You sure we haven’t met before?” Ness asked, scratching at his jaw, suddenly second-guessing his words.

“No,” came the reply, firm and clipped. “You’re mistaken.”

Right. Ice cold. Ness cleared his throat, letting out a soft laugh as he glanced down at the ball near the guy’s feet.

“Alright then,” he said, backing off a little. “Maybe I’m just mixing you up with someone. I’m sorry.”

Still no reaction. Not even a twitch of the brow.

Ness rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. “I saw you play a bit just now. You’re really good, by the way,” he added, nodding toward the ball. “Footwork like that doesn’t come easy.”

The guy finally shifted, his stance loose but somehow still distant. “I don’t need compliments.”

Ness smirked, hands still tucked in his sweatpants. “Not a compliment. Just an observation.”

A silence settled between them again, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

Ness rocked back on his heels, studying him again. The stillness. The quiet confidence. That sharp, unspoken challenge woven into every line of his body.

God, he’s kind of cool.

The guy didn’t even spare him a glance this time. Just turned his head back toward the sea, like Ness had already disappeared. Like he was nothing but a passing breeze.

And somehow, that made Ness want to stay even more.

He followed the guy’s gaze to the horizon. The sea churned softly under a silver sky, waves crashing into themselves like they couldn’t decide where to go. The other watched it like it belonged to him—like he understood it. Longing wrapped into every breath, every blink. A boy carved out of solitude.

Ness saw the same water and felt something different. A knot in his stomach. Restlessness. Distance. Like the ocean was pulling something out of him he didn’t know how to name.

Two people. One view. Two stories written into the same waves.

It was obvious he wasn’t wanted here. Ness knew when to walk away. He usually did.

Still, he tried one more time. Voice soft. “Do you play for a club?”

The question cut into the silence like a ripple. The guy blinked, pulled from whatever deep place he’d drifted to. He hummed—low, distracted, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

But then, without looking at Ness: “No.”

Ness hesitated. “Okay.”

That was his cue. Time to go. It was awkward now, and sticking around would just make it worse.

“Have a great evening,” he offered, turning and starting back down the slope. His footsteps felt too loud in the sand.

No reply. Not even a breath.

What the hell was I thinking? Twice now. Approaching a complete stranger. Just because he looked familiar?

Creepy. Weird. He winced at himself.

Get a grip, Ness.

Fuck, I didn’t even ask him for his name

Ness jolted awake with a sharp gasp, chest heaving as if he’d just broken through the surface of the ocean. His hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his curls, tugging like he could pull the dream out by force.

Again.
The same dream.

He used to get it all the time after it happened. Night after night, reliving it—drowning, sinking, choking on silence. But it had stopped. Or at least slowed. He thought he was getting better.

Until now.

The nightmare had returned with a vengeance, crawling back into his mind like it never left. He didn’t know why. There was no trigger he could name. No memory he’d unearthed. But it was there, every night, dragging him back under.

He sat at the edge of his bed, blinking into the dim morning light spilling through the penthouse windows. His heart wouldn’t settle. His skin itched with the kind of restlessness that couldn’t be walked off.

Then, the urge came again.
That stupid, heavy pull in his chest.

Go back to the beach.

He didn’t want to. God, he didn’t. He hated that place. But something deep in his gut kept twisting, like a thread yanking him eastward. Maybe his brain was trying to stage some kind of exposure therapy intervention. Maybe he was actually losing it.

Still, by the time noon rolled around, his bag was packed and a ticket was booked.

He told himself this would be the last time. Just one last trip to quiet his mind. Close the book. Shut the door.

He didn’t want to waste his off-season in Rügen, of all places—but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he went.

So he boarded a flight from Munich, eyes heavy, heart louder than it should’ve been, and tried not to think too hard about the dreams—or the blue-eyed boy waiting in them.

The hotel was luxury wrapped in quiet, white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, the kind of place built for people trying to forget the noise of the world. But Ness didn’t notice any of it—his eyes were drawn immediately to the balcony and the stretch of darkness beyond it.

It was late when he arrived. Night had already swallowed the sky, and the beach below was a shadow of shifting black and grey. From his balcony, high above the shore, he could see the white foam of the waves crash and vanish like ghostly hands clawing at the sand.

The sea was terrifying at night.

Not dramatic storm-scene terrifying—but quiet, ancient, unknowable. It moved with purpose and no mercy, just endless motion. A force of nature that didn’t care what—or who—it took.

Ness stood there for a long time, arms folded against the chill, staring down at it. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see. Some flash of movement? A shadow in the waves?

Or maybe just... eyes.

Sometimes, when the silence in his mind cracked open just a little, he wondered if he really had imagined the boy. Maybe his mind, fractured by panic and saltwater, had conjured someone to make sense of the moment. Maybe he’d been alone the whole time.

But then he remembered the way those hands had touched him—firm, unfamiliar, alive. The way that voice had echoed, soft and strange, in his ear. He remembered the look in that boy’s eyes as the world went black.

That didn’t feel like a dream.

Those touches still burned under his skin like they were waiting to be claimed.

With a heavy breath, Ness pulled himself away from the railing, shutting the glass door behind him. The air inside was too warm. He stripped off his clothes and stood under the hotel’s rainfall shower until the heat fogged the mirror and turned his thoughts to steam. It didn’t help. Nothing did.

When he crawled into bed, he already knew what was coming.

And sure enough—sleep took him, but rest didn’t follow.

The dream came again.

Not just a replay, but a full-body return to that moment. The rush of icy water swallowing his lungs, his limbs too heavy to move, the light fading fast above him. The sheer terror of it—the silence, the helplessness—strangled him from the inside.

It didn’t matter how many times he’d relived it. Each time, it carved out something new.

Each time, he drowned all over again.

He jolted up in bed hours later, chest slick with sweat, sheets tangled at his feet. His breathing ragged. Like he’d never left the ocean.

Ness sat there, hand pressed over his heart.

He hated the beach.

He hated the ocean.

He could only handle pools now—sterile, tiled, contained. Pools had no currents, no moods. Pools didn’t lie. They had edges, depths that could be measured. You couldn’t drown if you knew where the bottom was.

The sea didn’t work like that.

The sea had no bottom.

And sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel it pulling him under.

“Father—I’m sorry.”

Kaiser’s voice cracked like thin glass, trembling as he clutched the fabric of his own pants, knuckles white, fingernails digging into the seams like they could keep him anchored. But nothing ever held. His whole body was shaking, knees tucked under him on the faded living room carpet, stiff with old beer stains and ash burns.

He didn’t dare lift his eyes.

Then—his father’s hand closed around his collar.

Kaiser’s breath hitched, caught halfway between his ribs and throat. His feet left the floor for a second, toes just brushing the ground, and then—shoved down.

The stench of alcohol hit first—sharp, sour, overwhelming—choking the air between them. His father was yelling, spitting words in his face, but Kaiser couldn’t understand a single one. The ringing in his ears was too loud, a high-pitched scream that drowned everything else out.

Then the ringing stopped.

Because his head hit the floor.

Hard.

He didn’t cry out—he never did anymore. Just blinked as the world tilted sideways and spun. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was conscious or dreaming. Maybe this was the dream. The only thing he could do was hope the damage wasn’t too bad. Concussions were expensive. Hospitals were for kids with parents who cared.

He barely had time to move before a bottle came flying—shattering against the wall inches from his face.

He flinched so hard he bit the inside of his cheek, copper spreading across his tongue. He tasted the blood, the beer, the bile rising in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please.”

He didn’t even know what for. Didn’t matter. It never did. Maybe he forgot to clean something. Maybe he breathed too loud. Or maybe his dad just saw too much of her in him that day.

It was always his fault.

He stayed there—on the floor, cold and glass-littered—for what felt like forever. His side throbbed where he’d landed. His scalp stung from the grip. The air smelled like mold, piss, and liquor. The ceiling above him was cracked and yellowing, paint peeling like dry skin. He could feel the glass biting into his elbows and side. It should have hurt more. But he was already floating.

Dissociating.

Everything was too real and not real at once—like watching his life through a smudged window. He was in his body, and also nowhere near it. He could hear the screams upstairs, the moaning, the muffled thud of bedposts slamming against drywall.

His father had company tonight.

Of course he did. It was Christmas Eve.

Kaiser blinked. He didn’t move.

What did that book say again… grounding? Five things I can see.

He counted slowly.

—Empty beer bottles across the floor.
—A cigarette still burning in a greasy ashtray.
—Green mold stretching like veins across the corners of the room.
—Water damage bleeding down the walls like bruises.
—Vittel—the rat—nosing through a half-eaten kebab wrapper under the couch.

Four things I can touch.

—The cracked tile beneath his palms.
—His shirt, stiff and damp.
—His own cheek, hot and scraped.
—His hair, tangled and still faintly sticky with old beer.

Three things I can hear.

—The neighbors fighting again.
—A car speeding past with bass so loud it rattled the windows.
—And the bedframe upstairs... still knocking.

Two things I can smell.

—Bitter beer drying on his skin.
—The thick, cloying perfume of whatever woman his dad had dragged home.

One thing I can taste.

—Blood. And beer. Always beer. Beer on his lips, beer on his tongue, on the inside of his cheek. Never not beer.

The nausea twisted through him again, but the counting helped. A little. Slowly, he felt his mind crawl back into his skin. Still foreign. Still wrong. But at least inside.

He got up. Quiet. Careful.

No sound. No sudden movements.

Every step toward his bedroom was calculated, like crossing a minefield. One creak, and the storm could come again.

He didn’t even hate the violence anymore. At least when his father’s hands were on him—when they wrapped around his throat, squeezing out sound and breath—at least then he felt real. Not scum. Not invisible. Just present. Touched. Seen.

He feared the silence more than the fists. Because silence meant he’d already been forgotten.

He slipped into his room and sank onto the floor, crawling to the wooden panel beneath his mattress. — A gift. A real one. From back when his father used to say sorry. Back when he used to cry afterward, call him "son," say he looked like her. Kaiser never met her. He didn’t even know her name. Lifted it. There, under his only pillow, was his treasure.

His ball.

He held the ball tight to his chest like it could shield him from the world.

He’d saved for it too—odd jobs, begging for change, wiping tables at the döner shop. The old man there always fed him. Always gave him five euros when he helped. Never asked questions. Just nodded and smiled and treated him like a person. Kaiser would never forget him.

The ball had weight. It had shape. It came back when he kicked it.

It loved him back.

He waited for the church bells. It was how he told time. Berlin’s streets weren’t safe, especially not at night. But neither was home. He listened... waited...

Seven chimes. Seven o’clock.

He grabbed his coat, laced his shoes, and ran.

The streets of Berlin were sharp with cold, every breath fogging like smoke. Snow coated the sidewalks like powdered glass. The city buzzed in the distance—fights, sirens, laughter, loneliness.

Christmas Eve.

He passed alleys where deals went down, where kids younger than him ran with blades, their eyes already hollowed out. He wasn’t naïve. He knew he could vanish at any second. Get taken. Get sold. Get killed.

But he didn’t care.

There was no safe place for kids like him.

The field was empty, just like always. A few flickering streetlights lit the path. The snow made it slick, the ball harder to control—but he didn’t care.

The cold didn’t touch him when he played.

So he kicked.

Over and over.

He kicked until his toes went numb. Until the aching hollowness in his stomach dulled, until his breath came ragged and sharp. Until the weight in his chest, the rage curdling behind his ribs, gave way to something colder—quieter.

Not peace.

Emptiness.

And when the silence settled, when the frost bit into his skin and the darkness stretched long and unforgiving across the field—he started to cry. Angry, silent tears. The kind that made his throat burn and his chest tighten like something inside was clawing to get out.

No one could see him here.

No one could judge him.

Not even God.

If God existed at all.

He stood still, ball in his frozen hands, and stared up into the sky.

No stars tonight. Just thick clouds and the dull yellow glow of streetlamps.

Figures.

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered at first. Then louder. “You hear me?”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

“I hate you. I hate you for this. For making me like this. For making me live like this. For giving me nothing.”

His shout echoed across the snow-covered field, swallowed by the wind.

“You’re not real,” he spat, voice shaking. “Because if you were—if you were, you’d have done something. You’d have helped me. You wouldn’t have left me here to rot!”

He kicked the ball again—this time hard enough that it slammed into the fence with a heavy clang. He didn’t chase it right away. Just stood there, chest heaving.

“People keep saying you're watching. That you're love. That you're mercy.” He laughed—sharp and bitter. “Where was your mercy when I needed food? When I begged you to make him stop? When I cried so hard I threw up?”

Nothing answered.

Just the cold. Just the snow.

He stormed across the field, picked up the ball, held it like he was going to throw it at the sky.

“But you never showed up. Not once. Not when I asked. Not when I screamed. Not even when I—” He swallowed the rest.

“You’re not real,” he whispered again, softer now. “You were never real. Just a bedtime story. A lie people tell themselves so they don’t feel as fucking abandoned as I do.”

Then—

The church bells began to ring.

Midnight.

Christmas.

A cruel joke.

He looked up at the sound, lips trembling, tears freezing on his cheeks.

“Happy birthday, huh?” he muttered. “What a fucking joke.”

He clutched the ball to his chest and dropped into the snow beside a tree, back hitting the bark like his body had given up. He pulled his knees close and stared into the dark sky.

“Happy birthday, Michael,” he whispered to himself. “No one else is gonna say it.”

The wind picked up. The snow kept falling.

And God, if he was ever there at all, stayed silent.

Snow fell around him like ash, soft and steady, silent as the grave.

He sat there—twelve years old, starving, skin raw from the cold, soul worn thin—and tried not to scream. His breath came in broken clouds, shuddering in the midnight air. His fingers were stiff, barely able to grip the ball he held like a lifeline.

Then the nausea hit again—harder this time.

It wasn’t just hunger. It wasn’t just exhaustion. His body convulsed, a violent wave rolling through his spine, locking his legs up, making him jerk and twist like something inside him was trying to crawl out.

He collapsed to his knees, clutching his ribs, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

Then he felt it.

Movement.

Something slithering against the back of his thighs. Something foreign.

“No—no, no—” he breathed, reaching behind him, grabbing at the air, his back, his hips—desperately trying to find what shouldn’t be there.

His hand hit something smooth.

Something warm.

Something alive.

He yanked away like he’d touched fire.

There it was.

A tail.

Blue. Long. Slick with scales that shimmered faintly under the streetlight glow. Writhing. Moving.

He scrambled backward, fell on his hands, eyes wide, mouth open but no sound came out. Just his breath, harsh and panicked.

“What the fuck,” he whispered. “What the fuck is that. What the fuck is that?!”

“No, this isn’t happening—this isn’t—this is just—fuck, it’s dehydration. It’s—it’s the hunger—hallucinations, right? Right?” He clutched his head, nails digging into his scalp. “Fuck, I haven’t eaten in days, I haven’t slept—this is fake. This is fake. This is fake—”

But the tail twitched.

He felt it.

It moved when he moved.

It was a part of him.

“No—no, no, no, no, please—”

He fumbled inside his jacket with trembling fingers and yanked out the small folding knife he always carried. The blade clicked open with a metallic snap, sharp and cold in his hand.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered, eyes wild. “Not real. It’s not real. It can’t be.”

He gritted his teeth, grabbed the base of the tail with his free hand—

And drove the blade straight into it.

The scream that tore from him didn’t sound human.

Agony ripped through him like wildfire, every nerve ending lighting up at once. Blood—dark, unfamiliar—hit the snow in splatters. The pain was real. Worse than anything he’d felt before.

He dropped the knife.

Collapsed.

Clutching the bleeding wound, sobbing, shaking, gasping between screams.

It was real.

It was real.

Pain was grounding. Pain didn’t lie.

And pain was telling him the truth:

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t hunger or madness.

Something was happening to him.

Something monstrous.

And there was no taking it back.

Kaiser didn’t think. He couldn’t.

The pain was too much—the fear, too real. His tail still throbbed from where the knife bit into it, blood drying against the scales, but it grounded him. Proved this wasn’t a dream. Proved it was happening.

And that was the worst part.

He was terrified. More than he’d ever been in his life. And all he knew—all he understood in that moment—was that he couldn’t go back home. Not like this. Not with this… thing attached to him. Not with a body that wasn’t his anymore.

He wasn’t even sure he had a home. Not really.

If his dad saw this, he’d throw him out. Sell him to the highest bidder. Or worse—just walk away without a word.

And that—being abandoned, truly discarded—was worse than any bruise or broken rib. Pain faded. Loneliness didn’t.

If the government found out? He’d be locked in some underground lab, strapped to a table, poked and sliced open like a science project. Labeled a monster. A threat. A freak.

He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t want to be owned. Not by his father. Not by anyone. He’d spent his whole life being beaten into obedience, talked over, silenced, shoved aside.

He didn’t want to be controlled. He just wanted to exist—to breathe, to move, to feel on his own terms.

And now, when his body had finally become something new, something strange and wild and his…

The world would take even that from him if they could.

He clutched his ball tighter.

No one was going to take this last part of him. Not without a fight.

Kaiser stripped his shirt off with shaking hands, his chest heaving with every breath. He slid the fabric awkwardly over the part where his skin met scale, where his body had betrayed him. Then he wrapped his jacket tight around the bottom half, hiding the tail as best he could.

It didn’t look right.

But it didn’t matter.

He grabbed his ball.

Grabbed the knife, still wet with his own blood.

And crawled.

Through slush and ice. Across cracked sidewalks and behind dumpsters. Past shuttered shops and cold alleyways. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He crawled like a wounded animal. Eyes scanning every shadow, every light. One glimpse from a stranger and it would all be over.

His chest was burning. His knees scraped raw. The ball knocked along beside him, always within reach. His only companion.

Finally, he found it.

The river.

The one he always passed, the one with freezing water and jagged stone banks. It didn’t matter where it led—he just knew it flowed away. Away from the city. Away from the pain. Away from himself.

He slid into it with a gasp, body locking up from the cold. The current was strong, fast. But his tail cut through it like it had a mind of its own. The jacket slipped off somewhere behind him, but he kept swimming. Holding the ball close. Letting the river take him.

Past bridges. Past lights. Past Berlin.

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time blurred.

The river fed into something bigger.

Then bigger still.

Eventually—he reached it.

The sea.

A wide, empty stretch of dark water that spread into nothing. No one in sight. No voices. No footsteps. Just waves crashing against black rocks under the moonlight.

Only then—only then—did he let himself crawl out.

He dragged his body up onto the jagged shore, tail half-numb, arms weak and trembling. He pulled himself behind a set of massive rocks, curling up against the stone like a dying thing.

The wind tore through him. The stars offered no comfort. The waves hissed like they were whispering secrets he wasn’t meant to hear.

And then he cried.

Silent at first. Then harder. Until his shoulders shook, until he couldn’t breathe, until he was gasping for air and sobbing into the crook of his arm like a child.

He held the ball tight against his chest.

It was all he had.

His legs were gone. His body wasn’t his. His home had never been safe. His birthday—the one day he thought maybe he’d matter—had taken everything.

He didn’t want to be a footballer.

He just wanted to play.

He just wanted to feel okay for a while. Wanted something—anything—to love him back.

And now even that was gone.

The sea roared around him.

Kaiser closed his eyes.

Twelve years old.

Alone.

Changed.

Unloved.

Kaiser wiped down his workstation with practiced ease, the familiar motion grounding him as the soft hum of the sterilizer filled the quiet room. His last client had just left, leaving behind the faint scent of antiseptic and fresh ink. It was nearing closing time, the street outside already softening into dusk. Desperado by The Eagles, playing in the background.

He took his time with the cleanup—arranging tools, capping inks, resetting his station just the way he liked it. Everything had its place here. Everything made sense.

He still couldn’t quite believe this place was his. After years of scraping by and taking odd jobs, he’d finally saved enough to open the shop. Government subsidies helped, sure—but it was his work, his blood and sleepless nights that had made it real.

He let his gaze drift around the space. It wasn’t flashy, but it was clean. Warm. Lived-in. The walls bore flashes of his style—bold lines, layered stories in black and color. Each design a fragment of someone’s life. Each one a small rebellion. A mark of choice.

He loved it here. This little sanctuary of ink and skin.

If no more walk-ins showed up, maybe he’d close a bit early. But for now, he moved slowly, deliberately, enjoying the quiet. The calm before the night.

Kaiser was wiping down his station, the last traces of ink and antiseptic catching the low amber light. The ocean breeze seeped in through the cracked window—salt and cool and familiar. He’d always liked closing the shop late, when the streets were quiet and the waves could still be heard in the distance.

He was just capping his ink when the bell over the door jingled.

“Hey,” a voice called out—warm, uncertain. “Am I too late to get something done?”

Kaiser didn’t turn around. “Depends on what you're getting.”

He froze mid-movement. The voice—it was familiar. Not just familiar. Him.

He turned, brows already drawing together.

There he was. Alexis Ness.

And judging by the stunned look on the footballer’s face, this hadn’t been intentional.

“Of course,” the guy muttered, half-laughing. “What are the adds, right? Small island.”

Kaiser didn’t crack a smile. Just wiped his hands on a towel and said flatly, voice cool as stone, “What do you want to get?”

The guy lingered at the doorway for a breath, hesitating like he wasn’t sure he should even be here. Then he stepped fully inside, brushing snow off his jacket, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“I… I’ve had this idea for a while,” he said, voice low but steady. “Kind of personal.”

Kaiser raised a brow but didn’t respond. Just nodded once, a silent go on.

The guy hesitated again, then reached for the hem of his hoodie and tugged it up—revealing pale skin and lean muscle along his left side, just under his ribs.

“I want it here,” the guy said, lifting his hoodie just enough to reveal the left side of his ribcage. “Close to the lungs.”

Kaiser’s eyes flicked to the spot. A subtle nod. No emotion. Just assessment.

“It’s a figure,” the guy continued. “A body. Limp. Like… like they’ve passed out, or drowned. And another pair of hands, wrapping around them. Not forcefully. Just… holding them. Saving them.”

Kaiser’s breath hitched—so slight it could’ve been mistaken for silence.

“Why?” he asked, voice low, too even.

The guy glanced away, scratching the back of his neck. “I nearly drowned once. Years ago. I barely remember it—just flashes. Water. Cold. Everything going dark. And then… hands. Arms pulling me out. Someone was there, I think. Or maybe it was a dream. But I’ve never forgotten the feeling. Like something… someone saved me.”

He touched the ribs gently. “It’s stayed with me. Right here.”

Kaiser didn’t respond. Not at first.

That sensation—of slippery limbs, heavy and limp in his arms—came back to him with cruel clarity. The desperate surge toward the surface. The breathless, aching panic in his own lungs. The way the boy had looked back then—barely alive.

His hands.

He was the one who held him. Kaiser knew it as deeply as he knew the weight of guilt he carried every day. And yet, Ness didn’t. He was just here, asking for a tattoo that immortalized a moment Kaiser never thought anyone else had remembered.

Kaiser looked up from the ribs to his face—so open, so unintentionally kind—and that made it worse.

“...I can do that,” he said at last, voice dry. Clipped.

He turned, walked to his station, and started prepping his tools in practiced silence. Wiped them clean. Adjusted the stencil printer. Anything to give his shaking hands something to do.

Professional. Detached. That’s what he had to be. That’s all he could be.

The kid—Ness, apparently—moved to sit on the chair, settling in like he belonged there. Like this was normal.

Kaiser kept his eyes on his gloves. “You want numbing cream?” he asked, without looking up.

Ness smiled—gentle, easy, trusting in the way people were before the world taught them better. “Nah. I’ve got a high pain tolerance.”

Kaiser didn’t smile back. He never did.

He just nodded, picked up the stencil, and pressed it to skin that didn’t know it had already been touched by him once before. Saved by him. Changed by him.

“Lie still.”

“Sure,” Ness said, relaxing into the chair. “But I’m warning you—I talk when I’m nervous.”

Kaiser didn’t answer. Didn’t tell him that silence was preferable. That kindness made his skin crawl. That being looked at like a person—not a monster—was harder than any needle he held in his hand.

Instead, Kaiser powered on the machine.

The low hum filled the space like a warning, like static building in the air.

“Don’t move,” he said softly, professionally. “And if it gets too much, let me know.”

Ness nodded once and said nothing else.

“Good.”

Kaiser leaned in, needle in hand, and started. The first line broke the skin with ease. Ink bled into flesh. Familiar. Mechanical. Safe.

He didn’t look at Ness’s face. Didn’t want to see if there was a wince, or a smile, or worse—gratitude.

But Ness stayed still. Perfectly so. Barely even breathing too deep, like he understood. Like he knew that the quiet was sacred here.

Some clients needed noise to distract them. Others, silence to carry the weight.

Ness understood silence.

Minutes passed like that. Just the sound of the machine, the occasional wipe of ink, and their breathing. It made the shop feel smaller. More personal than Kaiser liked. Too close.

Kaiser didn’t speak, but his hands were steady. Deliberate. The design took shape: limp torso, slumped, surrendered. And hands—not grabbing, not clutching—but holding. Keeping it afloat. He knew every angle of those fingers. Every curve.

Because they were his.

Because he remembered that night like it never left him.

Ness’s breathing shifted slightly when the needle reached just under the ribs, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. Didn’t fill the silence with small talk the way most people did.

Kaiser glanced up, just for a second. Ness’s jaw was tight, his eyes half-closed, but he wasn’t pretending to be tough. He was just... enduring. Quietly.

There was something almost reverent about it.

Kaiser looked away and continued.

The ink sank deeper than skin.

And for once, silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It felt like memory.

It felt like grief.

It felt like being fifteen again, in the freezing dark, dragging someone to shore and disappearing before anyone could thank him—because he wouldn’t have known what to do with the thanks anyway.

The machine wound down with a low whirr, fading into the heavy quiet that settled between them like dust.

Kaiser set it aside and pulled off his gloves. His hands didn’t shake—but there was tension in them, the kind that lived in the bones. Trauma didn’t scream—it simmered. Tight in the jaw. Locked in the spine. Constant and quiet, like pressure behind the eyes.

He didn’t speak.

Just reached for a cotton pad, soaked it in disinfectant, and leaned in again.

Ness stayed still, breath shallow as Kaiser gently wiped the fresh ink. The sting bit into his ribs, but he didn’t flinch. The warmth of skin beneath Kaiser’s gloved hands made something flutter in Ness’s chest—not attraction, not exactly. Something older. Memory-shaped.

Kaiser’s expression never changed. Focused. Distant. Like this was just work, and work was the only safe place he had left.

Next came the ointment. A small amount, rubbed in with practiced care. Efficient. Almost cold, if it weren’t for the precision of it—every motion deliberate, not a single one wasted.

“Keep it clean,” Kaiser murmured, voice low. “Mild soap. No scrubbing. Don’t submerge it for a few days.”

Ness nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Kaiser reached for the cling film, wrapped it gently around Ness’s torso, anchoring it with gauze and tape. When he finished, Ness shifted toward the mirror in the corner, lifting his shirt slowly to get a better look.

He was quiet for a few moments.

Then:

“…Wow.”

Kaiser stayed where he was, gloves discarded, arms loosely crossed. His expression unreadable, as always.

Ness turned slightly, examining the way the hands curved around the limp figure on his ribs, the soft tension in the fingers, the gentleness in the hold. Somehow, the tattoo looked both heavy and weightless—like memory.

“This is… beautiful,” Ness said, his voice quiet. Honest in a way that couldn’t be faked. “It’s exactly how it felt. I don’t even know how you did that.”

Kaiser blinked. Once. Slowly.

“Years of practice,” he said, flat.

Ness smiled at him in the mirror. “You’re really talented.”

Kaiser didn’t answer. Compliments never sat right with him. He didn’t know where to put them. They always felt like someone trying to give him something he didn’t deserve.

Instead, he started cleaning up.

Ness watched him for a second, then glanced back at the mirror.

“…What’s your name?” he asked, gently this time. Not pushy. Not prying. Just soft curiosity.

Kaiser paused mid-wipe, rag hanging from one hand. His shoulders went still.

“…Why?”

Ness shrugged, sheepish. “You just put something permanent on my ribs. Feels wrong not to know who did it.”

Kaiser gave the faintest, almost imperceptible snort. Not quite a laugh. More like something bitter scraping the back of his throat.

“I don’t make friends with my clients,” he said, voice low. Not harsh. Just… closed.

Ness hesitated. “…I wasn’t trying to be friends. Just—wanted to say thank you. Properly.”

That gave Kaiser pause. His hand stilled over a bottle of ointment, fingers curling slightly around it.

He didn’t lift his head. Just said, flatly:

“…Michael Kaiser.”

Ness nodded. “Kaiser,” he repeated, quietly, as if trying the name on his tongue.

A beat passed.

Ness blinked. “Thank you, Michael,” he echoed. “Nice to meet you, officially.”

Kaiser finally looked at him then. Really looked—just for a second. Eyes cool, unreadable, but something old lived behind them. Like he’d seen too much. Like kindness confused him. Kaiser looked away. Tossed the used rag in the bin.

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. Not cruel—just distant. Like gratitude was a thing he couldn’t hold without it burning.

Ness didn’t press. Just lowered his shirt gently, mindful of the wrap. He lingered a breath longer, then headed toward the door.

“Still,” he said with a small smile, glancing back. “It means a lot. Take care, Michael.”

The bell chimed softly as the door closed behind him.

Kaiser stood there for a long while, surrounded by silence and the scent of disinfectant, staring at nothing.

The name on Ness’s lips echoed louder than it should have.

Michael.

He hadn’t heard it spoken like that in years. Not gently. Not kindly.

And never by someone he once pulled from the dark.

Fresh out of the shower, Ness stood in front of the mirror, his fingers tracing the contours of his new tattoo. The ink felt alive on his skin, as if Michael had reached into his very soul, ripped it open, and studied every piece before he ever touched the needle. It wasn’t just a design. It was a memory, a feeling—something visceral, something Michael had understood in a way Ness couldn’t quite explain.

He didn’t know if getting the tattoo had been an impulsive decision or more of a memorial. Maybe it was a bit of both. What he did know was that it gave him a sense of closure. The nightmares, the suffocating fear, had started to fade. He could almost breathe again. His soul felt a little less haunted. And the idea of living with that weight forever—of being trapped in his past—was becoming a little more bearable.

He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated when the curls wouldn’t cooperate. “Damn curly mess,” he muttered under his breath. With a quick sigh, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, a compression shirt, and some running shoes. Off-season or not, he wasn’t about to slack off. Movement, activity—it was the only thing that kept the darkness from closing in.

Ness didn’t have a destination in mind. He let his subconscious guide him, his feet moving on their own, pulling him away from the crowds and the tourists, further into the quiet spaces he often sought. Before long, he found himself at an open field, far from the usual hustle and bustle. But what caught his eye made his breath hitch in his throat.

It was Michael. Again. Playing football.

This was getting strange. This wasn’t a coincidence anymore. This was the fourth time they’d crossed paths—four times, without intention, without planning. Ness didn’t know what to make of it, but he felt something stirring in his chest, a strange mix of curiosity and unease.

Is this fate? Or is it just... too much?

He wasn’t sure whether he should approach him. Was he supposed to speak? Or was he just... another stranger to Michael? Should he act like it was all random, let it go as if it didn’t mean anything?

Ness paused for a moment, standing there, before shaking his head.

Fuck it.

He walked up, the sound of his sneakers crunching softly against the grass. When Michael glanced up, he raised a hand in greeting.

“Good morning,” Ness said, his voice warmer than he expected. He gave a light wave, then added with a small but genuine smile, “I know I’ve said this before, but... you’re really good.”

He didn’t know why he said it, but he felt a pull toward Michael—something beyond the shared moments, something beyond the tattoo. It was like Michael, in all his quiet mystery, had a way of shifting the air around him. And now, standing in front of him again, Ness wasn’t sure if it was just chance anymore. Or if, for some reason, their paths were meant to cross—again and again.

Michael didn’t stop juggling the ball at first. The rhythm of it—sharp, controlled, relentless—matched the air around him. Ness stood still, watching him move like he was made for this, like the ball was an extension of his body.

Then Michael let it fall, trapping it under his foot without looking up.

“Morning,” he said, his tone dry but not dismissive.

Ness stepped closer, brushing curls from his forehead. “I know I’ve said this before, but you’re really good.”

Michael didn’t respond at first. Just nudged the ball with his foot, letting it roll forward in slow circles like it was something fragile, not leather and air.

“I mean it,” Ness added, quieter now. “I know you don’t play for a club. Still think you could.”

That earned him a glance—brief, unreadable. “I don’t need to be in a club to play.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Silence settled between them. Not heavy, not light either. Just… there. Ness didn’t mind it as much anymore. He’d gotten used to Michael’s quiet. It wasn’t cold, just distant. Like he was constantly trying to make sure no one got too close.

Ness folded his arms, shifting his weight. “I went for a run this morning. Didn’t plan to come here. Kind of just… ended up.”

Michael’s foot stilled against the ball. “Lucky me.”

It sounded sarcastic. But not cruel.

Ness smiled a little. “Yeah, fate’s starting to have a weird sense of humor.”

Still no smile from Michael. Just a blink. “Or it hates you.”

That pulled a laugh out of Ness, even if Michael didn’t laugh with him. “Could be that too.”

Michael turned away slightly, adjusting his stance before kicking the ball lightly again. His expression stayed unreadable—stern, closed off, but not unkind. Ness could see how carefully he kept himself pulled together, like something might shatter if he loosened his grip on it.

“I checked the tattoo this morning,” Ness said suddenly, voice softer. “It’s… it’s perfect. Like you saw it exactly how I felt it. I don’t know how you do that.”

Michael didn’t look at him. “It’s just ink.”

“No,” Ness said, shaking his head. “It’s not. Not the way you did it.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Michael turned his gaze toward the horizon, the ocean stretching behind him like a secret.

Ness let the quiet hang between them. He didn’t mind silences, not with Michael. There was something about the way he carried it—like it wasn’t avoidance, but armor.

Still, his voice came out gentle. “You always come out here alone?”

Michael gave a small shrug, just one shoulder. “I don’t like people watching me.”

“I get that,” Ness said, eyes tracking the ocean too. “Sometimes I don’t even like being seen.”

Michael didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either.

Ness let out a breath and tilted his head toward the narrow path that led back toward the cliffs. “I was gonna keep running for a bit. Nothing serious, just clearing my head. Want to come with?”

Michael looked at him then. Really looked. Not with surprise, but with suspicion. Like Ness had just offered him something sharp dressed in velvet.

“I don’t run for fun.”

Ness gave a small grin. “It’s not fun. That’s kind of the point.”

Michael’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked down—toward Ness’s shoes, the faint gleam of sweat still at his temples, the calm set in his shoulders. Something about it felt honest. Uncomplicated.

And still, Michael hesitated. Everything in him was wired for solitude, for the preservation of quiet spaces he could control. But this boy—this man—had shown up four times now, like gravity didn’t give him a choice. And worse, he never asked for anything more than what Michael was willing to give.

He hated how that made him feel. Like something was thawing, and he hadn’t given it permission.

“…Fine,” he said finally, low. “Just don’t talk.”

Ness raised his hands in surrender, still smiling, soft around the edges. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

And so they ran—quiet, side by side.

Two figures against the jagged edge of the sea, the wind biting their cheeks, the salt air thick between breaths. They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t speak.

But for the first time in a long time, Kaiser didn’t feel like he had to run from something.

He was just running.

And Ness, a few steps ahead, wasn’t smiling anymore. Not out of sadness, but because he could feel it too—that maybe, just maybe, this silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was the start of something. He just didn’t know what yet.

Kaiser was sprawled out on the grass, back flat against the earth, legs dangling lazily off the edge of the cliff like he had nothing better to do than tempt fate. His arms were folded behind his head, the rocky edge digging slightly into his elbows. The late afternoon breeze was cool, carrying the scent of salt and distant fish, and below him, the waves smacked against the cliffside like they were trying to sing him a lullaby with bad rhythm.

Sometimes, in moments like this, Kaiser thought he could hear the sea talking. Not in words, but in groans and sighs. A language only those damned to it could understand. He used to hate what he turned into when he touched the water. But now… now the ocean was the only place that didn’t demand things from him. It didn’t expect him to speak, or smile, or explain. Down there, he was untouchable.

Naturally, that meant someone was about to ruin it.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Kaiser heard the footsteps before he saw them. Light, a little uneven. Rustling plastic accompanied them. He knew that sound. That was the sound of intentional disturbance. His eyes stayed shut.

“Yo, Michael!”

There it was. The voice. Too bright for this hour. Too bright for any hour. Ness.

Kaiser sighed quietly through his nose.

He didn’t even look up when Ness appeared beside him. Just registered a plastic bag being dropped directly onto his chest. He cracked one eye open.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner,” Ness said, flopping down beside him with the grace of a Labrador retriever trying to sit like a person. “Saw you laying there all ‘I hate the world’ and thought, wow, that man needs a slice of pepperoni and some love.”

Kaiser shifted slightly, just enough to make room without looking like he was doing it on purpose. Ness took the invitation immediately, plopping down cross-legged next to him with a dumb grin, holding two cans.

"You mentioned liking Coke. So I got it for you," Ness said, offering one over as he popped open his own. "Even though Fanta is obviously superior in every way — but I guess we all have flaws."

Kaiser stiffened for a fraction of a second, gaze flicking to the offered can. The condensation clung to the metal, cold and glistening — and his chest tightened.
Even the smallest contact with water, anything liquid...
He didn’t move to take it.

Ness, undeterred, just set the can down beside him without a fuss, cracking a loud sip from his own. Like he hadn’t even noticed. Like he didn't mind.

Kaiser exhaled quietly through his nose, masking the tightness in his gut, and let the moment pass.
He waited — patience carved sharp and thin inside him — until the can’s surface was dry to the touch before finally picking it up.

He stared at it like it had personally offended him. "You're wrong."

"Wrong or tragically misinformed?" Ness grinned around a mouthful of pizza.

"You're annoying."

"I'm persistent. That's different."

Kaiser didn't answer. He just popped the tab and took a slow, cautious sip, eyes flickering sideways as Ness demolished the pizza like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

This had become a thing, lately. Ness showing up out of nowhere. Always with food. Always with some kind of commentary. Sometimes at the shop, sometimes here. Kaiser didn’t know what the hell it was supposed to mean. Some weird social ritual? A sad attempt at bonding? A bribe? Either way, he hadn’t told him to stop.

He hated gifts. No matter how small. They always came with expectations.

But… he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that wasn’t a granola bar or leftover noodles. Was it yesterday? The day before? He didn’t do it on purpose. Living was just exhausting sometimes.

“You know,” Ness said, chewing with absolutely no self-consciousness, “you have resting ‘I’ve killed before and I’ll do it again’ face. But I think deep down, you’re just a big soggy cat.”

Kaiser blinked slowly. “You’re going to fall off this cliff if you keep talking.”

“Would you catch me?”

“No. I’d let gravity do its thing and then tell everyone it was a tragic case of natural selection.”

“Harsh.”

Kaiser took another bite of pizza. Chewed. Swallowed. Didn’t say a word.

But his shoulder had tilted ever so slightly toward Ness.

Kaiser lay on the sand, far enough from the reach of the waves that only the faintest mist kissed the tips of his boots. In one hand, he held an old, weighty tome: Liber Maritimae Hereditatis, dated somewhere in the 1800s. He didn’t know much about his bloodline—hell, he barely knew anything about himself. Just an old woman in a dim Berlin bookstore who’d shoved a stack of “mythical histories” into his arms and sworn there was truth buried in them. Maybe there was. Maybe there wasn’t. Either way, this was all he had.

The book was heavy, bound in something that resembled fossilized leather, hard and dark, veined with faint iridescence. It shimmered faintly like embedded nacre, especially under the dying sun. The emblem at the center of the cover—a spiral shell wrapped in curling wave motifs—was carved so deeply it seemed to pulse.

Liber Maritimae Hereditatis. The title gleamed in deep, blue-gold ink, like sunlight breaking through deep water. The book smelled like kelp, salt, old wood, and forgotten wrecks. Its pages were thick, uneven, bordered in tarnished silver, inked with curling script that still shone dark, as though freshly drawn in squid ink. Water damage curled some edges. Others bore anatomical sketches of deep-sea beasts, merfolk genealogies, and archaic sigils that glowed faintly under touch.

Kaiser read slowly, turning each page like it was made of glass. When he was alone, it was easier to admit things. Like how he didn’t know where he came from. Like how he wasn’t even sure if he missed a past he never had. Loneliness had been with him longer than memory. He didn’t know what it felt like to be held, to be kept. Still, here by the sea, he could breathe without pretending.

The sun had dipped lower by the time he reached Chapter XIII —

Relatio in fragmentis conservata ex archivis Classis Britannicae, circiter anno 145 A.D., sub imperio Antonini Pii.

"In provinciis septentrionalibus ultra magnam oram Caledoniae, naves nostrae contactum cum vicis piscatorum in foedere cum Imperio fecerunt. Mercatura firma mansit usque ad tertium annum praesentiae nostrae. Nuntii ex stationibus litoraneis afferuntur: disparitio turmarum piscatorum, retia laniata ultra reparationem, et umbrae magnae sub aqua contra flumen visae.

Incolae referebant conspectus figurae pallidae crepusculo — altae, tacitae, humanae specie sed motibus inconditis et odore salsedinis. Loqui nesciebant, sed e saxis et fluctibus spectabant. Initio gentes hostiles suspicabamur. Excubiae duplicatae sunt. Tamen casus creverunt.

Vere anni sequentis, patrola ex Portu Trucculensi reliquias vici iuxta aquas gelidas reperit. Harena cruore tincta erat; corpora semisepulta in aestu inventa sunt, laniata non ferramentis, sed manibus vel ossibus. Nullae res pretiosae sublatae. Nihil incensum. Unica inscriptio in lapide basaltico iuxta portum incisa:
‘Avaritia hominum eos perdet.’

Contactus certus cum oppugnatoribus non est factus. Verisimiliter sunt humani — aut olim fuerunt. Formae similes nostris, sed deformatae. Cutis candens, oculi lati et immobiles, animus infestus ac deliberatus. Nec terras nec merces petunt. Solum piscatione frequente impetum faciunt.

Ab incolis “Naufragi” aut “Sale Nati” appellantur. Nulla gens eos agnoscit. Fortasse reliquiae sunt culturae septentrionalis demersae — prae-Romanae vel ignotae gentis maritimae.
Inquisitio ulterior differtur donec classis roboratur. Damna directo ad praefectum classis referenda sunt.

Report preserved in fragments from the archives of the Classis Britannica, c. 145 A.D., under the reign of Antoninus Pius.

In the northern provinces beyond the great coast of Caledonia, our vessels made contact with fishing settlements allied to the Empire. Trade was stable until the third year of our presence. Reports began to arrive from coastal posts: the disappearance of entire fishing crews, nets torn beyond repair, and large shadows seen beneath the surface of the water, moving against the current.

The locals described sightings of pale-skinned figures at twilight — tall, silent, and humanoid in form but with unnatural movements and a stench of brine. They did not speak, but watched from the rocks and surf. We initially suspected hostile tribes. Patrols were doubled. Still, the incidents increased.

In the spring of the following year, a patrol from Portus Trucculensis discovered the remains of a village near the frozen shallows. The sand was soaked with blood; bodies were found half-buried in the tide, showing signs of tearing, not with tools, but with hands or bone. No valuables were taken. Nothing was burned. The only message left behind was carved into a basalt stone near the docks:
‘The greed of men will be their ruin.’

No confirmed contact was made with the assailants. However, they are presumed to be human — or formerly so. Their features are described as similar to our own, yet distorted. Skin bleached, eyes wide and unblinking, with a hostility that suggests deliberate retaliation. They do not take land, nor goods. They attack only when fishing is abundant.

The locals refer to them as the “Drowned Ones” or “Saltborn.” No tribe claims them. It is possible they are remnants of a drowned northern culture — perhaps pre-Roman, or a maritime people lost to history.
Further investigation is suspended until naval reinforcements arrive. Losses are to be reported directly to the praefectus classis.

Kaiser stared at the page long after he’d finished reading, his blue eyes distant and unfocused, lashes still and heavy over the carved Latin lines. The words had an old weight to them, heavier than anything he'd ever read in a history textbook. This wasn’t some sanitized imperial report—it was a record of something the sea refused to forget.

"Saltborn," he mouthed again.

It didn’t feel like fiction. It felt like a warning. A memory. A myth built on something real and angry and drowned.

He thought about the figures—tall, silent, watching. Watching always. He couldn’t say why, but he understood the image too well. That idea of living under the surface, unseen and unclaimed. Detached from history, feral with purpose, forgotten by everyone except the tide. Maybe that's what struck him—their vengeance wasn't about conquest or greed. It was survival with teeth. Purpose without mercy.

He let out a breath, slow and tight, lips parting just enough to murmur, “Why haven’t I met anyone like that?” Like them. Like him. He was used to beasts dressed as men, to people who wore masks because their real faces were too empty. But these creatures… they weren’t pretending to be anything. And maybe, just maybe, that was the terrifying part.

For a second, he wondered—what would he be if no one had ever tried to civilize him? If he’d grown up fully submerged beneath that kind of darkness? If no one had ever tried to mold him into someone useful, presentable, sellable.

He ran his thumb along the Latin script, mouthing the lines under his breath, when he felt a dull thump beside him. Sand sprayed across his cheek.

He grimaced, spitting it out. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Ness said, already grinning as if that were enough. He stood over Kaiser like a shadow that refused to leave.

Kaiser didn’t need to look. He already knew the voice. Knew the cadence. Ness always talked like he wanted to be liked. Like he needed it.

“You stalking me now?” Kaiser asked, slipping a shell between the pages to mark his place.

“Nope,” Ness replied, unconvincing. “Just a coincidence.”

Kaiser snorted, flat and unimpressed. “Right.”

“I mean it. I was going for a run to clear my head and saw you. Thought I’d say hi.”

He had that expression again—eyes too wide, too eager. Like he was staring at something beautiful he didn’t understand. Kaiser didn’t flinch from the attention, but he didn’t welcome it either.

He’d seen the look before. A dog looking for a master. Ness didn’t hide it—he liked him. For some reason, he liked this. And Kaiser… found it curious. Not endearing. Just curious. What was Ness hoping to get? Warmth? Recognition? A place?

Kaiser had none of those things to give.

“What are you reading?” Ness asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

That didn’t stop him. He crouched down anyway, squinting at the book like it was some kind of museum piece.

“Liber Maritimae Hereditatis,” he read aloud. “Book of Maritime Heritage, right? Huh. Didn’t peg you for the ocean mythology type.”

Kaiser raised a brow. “Didn’t peg you for someone who could read Latin.”

“Bro, my parents were insane about classical education. Latin, physics, math, the whole package. Total mad scientist household. Childhood was wild.”

Kaiser smirked faintly. “And now you chase balls for a living.”

“Exactly. My rebellion arc.” Ness flopped down beside him with a content sigh. “So… why this book?”

“It interests me,” Kaiser said, flipping it shut.

Ness tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah, but why?”

Kaiser stared at the horizon, the weight of the silence filling the space between them. He didn’t owe anyone answers. Not to Ness, not to anyone. But there was something about Ness’s tone—calm, curious, not prying but genuinely seeking to understand—that made it harder to brush off. Kaiser didn’t look at him when he spoke.

“I don’t know anything about where I come from,” he said flatly, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “So maybe I’m trying to imagine it.”

“Oh.” Ness hesitated, then spoke, his words spilling out a little faster than intended. “That makes sense. I get it. I mean—I don’t really know myself either, not completely. I know who I am, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like I do. Like... the person I show the world isn’t really me, you know?”

Kaiser blinked, processing Ness’s words, but the response didn’t come easily. He was unused to this kind of honesty. “No. I don’t.”

Ness chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as if to shake off the tension. “Okay, okay, fair. But I’m serious, you know? I get how it feels to not really know where you fit in.”

Kaiser didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure how to reply. But his gaze was still distant, and the quiet stretched on between them like a taut rope.

“Look, I’m kind of into strange stuff too,” Ness continued, breaking the silence with an almost vulnerable laugh. “Like magic. I’ve read the Harry Potter books four times. I watch the movies every year.”

Kaiser turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “You… voluntarily read those books. Four times?”

Ness raised four fingers, as if they were some kind of trophy. “Yeah, judge me all you want.”

“I am.”

“Good. Someone should.” Ness’s grin was wide, self-deprecating, but it carried an openness that Kaiser didn’t see often. “But seriously, I get the ocean stuff. Creepier than I thought, but still... cool.”

Kaiser exhaled through his nose, cracking the book open again. His voice was lower this time, almost reverent. “They are not as men, though they wear the shape of men…”

He read the passage aloud in Latin, the words flowing through the air like a forgotten chant. The wind seemed to listen too—its whisper tangling with the eerie descriptions of brine-born beings, coral rising in twisted beauty, lightning obeying the pull of ancient blood.

Ness lay back, listening, his face turned toward the sky, caught between awe and confusion. “That’s… weirdly poetic,” he murmured, the wonder in his voice real. “You really like this stuff?”

Kaiser didn’t look at him, his focus still on the page. “I like things that don’t pretend to be human.”

That made Ness pause. He stayed quiet for a moment, considering, then let out a slow breath before letting his body sink back into the sand, arms folded behind his head. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

Kaiser didn’t reply. The air was thick with the unspoken. He skimmed his eyes across the page, but the silence between them felt… different. Not like an absence, but a shared space that was no longer uncomfortable.

For once, the quiet wasn’t something to escape.

Ness… He ‘s kinda a weirdo.

It was around nine in the evening, and Ness was bored out of his mind.

He’d just finished a long gaming session with Theo and Ali—and don’t get him wrong, he loved them, but they were like emotional espresso shots. Chaos in voice chat. Always loud, always clowning. It was fun until it wasn’t. He had them saved as “Energy Demon 1” and “Energy Demon 2” in his contacts for a reason.

Should I go for another run?
He considered it for a second before immediately shooting the idea down. Too much effort. His legs were still dead from the last one, and the couch was way too comfortable. So instead, he threw on a hoodie and decided to hit the corner shop.

One drink, he told himself.

Twenty minutes later, he was walking back with a döner, a Fanta, a family-sized bag of chips, and enough candy to kill a small horse.

If my dietician saw me like this, he’d cry.
Or worse—lecture him. Again.

Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the familiar open space he and Michael had started gravitating toward. A quiet spot away from the tourists, the noise, the city buzz. Just sky, sea, and air. He hadn’t really meant to come here—but his body seemed to know the way now. It had become routine.

The last few mornings had carved a kind of rhythm into his days. Michael played football like clockwork—early, serious, quiet. And Ness, who needed to stay in shape during the off-season, ran into him. Literally, the first time. Now it was part of the day.
Ness ran. He spotted Michael. Said hello. Pestered him into joining the run. Michael grumbled, rolled his eyes, pretended to resist… then fell into step beside him.

Afterward, Ness would drag them both to a bakery or a café and buy something—coffee, juice, warm bread—some tiny compensation for dragging Michael out of his lonely football spiral.
Then they'd always end up here.

Same bench. Same quiet spot. Not too close to the sea.

Ness didn’t go near the water.

He couldn’t—not really.

So instead, he sat at the bench, unwrapped his döner, and stared at the waves from a distance, the salty breeze tugging at his curls.

He sat back on the bench, chewing absentmindedly on his döner, the wrappers crinkling softly in the breeze. The sky was painted in hues of navy and fading peach, and the sea mirrored every bit of it—still, alive, unknowable.

Michael wasn’t here.

Yet.

Ness exhaled, letting his gaze drift across the open space, toward the patch of field where they'd usually meet—where Michael would be kicking a ball around like he had no one else in the world to pass to. That thought made his chest pinch a little.

Michael Kaiser was… hard to figure out.

Cold, most of the time. Distant, even when he was right beside you. He didn’t talk unless he had to, didn’t laugh easily, didn’t ask questions back. But he listened—more than Ness expected. And every now and then, he’d say something dry, offhanded, and unexpectedly honest that made Ness stop and stare at him like, who are you, really?

He had walls. Thick ones. Ness could see them, could feel them like glass—transparent but unbreakable. And yet, Michael still… stayed. He let Ness talk. Let him drag him on runs. Let him buy him things. Didn’t push him away.

It was strange. But nice.

And Ness had noticed something else, too. Something Michael didn’t realize was showing.

He had a soft spot for the ocean.

No matter how aloof he seemed, the second they got near the water, something in him… shifted. He would go quiet in a different way—not like he was avoiding conversation, but like he was listening for something only he could hear. Watching the waves like they held the answer to everything. Like they’d swallowed a piece of him once, and he was still waiting for it to wash back.

It was subtle. But Ness noticed.

In those brief, quiet mornings they’d shared, Ness had come to a quiet conclusion. Michael loved three things.

The ocean.
Football.
And his tattoo shop.

He talked about none of them openly—but you could see it in the way he moved. The way he touched a ball like it was a sixth limb. The way he kept his workspace surgical, clean, reverent. The way he looked at the sea like it held his soul.

It was absolutely adorable.
In that tragically sad, tightly-wound kind of way.

Ness wasn’t sure what he was doing with these thoughts. He didn’t even know what this whole thing between them was. But there was something about Michael that tugged at him. Quietly. Constantly.

Even now, when he wasn’t there.

Ness pulled his knees up onto the bench, resting his arms over them, chewing slower.

“Where the hell are you, sea boy,” he mumbled under his breath, a tiny smile curling on his lips.

And just then—he heard footsteps.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

Ness didn’t turn right away.
He didn’t have to.

The footsteps grew louder until Michael finally came into view—hood up, hands buried in his jacket pockets, a faint flush on his cheeks from the cold or maybe the walk. He didn’t say anything. Just wordlessly sat down beside Ness, the space between them barely there but still cautious, unassuming.

Ness tilted his head slightly, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “This is the first time you came to me, y’know,” he said, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Every other time, it was me chasing after you.”

Michael didn’t respond.

He just stared at the ocean, unmoving, the silver moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair as the wind swept past. He looked like he belonged to the sea—cut from the tide itself. Not really human. Not really reachable. Like a siren from some half-forgotten legend, the kind that didn’t sing but simply stared, and still somehow dragged you under.

Ness swallowed. He wasn’t sure what made the moment feel so heavy, but he felt it in his ribs.

Quietly, without saying anything, he tore his döner in half and held one piece out.

Michael looked at it like it was a trap.

His brows furrowed, lips parting like he might protest—but after a second, he took it. Awkwardly. Like it physically hurt to accept something that didn’t have a price tag attached.

Ness tried not to smile.

Michael glanced at him, suspicious. “What are you doing here so late?”

Ness took a bite, chewed, and shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first,” Michael said flatly, turning his eyes back to the waves.

Ness huffed a quiet laugh. “Touché.”

A few minutes passed in silence. Not uncomfortable, not quite peaceful either—just... full. Like both of them were thinking too loudly in their own heads but didn’t mind the other being there for it.

Then Ness glanced sideways again, his voice softer now. “Do you always come here at night?”

Michael didn’t answer right away. When he did, it wasn’t really an answer. “It’s quiet when no one’s around.”

“You like the sea,” Ness said.

Michael gave him a look. Not annoyed—more like he was surprised it was noticed.

“You look at it,” Ness added. “Like it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Michael didn’t respond. But that kind of silence was an answer too.

Ness leaned back, letting the night air fill his lungs. He didn’t push for more.

Sometimes, he thought, you didn’t need to hear the full story to feel it.

And sitting next to Michael now—watching him breathe in the sea like it was the only thing keeping him alive—he could feel it. All of it.

Whatever it was, it was deep. Maybe unspoken. But it was there.

Just like him.

Right here.

Quiet.

And not leaving.

They ate in silence, the paper wrapping from the döner crinkling softly as they chewed, the waves behind them lapping against the rocks in a slow, steady rhythm. The air was cool, tinged with salt. Ness didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words. Michael didn’t either.

It was… nice.

It didn’t feel like Michael was preparing to bolt at any moment. He seemed still. Present. And maybe that was what made Ness relax a little too much.

He moved to reach for his drink—Fanta, naturally—and misjudged his grip. The bottle tipped. Orange soda splashed out in a sharp arc.

It hit Michael straight across his thigh and hip.

“Shit—! Fuck, I’m so sorry—” Ness jumped up, already grabbing napkins, panic in his voice.

But Michael had frozen.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at the wet stain like it wasn’t soda at all—like it was something far worse. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, curled into fists.

Then—he bolted.

No warning. No sound.

Just turned on his heel and sprinted.

Ness stood there, stunned, his half-eaten food forgotten on the bench. “What the fuck?”

He didn’t chase. Couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move. All he could do was watch the spot where Michael had been a moment ago.

The panic in the guy’s face hadn’t been about a ruined pair of pants.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

Like the soda wasn’t just soda.

Like it meant danger.

Like it triggered something buried under the surface.

Ness sat down slowly, heart racing now for a completely different reason. He stared at the crumpled napkins in his hands.

He had no idea what just happened.

But one thing was clear—Michael Kaiser wasn’t just mysterious.

He was scared.

Of something.

And Ness didn’t know how to fix it.

Kaiser barely had time to think—only the sharp shock of cold liquid hitting his leg, the scent of citrus clinging to his skin, and then the telltale pull.

That horrifying, gut-twisting pull in his spine.

He didn’t wait.

Couldn’t.

His body was already reacting, cells shifting, bones cracking silently beneath the skin. His legs ached, heat blooming under his knees like fire racing toward inevitability.

He sprinted.

The beach was only meters away.

Twenty seconds.

That’s all he ever had.

He tore through the sand, ripped off his soaked hoodie mid-run, and dove.

Mid-air, he felt it—skin tightening, scales blooming, the bones of his feet dissolving into something long and fluid. The impact with the water sent a shock through his nerves, but by the time he broke the surface again, his legs were gone.

Tail. Long. Fast. Heavy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed into the sea, his voice lost in the churning waves as he shot forward, slicing through the current.

He didn’t stop until the shore was a shimmer behind him.

His heart was slamming against his ribcage. Gills fluttering. Fingers clenched.

It had been so close.

Too close.

If I had been any farther from the ocean…

He didn’t finish the thought.

Because he knew what would’ve happened.

It wouldn’t have just been Ness standing there, confused and apologizing. It would’ve been Ness watching in horror as Kaiser’s legs twisted into something monstrous right in front of him.

He would’ve seen it.

Seen all of me.

And no matter how many times fate decided to tangle their paths, Kaiser knew one thing with certainty:

If anyone ever saw what he really was— He wouldn’t survive it, he really wouldn’t.

So Kaiser swam. He swam. Hard. Fast. Like he could outpace the panic in his chest.

The saltwater soothed him the way nothing else ever could—cool against his skin, familiar around his limbs, the currents threading through his hair like fingers. He exhaled slowly, letting the air leave his lungs in bubbles that floated to the surface, and sank deeper into the blue. The pressure wrapped around him like a weighted blanket, grounding.

The deeper he went, the quieter the world became.

No voices. No accidents. No one to see him. Just the sway of seaweed, the flicker of fish weaving past him like silver threads, and the muted lullaby of the tide whispering against stone.

Down here, he wasn’t a mistake.

Down here, he was. He was allowed to just be.

His tail moved in smooth, practiced strokes, propelling him through a coral thicket and past a school of curious fish that darted in and out of the light. He rolled onto his back for a moment, letting the moonlight ripple through the water above, hair blooming around his head like black ink.

This was home.

Not the small apartment above his tattoo shop, not the dim kitchen or creaky floorboards. Not even the warmth of his machines or the smell of disinfectant.

No. This.

The ocean knew him. Held him. Had never tried to change him.

He passed through a hidden crevice in the rock wall, diving lower into a trench only he knew how to navigate. It narrowed into a tunnel, a jagged corridor cloaked in darkness—twisting and tight. He moved through it with the grace of repetition, his hand grazing the slick rock as he swam. The walls grew warmer the deeper he went.

And then it opened up.

The cave.

His cave.

A hollow space carved beneath what used to be a volcano, long dormant, long abandoned. Magma tunnels curled and wound above like veins, long dried and cracked, framing the massive cavern with black stone and glowing moss. Pockets of trapped air allowed him to surface, breathe when he needed to. But most of the time, he didn’t need to.

There were little things scattered around. Shells. A net he'd hauled from a wreck. A tattered hoodie once left near the shore. Even a weathered photograph in a waterproof frame, sealed with resin, its image faded beyond recognition.

He swam to his usual corner and let himself float there, resting on the soft bed of sand.

His fingers shook a little.

Ness.

He has to go.

Kaiser closed his eyes and let the ocean cradle him.

He’d gotten too close. Too many accidents. Too many coincidences.

The guy had kindness in his eyes—and kindness was the most dangerous thing of all. That’s what broke through armor. That’s what found the broken places and filled them without asking permission.

No more.

He couldn’t let himself slip. Couldn’t get soft.

Because one wrong move, one wrong spill, and everything he’d hidden, everything he’d fought to control, would surface like a monster rising from the deep.

Kaiser wasn’t ready to be seen.

Not really.

And certainly not by someone like Ness.

Ness was supposed to be on a flight back to Munich.

Right now, he should be in the sky, eating stale airport food and joking around with Theo and Ali over text. He had plans. He had a schedule. A life. He was supposed to go back.

But here he was.

In this goddamned city that had sunk its claws into him. That wouldn't let go. That kept pulling him back, over and over. It wasn’t just coincidence anymore—it was something else. It felt like fate. Like obsession. Like madness.

And Michael—fuck, Michael—had vanished.

Three days. Three days since the incident. Since the doner. Since he spilled his drink and Michael bolted like he was on fire.

The shop was still closed. Lights off, door locked, blinds drawn. Ness had gone by twice a day like a ghost, each time hoping for even a shadow through the frosted glass. Nothing.

Ghosted. Full-blown, cold-blooded ghosted.

It shouldn’t sting this much. He didn’t even know him.

But Michael had seen him. Treated him like a person, not a brand. Not a name. And even with all the walls he kept up, even with the sarcasm and eye rolls and clipped sentences, he’d made Ness feel… safe.

And now he was just gone.

So Ness made himself a promise. One more try. One more day. And then he’d walk away.

He wandered. For hours. The sun started sinking and his legs hurt and his throat was dry and his heart was so goddamn tired. He didn’t know where he was going anymore, just that something in him was pulling forward.

And when he looked up—

He froze.

No. No, no. Not here. Not this place.

His heart twisted painfully. He could barely breathe. His stomach dropped.

The cove.

That hidden place—the one from that night. The one he hadn’t dared to return to. The rocks, the sand, the whisper of the waves. He’d almost died here.

His vision blurred, breath hitching in his throat as his feet started moving backward, stumbling on instinct. “No, no, fuck, not again, not—”

His heel caught the edge of a loose rock.

He went tumbling, arms flailing—and then down.

Hard.

“Shit—” A sharp crack sounded when his body hit the cave floor, landing with a pained grunt. He blinked against the disorientation, his head pounding, palms scraped. Everything was spinning.

“What the—fuck,” he gasped, dragging himself upright.

He was in a cavern. Wide, hollow, volcanic in shape—damp air, glittering walls, and in the center, a deep pool connected to the ocean through some kind of tunnel. It felt ancient. Sacred.

Wrong.

He backed into a wall, hands shaking, panic clawing up his throat.

Breathe. Just breathe, Ness. What did your therapist say?

His lungs were shrinking. His chest wouldn’t expand.

The sound of water splashing snapped his head toward the pool.

No.

Something was moving. The ripples spread. Something was—someone—was rising from the water.

And then he saw it.

Wet hair. Familiar shoulders.

Michael.

Michael surfaced like some kind of phantom—gripping the edge of the rock and hauling himself halfway out of the water. But it wasn’t just Michael.

It was Michael with a tail.

Not legs. Not feet.

A sea-blue, iridescent tail that shimmered in the moonlight like the stars had bled into it.

Ness's heart stopped. Literally stopped.

“...M-Michael?”

Michael’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide. Too wide.

And then the panic set in. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, spine rigid, body frozen in mid-emergence.

Ness barely breathed. “W-what the fuck—”

“I—I—” Michael stammered, and it wasn’t even his usual voice. It was raw. Shaken. Terrified.

He stared at Ness, chest heaving. And then his expression twisted—into something Ness hadn’t seen before.

Not cold. Not annoyed.

Horrified.

“...Michael?”

The name left Ness’s lips like a broken prayer.

His voice trembled. His whole body trembled.

Because what he was seeing didn’t make sense.

Michael—his sharp-tongued, ink-covered, quietly infuriating tattoo artist—was dragging himself out of the water with a tail. Not a costume. Not a trick of the light. A long, gleaming tail, the color of deep sea and stars. It curved behind him with weight and grace and a terrifying, fluid beauty.

And Ness’s knees locked.

The pool of water was so close. Closer than he could handle. Too open. Too deep. It stretched into blackness, whispering memories he had buried deep under scars and sleepless nights.

His chest started to close up. Tight, then tighter. The smell of salt was too thick. The air too damp.

He could hear it.

The screaming of water in his ears, the weight of it closing in, the helplessness, the fucking helplessness—

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

Michael looked up at him, equally frozen, like something in him shattered just by being seen.

“I—I—” Michael’s voice cracked, hoarse and breathless. “You weren’t supposed to… fuck—”

And then he turned.

“No—no—NO—”

Before Ness could reach for him, before he could even step forward, Michael dove back into the pool with one powerful twist of his tail, slicing through the water like a myth.

Gone.

The moment his body disappeared into the depths, something in Ness broke.

“MICHAEL!”

He stumbled forward—too close to the water—and recoiled like it burned him. The panic surged fast and brutal, like hands dragging him down again.

“Don’t—don’t leave me here!” he shouted, breath hitching, vision going white at the edges.

He backed up too fast, tripping over the rocks, hands scraping against the rough cave floor as he fell.

The sound of the waves made him sick.

“Michael, please—” he begged, choking on air as the pool shimmered silently under the moonlight. “Don’t leave me alone in here—not with this, not with the water, please—”

He was shaking so hard he could barely sit upright. His body remembered. His body remembered everything.

The taste of salt.

The crushing weight on his chest.

The way he thought he died.

“Michael, I won’t tell—I swear—I swear, just please don’t leave me—don’t leave me here—”

His voice cracked, broke, completely unraveled. He pressed his back against the wall, knees drawn up, body curling in on itself like he could make himself small enough to disappear. His face was wet and he didn’t even know if it was tears or sweat.

He hated the ocean.

He hated the ocean.

And now he was in it. Or as good as in it. Trapped in a cave with nothing but that bottomless black pool inches away and no one around but memories that gnawed at his ribs.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

He didn’t know if Michael heard him.

Didn’t know if he would come back.

Ness pressed his palms against his ears and tried to breathe—but all he could hear was water. Water, water, water.

“…please don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t exist.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, Ness was completely, utterly terrified.

Ness couldn’t breathe.

No matter how much he tried, the air just wouldn’t go in. His lungs squeezed tighter with every second. He was gasping—loud, ragged, broken gasps—but it wasn’t working. The cave felt like it was shrinking. The shadows warped and twisted around the edges of his vision, and the sound of the water wouldn’t stop.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

The gentle lapping from the pool echoed like gunshots in his ears.

His fingers dug into the rocky ground beneath him. He was curled in on himself, forehead pressed to his knees, heart pounding so violently it hurt. He was dizzy. So dizzy. Spots of color started bursting behind his eyelids. His throat was raw from gasping, from sobbing.

He was six years old again. Then thirteen. Then fifteen. He was drowning again, over and over, salt water clawing into his lungs, screaming into silence. And this time—this time there was no hand reaching for him.

His body locked up, chest caving in.

The world tilted sideways.

No. No no no—

Then everything went quiet.

Black.

He didn’t even feel himself hit the ground. Just the strange relief of the world finally going still.

The splash was faint.

Then another.

Something broke the surface of the water.

Then wet hands—calloused, trembling—grasped at the rocky edge of the pool and pulled a body out. Water rolled off silver-blue scales, onto the sand. Michael dragged himself into the cave just far enough to see—

Ness. Crumpled against the wall. Unmoving.

He froze. “Alexis?”

No response.

His throat closed up.

“Alexis—”

He crawled over fast, tail dragging behind him. Water dripped from his hair, his shoulders, his shaking hands. He cupped Ness’s face gently—too gently—fingers brushing over his cheeks, feeling the cold sweat, the fluttering pulse at his neck.

Still alive. But barely conscious.

Michael stared at him, horrified. His heart rattled in his chest like a bird trying to flee a cage.

What have I done?

He never should have run. Never should have left him alone.

“Shit—shit, Alexis—come on, come back,” Michael whispered, patting his cheek, trying to bring him back. “You can’t pass out on me, not now—fuck—”

The panic burned behind his ribs like fire. Not from being seen. Not from being known.

But from the look on Ness’s face before he blacked out.

He was afraid of the water. And Michael had left him in it.

His arms wrapped around Ness, cradling him close, tail coiled beside them. He held him the same way he had that night all those years ago—tight but careful, like Ness might disappear if he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Michael whispered, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael’s heart was still hammering in his chest, the frantic pulse of fear keeping time with the sound of his breath. He could feel the weight of Alexis’s body in his arms, how fragile he seemed, and it made his insides twist with guilt. He had let him down—left him in the one place that could have destroyed him, and now here they were.

He couldn’t shake the image of Alexis’s terrified face, wide eyes staring at him with pure, unadulterated fear. The fear of the ocean. The very thing that had always been his sanctuary. Michael had always thought of the ocean as a place of safety—of freedom. But for Alexis? It was a nightmare. The one thing he had never anticipated.

Alexis’s breathing was slow but steady, and Michael let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t gone. Not yet.

But Michael’s mind wasn’t letting him rest. It was racing back to every moment they’d shared, every accidental encounter that had led them here. He remembered the first time he had seen Alexis. He was twelve, wandering around in his city, watching a match between Hamburg and Berlin, his eyes drawn to the way Alexis moved on the field. The way helived through every pass, every goal, every single touch of the ball. It was more than just a game for him. Alexis was alive in a way that Michael had never felt. He was hungry, determined, driven. Michael had felt a spark of something watching him from the stands, a flicker of recognition.

And then, the second time. He was walking along the beach, lost in his own world, when a news announcement caught his ear. Alexis Ness—the new star, the prodigy of Germany’s football world. Michael didn’t know why, but he remembered his name. The boy from the field. The boy who seemed to burn brighter than everyone else. In another life, maybe they would’ve been teammates. But that life was never meant to happen. They were worlds apart, two different forces of nature.

The third time he saw Alexis? That was when everything changed. He had been swimming, as he always did, the waves lapping against him, his pet water turtle by his side. It was his escape. His time to be free. But then, he saw something in the distance, a flash of movement in the water, too chaotic, too uncontrolled. At first, he thought it was some other swimmer, maybe a tourist, struggling in the waves. But as he got closer, he recognized the boy’s features. It was Alexis Ness. The Alexis Ness. The footballer.

And he was drowning.

The panic that surged through Michael was unlike anything he had ever felt. He dove forward, moving faster than he ever thought possible, his heart ached in his chest as he grabbed Alexis’s flailing body. He hauled him from the water, pushing him onto the sand. The boy had no idea what had happened. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling with desperate breaths, but he was alive. Michael stayed with him until Alexis regained enough strength to sit up, muttering words that were barely coherent, still in shock.

“Pathetic. You owe me one,” Michael had said, voice gruff, trying to keep it light, but his heart was still racing in his chest. And from then on, Michael had kept a quiet watch over his career, always staying one step behind. Fate kept pulling them together, each encounter seemingly random, but always leaving him with the same gnawing feeling. Always.

Always.

And now, with Alexis’s unconscious body in his arms, Michael felt it—sharp and sudden, like seawater in his lungs.

This was the exact thing he had sworn never to let happen. Letting someone in. Letting someone close. And not just someone. Alexis. The boy who played like it was the only language he knew. The one who brought chaos with him like a storm, and still—still—made Michael feel something close to calm in the eye of it.

He looked down at him—too pale, lips slightly parted, hair sticking wet to his forehead.

“Shit,” Michael muttered, voice low, barely audible. “Alexis, what the hell are you doing to me?”

He tried to keep his hands steady as he brushed the wet curls back. His tail shifted beside them, agitated, twitching with every breath. He hated this. Hated how human he felt around him. Hated how badly he wanted to shake him awake, just to hear some smartass comment and pretend everything was fine.

God, you weren’t supposed to matter.

Michael’s jaw clenched. His pulse was racing, but his face stayed still, cold even now. He couldn’t afford to break.

“This was never meant to be anything,” he said softly, like he was reminding himself. “You were just supposed to be another face. Another tourist. A story I’d forget.”

But he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. Not here. Not now.

Alexis Ness wasn’t forgettable.

Michael had remembered him since that match in Berlin, when he was twelve and saw a boy running on the pitch, claiming he was seeing magic. How insane he is. He remembered the drowning teen he’d pulled from the sea—pathetic, gasping, furious and alive. The boy he hadn’t stopped watching after that, even when he tried.

And now here he was. Again. In his arms. Again. And it felt less like fate and more like some sick joke from the universe.

Michael shook his head and looked up at the cavern ceiling, biting down the ache in his chest. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

He looked down again. Alexis’s breathing had evened out. He was still out cold, but he looked... safer now. Peaceful.

And it hurt. It fucking hurt.

“You don’t belong here,” Michael said, more to himself than to the sleeping boy. “You belong in stadiums, under lights. Not in some cave with a monster you barely know.”

His hand hovered over Alexis’s cheek before pulling back. Too much. Too close.

“I don’t know how to be soft like you need,” he admitted. “I’ll end up ruining you.”

And that—that—was the truth he hated the most.

Michael leaned back against the cave wall, closing his eyes for a moment. His tail curled tighter, brushing the edge of the pool like it was trying to retreat, to disappear.

He stayed like that for a long time.

Just him.

And the boy he was never supposed to care about.

Michael sat in the dim cave, claws slick with seawater, Alexis’s barely-conscious body in his lap.

He stared down at him — this stupid, reckless human boy — and felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Not tenderness. Not love. Something uglier. Something closer to need.

His claws grazed Alexis’s cheek. He didn’t mean to touch him like that. Didn’t mean to notice the salt on his eyelashes, the bruised lips, the waterlogged curls clinging to his forehead. He didn’t mean to notice how pathetic Alexis looked when he cried — or how much that made Michael want to pull him even closer.

He’s not yours.

But Michael wanted him to be.

He didn’t even like people. Hated them, mostly. Loud, needy, backstabbing things. Always taking, always demanding. He had spent most of his life making sure no one got close. No one could say they knew him.

So how the hell had Alexis wormed his way in?

He barely knew him. Just a face on a screen, a name that echoed in stadiums. Their paths had crossed maybe four times before they started spending more time togheter — five, if you counted this one. There was no reason Michael should care.

But he did.

Fucking pathetic.

He wanted to own something. That’s all it was. Something to wrap his claws around and keep close. His whole life, he’d had nothing. No family. No anchor. Just a half-life split between sea and shore and the gnawing emptiness in between.

He needed something — someone — to fill that space. Alexis just happened to be the one that fit.

But that didn’t make it healthy.

Didn’t make it real.

He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t gentle. He needed control — obedience. Devotion. And Alexis… Alexis made him feel like losing control was inevitable.

And now? Now Alexis was waking up. Eyes fluttering. Gasping softly, as if pulled from a nightmare.

Michael’s face hardened.

Walls slammed up.

This couldn’t happen again.

“Don’t move,” he said flatly, withdrawing his arms. “You’re fine. You just passed out.”

Alexis blinked. “Michael…?”

Michael didn’t answer. Just looked toward the water.

“You should’ve gone home,” he said after a beat. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”

“I was looking for you.”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t get to look for me,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”

“You saved me.”

Michael laughed — low and humorless. “Yeah. I’m great at dragging people out just so I can throw them back in.”

Alexis reached for him, but Michael flinched away.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know you better than you think.”

Michael snapped his head toward him, expression sharp enough to cut. “Don’t say that. You don’t know shit.”

He stood, tail curling behind him like a blade.

“You think this is some kind of story, huh? Fate? A bond? It’s not. It’s just... dysfunction. You got too close, and I let you. That was my mistake.”

Alexis was quiet, face pale. “So that’s it?”

“What else would it be?” Michael said. “You think this is healthy? I’ve been tracking you like a damn stray. You’ve been chasing something you don’t understand. We’re not soulmates, Alexis. We’re just... broken in compatible ways.”

He paused. Then, softer: “And that’s exactly why I have to go.”

Alexis’s breath hitched. “Then don’t go too far.”

Michael looked at him — really looked — and for a moment his mask slipped. Just long enough to show something behind it. Something desperate. Hollow. Something that wanted to stay.

But then he looked away.

“If I stay,” he said, “I’ll ruin you.”

Alexis didn’t speak. Didn’t argue.

Because maybe he already had.

Michael turned toward the pool.

“You’ll be fine,” he muttered. “This cave’s dry till morning. Someone’ll find you.”

And before Alexis could respond, Michael was gone — swallowed by the water, leaving behind nothing but the sting of salt and the space where something toxic had grown too fast to name.

Ness knew he had messed up.

He wanted too much, too fast, and now he was paying the price. If he’d just waited—if he’d given Michael space, trusted that he’d come around on his own—maybe things would’ve been different. He wouldn’t have looked fot him, wouldn’t have found out the truth before Michael was ready to share it.

Wouldn’t have known.

Mermaid? No… that didn’t sound right. Merman? Siren?

Something else?

He didn’t know what Michael was, only that he was something other. Something ancient. Something Ness hadn’t been prepared to understand.

And then Michael ran—before Ness could even process what he’d seen. Before he could ask anything, say anything.

Now he was standing in a room that no longer felt like it had any weight, folding clothes into his suitcase with slow, mechanical hands. The off-season was ending. The league was calling. And Ness… Ness had to keep moving.

Even if he didn’t want to.

He wasn’t letting go—not completely. Just enough. Enough for Michael to breathe. Enough to show he respected the silence. Maybe, if there was space, there could be something again. Maybe not the same. Maybe not ever. But… something.

He wasn’t sure what this thing between them even was. They hadn’t known each other long. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But still… he felt hollow. Like he’d lost something important before he even had the chance to hold it properly.

And that was the part that hurt.

Before leaving, Ness asked the driver, “Can we make a small detour, please?”

The man glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “That’ll be extra.”

Ness nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

He gave him the address of Michael’s tattoo studio. When they arrived, the lights were off. A sign in the window read:
Closed until further notice.

Ness stood there a long moment, the envelope clutched in his hand. He didn’t need to go inside to know why it was closed. He slipped the letter into the rusted mailbox and lingered for a moment, fingers still on the lid. He wasn’t even sure what he’d written anymore. It hadn’t been a love letter. Not really. Just a goodbye. A promise, maybe.

One last try.

He didn’t even know what he was trying for. He just knew he couldn’t not try.

There was something about Michael—something Ness hadn’t been able to shake since the moment they met. Like he’d been pulled into something older than himself. Like some invisible tide had grabbed hold and refused to let go.

He walked back to the car in silence.

At the airport, as he rolled his suitcase across the pavement, a man approached him, a child clinging shyly to his leg.

“Excuse me… could I bother you for a picture? For my son.”

Ness smiled—tired, distant—but nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

He knelt down beside the boy, posed, smiled again. The camera flashed. The man thanked him. Ness wished he could feel more of it—the gratitude, the joy. But his heart was somewhere else. Still underwater. Still following a ghost.

As he boarded the plane back to Munich, something cracked in his chest.

Not a break. Not a clean snap. Just… a shift. A small fracture that whispered you’re leaving something behind.

He looked out the window as the city below disappeared into cloud.

Whatever he had with Michael—whatever it could have been—it wasn’t ready to be something yet.

But maybe one day, it would be.

And until then, he'd carry it quietly.

Where do I know you from, Michael?

Kaiser crouched between the black rocks, hidden from the early morning light. The sea had long retreated behind him, but the salt still clung to his skin like guilt. His tail — heavy, gleaming with water and moonlight — stretched out beside him, slow to dry. He never rushed this part. Couldn’t afford to.

He stayed hunched there until the scales receded, legs aching as they reshaped, bones folding back into the human cage. Once the transformation was complete, he dressed in silence — hoodie, jeans, no socks. Just old boots he kept hidden in the driftwood.

By the time he made it back to his apartment above the shop, the sky had started to stain with dawn. The streets were empty. The world still felt too loud.

At the mailbox, he fumbled through junk and advertisements. His hand stopped on thick paper.

An envelope.

Alexis Ness.

Kaiser stared at the name like it was a knife. Then he peeled it from the rest of the mail and walked upstairs, saying nothing.

He dropped the rest onto the counter, grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge, and lit a cigarette. His hands smelled like ocean and nicotine. He sat at the edge of his dining table, letter still in hand.

He didn’t want to read it.

He didn’t want to feel whatever Ness had folded inside it.

But he opened it anyway.

Dear Michael,

I know you probably won’t read this. And if you do, I doubt you’ll care. But I had to try, even if it's stupid, even if I already blew my chance.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to chase you off. I should’ve waited. I should’ve trusted that you’d come to me when you were ready. But I got scared. You felt like the only real thing I had in a long time, and I clung to that too hard. That’s not your fault.
You didn’t owe me anything. But you stayed with me when I blacked out, when I was scared out of my mind, and that meant more than I know how to say. I haven’t had someone do that for me in… maybe ever.
I don’t know what you are. I don’t even know if you’re human. But I know how I felt when you looked at me. Like maybe I wasn’t as empty as I thought.
There’s a ticket enclosed — Bundesliga, against BVB. Front row. No pressure. You don’t even have to use it. I just thought… if there’s a part of you that wanted to come back, even just to watch, I wanted to make sure you could.
If not… thank you. For whatever this was.

— Alexis Ness

Kaiser leaned back in the creaky chair, the wood groaning under him as if sharing his reluctance. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the tip. The letter sat open on the table, next to a lukewarm Red Bull he couldn’t remember opening.

Ness’s handwriting was neat, careful cursive. Too careful — like every word had been wrestled into place. Like he was bleeding onto the page and trying to keep it pretty.

Pathetic, Kaiser thought without hesitation. Desperate.
And yet, he kept reading.

"I don’t know what you are. I don’t even know if you’re human..."

A sharp, mirthless laugh slipped out. “Congratulations, Ness. You’ve got eyes.”

He flicked the ash into an old chipped mug already half-filled with them, and glanced at the window. Dawn was bleeding in slowly — that bruised purple turning to the soft burn of morning. He hadn’t even realized it was that late. Or early.

Something slid out from between the folds of the letter — glossy, stiff. A ticket.

Bundesliga. Front row.
Against BVB.

Of course. The idiot had left him a fucking ticket.

Kaiser stared at it. Then at the name at the bottom of the page — Alexis Ness.
Like it didn’t already echo in his head every time things got too quiet.

He should tear it up. Should toss the whole thing out the window and go back to forgetting.

Instead, he folded the letter in half. Neat. Precise. Left it exactly where it was on the table. Didn't even move the ticket. Sat in the silence that followed like it was pressing down on his lungs.

Out of sight would’ve been smarter. Burned would’ve been safer.

But he didn’t touch it again.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” he muttered, voice hoarse. Almost like it was Ness’s fault for not knowing better.

Because Ness didn’t. He didn’t know what Kaiser was, not really. Didn’t know how deep the hunger ran, how dark it got when he stayed below too long. How hard it was to stay human.

He didn’t know how fast Kaiser could ruin people. Didn’t know what it felt like to be something unnatural, something built for luring and leaving — not staying.

Kaiser didn’t do vulnerability. Didn’t do soft edges or second chances. Especially not for people who said thank you like they meant it. People like Ness — with wide eyes, reckless sincerity, and the kind of heart that made things grow — were dangerous.

Still, he didn’t throw the letter away.

Didn’t burn it either.

Instead, he stood, crossed the room, and slid it into the bottom drawer of his desk — under yellowing tattoo sketches and unused stencils. Somewhere out of sight.

Out of sight. That was supposed to be the rule.

And yet…
When he turned to unlock the shop door, the ticket was still on the table.

Right where he’d left it.

Mocking him.

He dragged deeply on his cigarette and stared out the window, watching dawn crawl over the city like a slow confession, casting pale streaks of light across the concrete floor. Dust floated lazily in the air. The shop was a mess — dried ink pots, stained gloves, half-sketched outlines curling on the edges. Forgotten. He hadn’t been back in weeks

Neglected didn’t even begin to cover it.

Maybe he’d clean today. Restock the shelves. Get back to drawing.
Maybe.

Kaiser stood up, leaving the letter and ticket untouched on the table.

He didn’t look back.

But the words stayed with him anyway.