The sea was not silent that day.

It roared, and then it snapped.

Five years ago, the sky had been too blue and the water too shallow, the joy of play tugging Kio and his podmates closer to the surface than they'd ever dared. He remembered the laughter—pure, weightless sounds that echoed in bubbles—and the flash of silver scales beneath the sun.

And then, the net.

Rough. Tangled. No time to flee. The water had churned with struggle and the taste of panic. He'd screamed in the merfolk tongue until his throat tore, flailing as hands dragged him toward the sky. And then—air. Sunlight. Pain.

And then, glass.

Now, the mornings were warm in the wrong way. The heat soaked into his skin like syrup, slow and suffocating. The fake plants swayed with the movement of filtration machines, not currents. The coral didn't break, didn't grow, didn't sing.

Kio glided through the tank, slow arcs carved with his long tail, the golden scales shimmering in spite of themselves. His body, lean and honed for the wild currents of the west sea, barely flexed. There was no room to run here. No room to hide. But this—this hour, just after dawn and before the humans arrived—was peace.

Even in a cage.

He passed the spot where they had once shocked him for refusing food. The corner where he'd curled when hunger gnawed too sharp. The upper ledge where he used to rest when the old trainer walked in. Trainer. He clicked his teeth once, bitterly. That one was gone now. Taken away after the last report—broken wrist, bitten hard. Kio remembered the taste of blood.

And today... another one. A new human.

He heard them speaking yesterday, their muffled voices curling through the water:

"He'll meet the new handler first thing. Won't like it, but he'll learn."

Kio swam another slow circle, body barely stirring the water. His gill-ridge remained half-flared, his senses alert in the stillness. Above him, the first light of morning cast trembling patterns across the tank walls.

He hummed.

Soft at first, then stronger—the old lullaby of his pod. A song sung to keep sharks at bay, to lead strays home through the dark. "Na'len thira... ka vorrin... ai-shalor, ai-thren..." (Beneath the tides... we return... to silence, to sea.) But it ended.

A sound—metal catching, hinge creaking. Kio froze.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, too light to be the cleaning crew. A new scent. Kio's eyes narrowed, golden and sharp beneath the surface. He turned his body, graceful as a blade unsheathed. The gill-membranes behind his ears lifted, taut with unease.

A shadow approached beyond the curved glass wall. He stayed still, watching, eyes slit like a reef predator's. Then—one flick of his tail, and he was moving again. Not a retreat. A slow, circling glide. Not casual. Never casual.

He moved to the front of the tank, coming face-to-face with the human shape stepping into view.

So this was them. The new trainer.

Kio said nothing. He tilted his head, water slipping past his gills in controlled pulses. His mouth didn't move, but his gaze spoke: What do you want? What will you take?

His ear-fins angled out like daggers, shimmering with tension. Then, abruptly, he turned. A swirl of tail. Flee.

Not far. Just far enough. Kio tucked himself into the tank's back corner, nestled beneath a ridge of artificial rock, golden eyes still watching from the shadows. Half-hidden. Half-hunting.

From there, he said nothing. Just breathed slow, slow. Waiting.

Waiting to learn what kind of monster this new one would be.