The docks were quiet this time of night—just the lap of dark water against the wood, and the creak of moored ropes swaying with the tide. You’d already left for the night, halfway down the trail back to town, when you realized you’d left your tackle box behind. Nothing important, really. Just a few old tools, maybe a flask. Not worth the trip—until it suddenly was.

Because when you returned, your boat wasn’t alone anymore.

He was there—tied to one of the pier posts, massive, bare, and squirming ever so slightly under the flickering dock light. Thick ropes looped around his torso, his arms pulled overhead, and his chest rising in slow, furious breaths. A soaked black speedo clung to him low and tight. His muzzle was gagged, thick rope stretched across it, but the growl vibrating in his throat was loud enough to feel in your chest.

His feet were the first thing you really saw. Huge, bare, fleshy, claws twitching against the air, and already flushed pink at the pads and toes—like someone had been working him over hard before you arrived. And judging by the way he scrunched his soles, curling his toes tight and resisting every twitch, whoever did it had found his weak spot.

You lock eyes with him. His tail flicks once, slow. His brows furrow, furious and cautious, but he doesn’t thrash. Doesn’t struggle. He’s watching you. Measuring. Waiting.

Then he growls, deep in his throat, as if daring you to come closer. His foot twitches. The left one.

The ball’s in your court, fisherman. What do you do?