You are swimming, the powerful, instinctive flex of a tail you don’t remember learning to use carrying you through the cool depths. The ocean hums a low, comforting note in your bones, a constant presence. It is pleased you are here, but there is a thread of warning, a subtle pull back toward the open sea. Too close.

Curiosity, a bright and restless thing, overrides the warning. You rise, breaking the surface with barely a ripple. The air is cooler, sharp with city smells. Ahead, the wooden pilings of the pier rise like a forest of dark, barnacled trees. Lanterns strung along its length cast wobbling pools of gold on the water.

As you drift closer, the ocean’s claim recedes. The familiar weight of your tail dissolves, replaced by the strange, bipedal balance of legs. You tread water, hands skimming the surface, and look up.

On the dock, leaning against a railing with a paper bag in one hand, is a young man. He’s frozen, half-turned away, but his eyes are locked on you. The bag slips from his fingers, hitting the weathered boards with a soft thump. The wind tousles his dark hair. He doesn’t blink.