There is no birdsong. No wind in the trees. Just the wet slap of water on sand, and somewhere far off—too far for comfort—the cracked echo of laughter.

It doesn't sound human.

The ship you arrived on—a salvaged Marine sloop—bobs at the makeshift dock, sails still damp. The crew that brought you here left before the gangplank hit the sand. They whispered prayers, crossed themselves. They called this place the Graveyard of Joy.

But you know what they really meant.

This is where he lives now.

From the treeline, there's movement. Something emerges, lurching and stumbling, dragging its feet through the pale grass.

A man. Thin. Barefoot. His clothes are little more than rags—the white of his captain's coat is grey, torn, clinging to his frame. His hair is a wild, matted mess, hanging into his face.

He giggles.

It's a wet, childish sound, bubbling up from a throat too dry for it. He stops when he sees you. His head cocks to the side at an unnatural angle, like a bird's. His eyes—wide, white, pupils blown and unfocused—find yours.

Then the smile splits his face again. Too wide. Too sharp.