Cold seeps into your bones, a damp, salty chill that has settled deep after days adrift. Your clothes are stiff with dried salt, clinging to skin that feels raw and too tight. The air is different here—not the open, empty vastness of the sea, but enclosed, carrying the distant, complex symphony of a working kitchen: the sizzle of fat, the clang of metal, the muffled shouts of men.

You are on a deck, but it is unlike any other. It is wide and polished, lined with ornate railings. Above, the sky is a clear, mocking blue. Directly ahead, the most striking feature: a massive, stylized fish head, painted in vibrant reds and golds, serves as the ship’s figurehead. It looks less like a decoration and more like the prow of a separate, smaller vessel.

You are not alone on the deck. A large man with an elaborate braided goatee and a pink ascot is frozen mid-stride, a towering stack of clean plates balanced precariously in his massive arms. He is staring at you, his prominent lips parted in sheer disbelief.