The room was quiet, save for the soft, steady hum of the air conditioning. Noir sat alone on the couch, shoulders hunched, lost in the haze of memory and unease. The events with Azule still echoed in his mind—raw, surreal, and unsettling. His fingers toyed absently with the hem of his sleeve, tugging it up as if on instinct. But when his eyes dropped to his forearm, he froze.

There, where a jagged wound had once marked his skin, was only a faint trace—barely visible. The scar was nearly gone.

He blinked and sat up straighter, tugging the sleeve higher until his whole forearm was exposed. The skin was smooth. Unbroken. No swelling, no scabbing. Just the faintest shimmer of a mark, like something that had happened years ago, not last night.

"...What," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "How?"

He brushed his fingers over the skin, searching for some explanation. It felt normal. Real. But it didn't make sense. The injury had been deep—he remembered the pain, the blood. The chaotic encounter with Azule. It hadn't been a dream. So why was his body acting like it had never happened?

His breath hitched, and paranoia stirred in his gut.

"Did he... do something to me?" he muttered, glancing toward the closed bathroom door, where Azule had last been with Sylvie.

His hand drifted to his hair, pulling it back in frustration—and that's when he felt it. Longer. Thicker. He caught a strand between his fingers and stared. It was nearly an inch longer than it had been the day before. He leaned toward the mirror hanging on the wall, inspecting his reflection. It was subtle, but undeniable.

His hair had grown.

"No way..." he whispered. "No way."

He ran both hands through it, testing the new weight, the changed texture. It wasn't just longer—it felt healthier. Stronger. His eyes dropped back to his arm. The scar. The hair. His body was regenerating. Healing itself faster than it ever had. Faster than it should have been able to.

Could this be Azule's doing? Had their encounter triggered something dormant inside him? Or had Azule passed something on?

Noir shot to his feet, pacing the room, heart hammering in his chest. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, a storm just starting to stir.

"This is insane," he said aloud, voice shaking with a strange blend of fear and wonder. "None of this makes any sense."

He stopped in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the table beneath it to steady himself. His reflection stared back—same eyes, same frame—but now shadowed with something new. A change. Something unspoken growing just beneath the surface.

His gaze flicked toward the bathroom again. Behind that door, Azule and Sylvie were still in their own world, unaware of the questions swirling in Noir's head.

He swallowed hard.

Whatever was happening to him, it wasn't over. This was only the beginning.

And deep down, he knew—everything was about to change.

The soft glow of the evening sun streamed lazily through the apartment windows, casting golden light across the living room. A record played quietly in the background—something soft and jazzy—barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. Sylvie sat on the couch, a wool blanket draped over her legs, humming a gentle tune as she adjusted the folds of the fabric around Azule.

The merman was curled beside her, looking as at ease as he ever had since arriving. His long, glistening tail stretched out across the cushions, shifting slightly as he leaned into the comfort of her presence. There was a quietness in the room, not just of sound but of mood—stillness, safety.

Then came a knock. Followed immediately by a familiar voice, loud and impossible to ignore.

"Oi! Sylvie, open up! It's your favorite power couple comin' through!"

Sylvie froze mid-hum, eyes widening in horror. Her head turned slowly toward Azule, who blinked at her with a curious tilt of his head, clearly sensing the shift.

She groaned under her breath. "Great... Russel and Marigold."

She stood, hesitating just long enough to give Azule a reassuring glance, then made her way to the door. When she opened it, Russel practically burst into the apartment, full of chaotic energy and zero awareness, followed closely by the much more composed Marigold, who carried a basket lined with a warm cloth.

"All right, Sylv!" Russel boomed, arms wide. "Time for some fun! We brought the good stuff! Marigold made her famous muffins, and I've got—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because now, his eyes had landed on Azule.

Azule, sitting upright on the couch with quiet alertness, his silver-blue skin and delicate fins shimmering in the last of the daylight. His eyes met Russel's. Neither moved.

Russel's mouth hung open slightly.

"...Uh. What in the world... is that thing?" he asked, his voice much quieter now.

Marigold, however, stepped past him without missing a beat, smiling brightly as she offered a little wave to the creature.

"Oh my, hello there! You must be Azule, right? Sylvie's told us all about you. What a fascinating creature you are!"

Azule stiffened at first, unused to this kind of attention, but Marigold's energy was calm and welcoming. He relaxed slightly, pulling his fins close to his sides as if to appear smaller, less threatening.

"Azule... is... here," he said, his accent heavy but his tone clear. "Stay... safe."

Sylvie, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watched the scene unfold with mild disbelief. She turned to Russel, who was still frozen like a statue.

"Yeah," she said dryly. "This is exactly what I needed today. Thanks for dropping by."

Russel blinked, turning slowly toward her, his expression a perfect mix of confusion and panic.

"You're... just living with him now? A literal—literal—merman. In your apartment?"

"Yeah, Russel. I'm keeping him as a pet," she replied flatly. "What else would I be doing?"

Russel flailed his arms. "I thought you were into, like, crystals and weird music, not... sea monsters with bedroom eyes! What is this? Mythical Creature Airbnb?"

Marigold, paying him no mind, had already set the muffin basket down on the coffee table. She turned to Azule with gentle warmth.

"I think you're lovely, dear. And these muffins will be just perfect for you. I hope you like them!"

Azule leaned forward cautiously, eyeing the basket. He picked up a muffin with his webbed fingers and sniffed it once before taking a careful bite.

His eyes lit up. A small, almost childlike smile spread across his face.

"Good," he said, pleased. "Very good."

Sylvie watched him with a quiet grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Whatever chaos the others brought in, moments like this reminded her why she'd taken the risk.

Russel, still trying to regain control of the situation, shook his head.

"You gotta be kidding me. A merman eating muffins. What's next? You teaching him how to play poker?"

Sylvie shrugged. "He's already better than you, probably. I might train him up. Make him my new partner."

Russel let out an offended scoff and threw a mock punch at her shoulder. "Oi, rude! I'm excellent at poker, thank you very much."

Marigold chuckled, settling down beside Sylvie. "Well, it's lovely to see you happy, Sylvie. Truly. It looks like you've found a real friend in Azule."

Sylvie looked over at the merman again, who was now eyeing a second muffin with delight. His contentment was clear, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think so."

Russel muttered something under his breath about needing a drink and gave Azule another glance—still skeptical, but perhaps just a little more accepting.

"Just make sure he doesn't start swimming in the sink," he said with a smirk. "I don't wanna get a call about a flooded kitchen 'cause the merman needed a spa day."

Everyone burst into laughter, even Azule letting out a low, amused chuff of sound.

The moment was absurd, surreal, and yet somehow... perfect. A merman, muffins, and mismatched friends—an unexpected blend of warmth and weirdness in a world that suddenly felt just a little bit more magical.

The sterile hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above Mr. Sketch's office, casting long, pale reflections across the sleek tile floor. The room was cold—both in temperature and in spirit. Sparse furniture. A massive desk. A city map littered with colored pins and taut string, like a web spun by something obsessive and cruel.

Mr. Sketch paced restlessly, each step sharp and deliberate. His shoes clicked against the floor in an unchanging rhythm, his mind anything but settled. His narrow eyes flicked to the map again. Something wasn't right. No, everything wasn't right.

"Where is he...?" he muttered under his breath. "The merman... he's gone."

At the far end of the room, his assistant stood silently near the door. Pointer—tall, thin, composed—watched him like one might watch a lit fuse slowly burning toward dynamite.

"Sir?" Pointer asked cautiously. "You seem... distracted."

Mr. Sketch stopped abruptly, spinning toward him. His voice was low, cold, venom curling at the edges.

"The creature. He's not where he's supposed to be. I tracked him for weeks. Knew every move. Every breath." He hissed the next words. "And now, he's disappeared."

He slammed his fist onto the desk, a stack of documents scattering like frightened birds. Pointer stiffened, but remained composed.

"Perhaps," Pointer said, carefully choosing his words, "we should take a more methodical approach. We've been keeping tabs on Sylvie, haven't we?"

A grin unfurled across Mr. Sketch's face, thin and dangerous.

"Yes," he said softly. "Sylvie thinks she's clever. Thinks she can keep secrets. But I know everything. I always know."

He turned toward the massive window overlooking the city, the skyline smeared with rain. His reflection stared back at him—hollow-eyed, cruel, calculating.

"We'll follow her," he said. "And we'll find him. The hunt begins now."

The rain followed him home.

Mr. Sketch's mansion loomed on the hilltop like a monument to something long dead. Grand. Lavish. Cold. The kind of house where silence echoed louder than any voice.

Inside, the kitchen glowed faintly with warm light, but it did little to warm the air. Mrs. Sketch stood at the counter, hands trembling as she arranged plates with careful precision. Her dress was modest—simple, old—but clean. She had chosen it for a reason. It was the one he used to say she looked lovely in.

Heavy footsteps approached. She tensed.

"You're late with dinner again, aren't you, sweetheart?" came the voice. Sarcastic. Mocking.

Mr. Sketch leaned in the doorway, his imposing figure filling the space, casting a shadow across the room.

"I—I'm sorry, darling," she said quickly, turning to face him with a forced smile. "I thought you'd be busy tonight. I'll have it ready in just a moment."

He walked in slowly, like a predator toying with prey, picking up a wine glass and swirling its contents lazily.

"Busy?" he echoed. "You think my work is an excuse for your incompetence?" His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "What would I do without your stunning culinary masterpieces?"

The words sliced through her, but she said nothing. She turned back to the table, placing the last fork with shaking hands.

"I thought maybe tonight... we could spend some time together. Like we used to," she said, voice trembling. "I even wore the dress you said you liked."

He raised an eyebrow, then let out a harsh, humorless laugh.

"That old thing? You look like you dug it out of the garbage." He placed the wine glass down with a loud clack. "Did you really think you'd impress me with that?"

Her smile faltered. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Still, she tried once more.

"I just... I just wanted us to be happy again."

That was when his expression turned. Not amused. Not annoyed. Cold.

"Happy?" he repeated, stepping toward her. "Do you think I have time for happy?"

He grabbed her arm suddenly, fingers digging into her skin with bruising force. She gasped, instinctively trying to pull back, but he yanked her closer, his breath warm and bitter on her face.

"You're lucky I keep you around at all," he growled. "Do you know how many women would kill to be in your place?"

She winced, a flash of pain crossing her face as his nails bit in. He lifted his free hand, cupping her cheek as if in affection, but the gesture was twisted—mocking.

"You want to play the perfect little wife?" he murmured. "Then stop whining. Do your job. Maybe then I won't be disgusted every time I look at you."

He shoved her away.

She stumbled, catching herself against the counter. A thin line of blood appeared where his nails had scratched her. She clutched her arm, eyes fixed on the floor, too ashamed to look up.

Mr. Sketch lifted the wine glass again and took a long, deliberate sip.

"Now clean yourself up," he said casually, already walking away. "You're making a mess."

His footsteps receded down the hall, fading into the distance.

Left alone, Mrs. Sketch slumped into the nearest chair, her body curling inward as the tears came, silent and steady. She pressed a towel to the cut on her arm, but her shoulders shook with grief far deeper than any wound.

The room was quiet again, save for the ticking of an expensive wall clock and the faint storm outside.

On the table, the empty wine glass sat perfectly still.

A symbol of everything she had become trapped beneath.

Pointer's long coat billowed behind him as he stalked down the cracked sidewalk, his sharp eyes darting into every shadowed alley and flickering streetlamp. Frustration curled in his voice like smoke from a burning fuse.

"Slippery fish..." he muttered, voice low and gravelly. "Someone's hiding him. Can't trust these people to mind their business."

As he rounded a corner, his stride nearly collided with a blur of motion — a battered bike screeched to a halt, tires skidding on loose gravel. Olive, a young newspaper boy with bright, curious eyes, looked up at the towering man, unfazed.

"Whoa there, mister! You gotta watch where you're goin'! Almost knocked me off my route!" Olive called out cheerfully, hopping off his bike and brushing dust from a stack of newspapers nestled in his front basket.

Pointer's gaze hardened, shadow stretching long across Olive's small frame. "Watch yourself, kid. I've got no patience for interruptions."

But Olive stood his ground, grinning as he held up a paper. "Well, maybe you need some good news to brighten your day! Today's edition's got all kinds of juicy stories."

Pointer barely spared the words a glance as he brushed past, but something caught his eye. The bold headline screamed from the front page in Olive's hands:

SEA LEGEND OR PRISONER? MERMAN SPOTTED IN SECRET LAB!

Pointer froze, eyes narrowing as he snatched the paper from Olive's grip. His jaw clenched as he scanned the brief article—rumors swirling about a captive merman, whispers of a daring escape.

"What did you say?" he growled.

Olive blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "Uh, about the news? Yeah, it's a pretty big story. Some folks think it's a hoax, but—"

Pointer's grip tightened around the paper. "Where did you get this?"

"Just deliverin' 'em, mister. The reporters do all the digging. Why? You one of those conspiracy nuts?"

Pointer's eyes glinted cold, calculating. Olive instinctively stepped back, clutching his bike's handlebars tighter.

"You'd better forget about this nonsense," Pointer warned, voice low and deadly. "If I hear you're spreading rumors, you'll regret it."

The boy's smile faltered, replaced by steady resolve. "Hey now, threatening people ain't cool. I'm just a kid doing my job."

Pointer's hand twitched, almost reaching out, but he stopped himself, lips curling into a grim smirk. Quietly, he muttered, "Looks like the game's already begun. No matter... I'll find you, fish boy."

Without another word, he crumpled the newspaper and melted into the shadows, leaving Olive standing alone, shaken but undeterred.

As the footsteps faded, Olive muttered sarcastically, "Jeez, someone needs a hobby."

He swung back on his bike and pedaled away, glancing once over his shoulder before disappearing into the dimming city streets. The camera lingered on the discarded newspaper fluttering on the sidewalk, the headline burning bright in the gloom, before fading to black.