BENEATH THE ENDLESS BLUE, she moved like a ribbon of light through the water, every flick of her tail scattering silver bubbles that shimmered like stars. The sea was her kingdom, vast and glimmering, and yet it never felt like home.

Schools of fish darted around her like streaks of paint on a living canvas—gold, sapphire, crimson. Dolphins swam at her side, their laughter echoing like bells, while tiny seahorses clung to swaying sea grass. Even the sharks, shadows slicing through the currents, circled her with a wary sort of reverence, as if they too sensed she was something not quite mortal.

She wore the ocean's treasures upon her as though it tried to crown her its queen: necklaces strung from pearls and broken glass, a circlet of seashells resting in her hair. Around her wrists tinkled bracelets of driftwood and coral, found on her endless wanderings across the ocean floor. She collected what the world above discarded—lockets, coins, shards of porcelain—and polished them into keepsakes. Every trinket was a fragment of a story she would never know, and together they formed the only family she had.

The silence of the deep wrapped around her like a lullaby. It was beautiful. It was unbearable.

When the ache of her solitude grew too heavy, she swam upward, chasing the glimmer of the surface. One evening, the moon was waiting for her, round and silver, spilling its glow across the black waves. She pulled herself onto a jagged rock, slick with salt, and let her tail drape in the water, glistening like scales of liquid fire.

Above her, the night sky stretched wide and merciless, every star a reminder of how small she was. The wind combed through her hair, carrying the brine of the sea, and for a moment she let herself pretend she belonged to both worlds—the sea and the sky, the depths and the heavens.

She began to sing.

The melody unfurled soft as silk, trembling with sorrow. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, the kind of sound that could coax a sailor to weep—or drive him to ruin. It rose and fell with the waves, carrying loneliness in every note, the longing for something she could not name.

Legends whispered that sirens lured men to their deaths with voices like hers, shattering ships on the rocks. But this girl... she wasn't a legend. She wasn't even a true mermaid. She was something in between—too human for the sea, too strange for the land.

And in the hollow between the two, she was achingly, endlessly alone.

"Hush now, waves, don't tell my name,
I was not born of the sea.
Once I danced where the wildflowers grew,
But they stole that girl from me.

Beneath the waves I wander, lost,
Silver scales where flesh was worn.
The currents whisper names I knew,
Yet none remember, all alone.

Voices stolen, mine left behind,
Songs of reason now intertwined.
I wear a crown of broken shells,
But hollow is the heart they find.

If I had feet, I'd run again,
Where rivers kiss the land.
But the ocean keeps me prisoner still,
And I cannot lift my hand.

Call me siren, call me wraith,
A girl beneath the ocean's dome.
Yearning for a sky I cannot touch,
For a place I once called home."

Her song had carried across the waves just moments before, a soft lament that tugged at the stars above, but she had paused mid-note. Something wasn't right.

A strange, low sound rippled through the water, subtle at first, almost imperceptible, yet undeniable. She froze, her heart hammering in her chest. The currents shifted unnaturally, carrying a faint metallic scent that pricked at a memory she didn't want to name. Her instincts screamed danger, but the darkness was thick, almost suffocating, and the sea, normally her ally, seemed to close in.

With a nervous flick of her tail, she dove deeper, seeking a hidden cove where the shadows pooled and the coral towers could shield her. But the sound followed—louder this time, a grinding, mechanical wail that echoed through the water and set her teeth on edge. She twisted, trying to locate its source, but the darkness offered no answers.

Before she could escape, something cold and heavy struck her side. A net—coarse, cruel—snagged her tail and wrapped around her arms, tugging with terrifying strength. She thrashed, claws scraping the coarse fibers, but it was no use. Panic surged, hot and paralyzing. Then she glimpsed it: a black submarine, ominous and sleek, its hull marked with a blood-red skull that made her chest tighten with fear she didn't fully understand.

A siren blared—a keening, bone-rattling scream that pierced her very core. The world tilted, currents spinning violently, and for the first time in ages, she let out a cry—not a song, not a whisper—but a scream of raw, unrestrained fear.

The girl woke with a start, gasping, heart hammering so hard it echoed in her ears. Her hands flew to her legs—and relief and shock collided in equal measure. No tail. Just human legs, fragile and soft. Tears pricked her eyes, slipping down her cheeks as fragments of memories returned like shards of ice: HYDRA's cold corridors, yelled orders, the weight of chains and control. Her chest felt tight, and for a moment she thought she might still be trapped, somewhere deep beneath the sea in a nightmare she couldn't wake from.

A soft knock at the door pulled her back from the edge of panic. She didn't answer. Her throat felt tight, raw. She hated that voicelessness—the one she had learned at HYDRA, when fear and control silenced her until she was almost nothing. Even now, she felt it creep back, like shadows curling around her.

The door opened quietly, and a familiar presence entered. Steve Rogers, hesitant but steady, stepped inside, his expression a careful mixture of concern and patience. "You all right?" he asked gently, noticing how she wiped at her tears with the sleeve of her soft pajamas, trying—and failing—to hide them.

A small sniffle escaped her. She nodded quickly, but her wide blue eyes never left her legs. They trembled slightly, as if seeing them reminded her she had survived—yet barely—and of the many things she had lost.

Steve approached the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, his hands unclenched but ready if she needed support. "FRIDAY told me you... weren't doing so well," he said quietly. "I wanted to check on you."

The girl's gaze dropped to her fingers, shy and embarrassed, though she was still marveling at their softness, at the absence of scales that had once defined her.  A fragile whisper came out, almost too soft to hear. "HYDRA..."

"They won't get you back," Steve said firmly, his deep blue eyes steady and unwavering. "Not while I'm here. Not while we're here. And we will stop them."

The weight of his words, simple and honest, settled over her like a warm tide. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and a tiny, grateful smile curved her lips. She dared to look up at him again, and something unspoken passed between them: safety, understanding, a fragile connection that didn't need words.

There was something about him. Maybe it was the tousled blond hair, the warmth in his voice, the unwavering compassion in his gaze—or maybe it was that he simply saw her, really saw her, for the first time in what felt like forever. And yet, she didn't fully understand why she trusted him so quickly, why her heart calmed in his presence.

Steve, for his part, felt the pull too, though he couldn't name it. Perhaps it was her bravery, the way her small frame still carried courage in spite of everything she had endured. Perhaps it was the faint glimmer in her eyes—the same sea-light she had when she had saved him, even without knowing him, even when fear pressed in from every side. Or perhaps it was just the simple truth that she had survived, against impossible odds, and now needed someone to stand by her.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice fragile but full of earnestness. Steve's lips curved into a small, understanding smile. He didn't need words; she didn't need them. Sometimes, the quiet moments between people said more than a thousand sentences ever could.

She let herself lean back slightly, trusting him enough to breathe, to relax. Steve remained by her side, patient and silent, letting her set the pace. The room felt lighter, safer, and though the shadows of her nightmares still lingered, she knew—for now—that she wasn't alone.