The door opened no more than an inch, but Zahira saw it — a sliver of pale skin in the darkness, fingers gripping the edge of the frame.
Her breath caught. "Soufiane?"
The hand didn't move. It just held the door there, as if waiting for her permission to enter.
Then came the voice again.
> "It's me… open the door, Zahira."
The tone was right. The cadence. Even the warmth. But something underneath — something off — scraped against her instincts like metal on stone.
Her voice shook. "Where's Amal?"
Silence.
Then, calmly:
> "She's safe. I sent her below. Please, open the door. We need to talk."
Zahira's hand trembled on the latch. The smell hit her next — faint at first, like damp seaweed, but growing stronger, heavier, wrong. Her stomach turned.
She took one small step backward. Sami stirred in his sleep behind her. The noise made the thing outside shift — the shadow under the door grew taller.
"Don't wake him," the voice said softly.
> "He needs his rest."
Every instinct screamed run.
But before Zahira could move, the latch jerked violently. The door flew open — and the light from the corridor flickered once, twice, and died.
The thing stepped inside.
For a heartbeat, Zahira saw it clearly in the faint blue glow from the emergency light — Soufiane's face, but hollow somehow. The eyes were there but too still, the movements too smooth, as if a human had been rehearsed and misplayed by something else.
Her knife flashed. She slashed upward, catching the edge of its sleeve — the blade met something solid beneath fabric, but not bone. It hissed — not in pain, but in imitation of pain — and lunged forward.
Zahira ducked, pushing Sami behind her. "Stay down!" she shouted.
The creature grabbed the doorframe, jerking it free with inhuman strength. Metal shrieked. Zahira swung again, cutting deep into its forearm. Black liquid splattered against the wall, steaming where it landed.
The imitation of Soufiane staggered, its mouth twisting into a too-wide grin. Then, in a voice that shifted mid-word, it whispered,
> "You shouldn't have come this way."
That broke her. Zahira slammed the door shut, driving the broken frame against its arm until the limb snapped free and fell, twitching, to the floor. She locked the bolt and dragged a chair in front of it, breathing hard.
Outside, something pounded once — twice — then stopped.
Silence.
She stood there shaking, knife raised, staring at the severed arm. It still twitched for a few seconds before collapsing into a dark, formless sludge that hissed and evaporated on the cold floor.
Sami whimpered. She knelt beside him, whispering, "It's okay, habibi… it's okay." But her voice betrayed the lie.
---
Across the ship, Amal was pacing the control room. Soufiane stood by the radar, brow furrowed.
"There's movement in the water again," he said. "Two, maybe three small signals."
"Pirates?"
"Could be. But they're not approaching normally—they're circling."
The radio crackled suddenly. Amal jumped. Soufiane grabbed the receiver, expecting static. Instead, he heard a faint voice — his own.
> "Zahira… open the door."
His blood froze.
Amal's eyes went wide. "That's—"
"I know," he said quickly, dropping the receiver as if it had burned him. "It's here too."
The corridor outside echoed with a single metallic thud.
Amal grabbed a wrench from the shelf. "That came from the cabins."
Soufiane ran. His boots hit the metal stairs hard, echoing through the tight hallway. As he reached the lower deck, he saw light leaking from Zahira's door — flickering, dim.
"Zahira!" he called. "It's me!"
No answer.
He pressed his ear against the door. Inside — silence, except for faint breathing. He forced the handle. The door didn't move. Jammed.
"Zahira, open up!"
Then came her voice, low but steady. "Say Sami's name."
Soufiane blinked. "What?"
"Say it."
He didn't hesitate. "Sami. Our boy. He's safe with you."
There was a pause. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened just enough for him to see her — pale, shaking, blood on her hands.
She let him in, locking the door behind him. Amal arrived moments later, eyes scanning the ruined metal and the strange burn marks on the floor.
"What happened here?" she whispered.
Zahira just pointed to the sludge near the door. "It came as you," she said, voice trembling. "Your voice. Your face. It almost fooled me."
Soufiane crouched, examining the remains. The black liquid was already drying into a thin crust, leaving a faint shimmer behind. "Not human," he muttered.
"No," Zahira said softly. "But it wants to be."
The ship rocked suddenly — a heavy impact from the side. Alarms began to wail faintly in the control panel down the corridor.
Amal turned toward the sound. "They've hit us again."
Soufiane stood, eyes sharp. "Everyone to the deck. Now. If that thing's still out there, it's not alone."
Zahira glanced once at her son, still sleeping through the chaos, then at the knife in her hand. She nodded, her fear crystallizing into something harder — resolve.
Whatever was coming for them, she wasn't running anymore.