He dreamed of taverns.
Of warmth and laughter and soft hands refilling his cup. Beautiful girls leaned over his table with hair like seafoam and eyes like lantern kelp, pressing cold glasses into his palms, telling him he was brilliant and brave and absolutely not an idiot for diving into shark mouths on purpose.
One of them cupped his cheek.
Her fingers were calloused, oddly heavy. Her breath smelled like cheap spirits and brine.
"Wake up, idiot."
Her voice was deeper than he expected.
Gin blinked his eyes open.
The world swam into focus: metal ceiling, peeling paint, the antiseptic tang of Hydrarchy med-sealant. He lay on a narrow cot in the salvage boat's sickbay, a thermal blanket scratching his chin. His chest ached like someone had poured hot sand into his ribs.
And hovering over him was not a beautiful girl.
It was Jakkon Mirefell.
Up close, Jakk looked less like a man and more like someone the sea had sculpted out of leftover ship parts. Broad shoulders, built like a battering ram that had learned to slouch. Dark hair cut short enough that it stuck up in stubborn bristles.A small, pale scar split one eyebrow—a neat line, like a careless knife had once missed his eye by a whisper.
Stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were the unsettling part: flat storm-gray, tired, and sharp all at once, like they'd seen every bad thing the Blue Span could throw and were waiting for the next without much enthusiasm.
He smelled faintly of smoke, sweat, and lingering alcohol. And under that, something else—hot metal and brine.
"Not the barmaid I was hoping for," Gin croaked.
Jakk snorted. "Congratulations. You're alive."
He straightened, crossing his arms. Up close, Gin could see faint, crystalline lines along Jakk's forearms, like salt scars etched into his skin.
"What," Jakk said, "possessed you to dive without a tank after a mature long-neck during recall?"
"Optimism?" Gin offered. "And… not wanting a child to get eaten because of my mistake."
Jakk's jaw ticked.
"Captain said you disobeyed a direct order," he said. "Hull guns were primed. Beast-hunter had been signaled."
"You were face-down outside a bar when I last saw you," Gin pointed out. "I did the math."
"Even for a Floodborn, that was stupid." Jakk's gaze flicked briefly to Gin's bandaged leg. "You picked a fight with a fully grown long-necked with a dive-axe and whatever that trick was."
Gin opened his mouth. Closed it again. "You… saw?"
"I saw enough." Jakk's tone stayed flat. "Big scarred bastard circling the wrecks, then suddenly flailing like it swallowed a buzzsaw. By the time I hit the water with a surgetip, it was already bleeding out from the inside. You were drifting nearby, surrounded by more blood than the dying shark."
He let out a slow breath.
"I've seen sinkers freeze on smaller predators," he said. "You didn't freeze."
That… was almost a compliment.
Gin's chest warmed, different from the bone-ache. He shifted under the blanket, suddenly aware of the quiet in his bones—no longer screaming, just a deep, satisfied thrum.
He blinked.
The thrum wasn't just in his right arm anymore.
He flexed his fingers experimentally. Both humeri responded with a faint, answering buzz, like two tuning forks resonating.
"Oh," he muttered. "You multiplied."
Jakk frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," Gin said quickly. He buried his hand back under the blanket. "Just… adjusting."
Jakk studied him for a long beat, then shrugged it off.
"You're Floodborn too?" Gin asked. "Barman mentioned it."
Jakk's mouth flattened. "Brinefurnace, I call it. Although it used to be something else. My strain eats ethanol and turns it into heat. Practically forcing me into alcoholism. Not that I mind."
Gin considered that. Considered the dead shark. The hot, clear rush that had almost made everything feel simple, the joy he felt from beating a strong opponent.
He almost asked what it was like to live with that much power under your skin. What it was like to live your whole life as a Floodborn.
Instead, almost without meaning to, he blurted, "Do you want to duel?"
Jakk blinked. "What."
"Not to the death," Gin added quickly. "Just—" He flailed a hand, winced when his ribs complained. "You're the Hull's strongest, apparently. I'm… new. I want to know how I stack up."
His bones definitely approved of that idea. They buzzed like a crowd at a fight pit.
Jakk stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a short laugh. It sounded unused, rough around the edges.
"You're weird," he said.
"So I've been told," Gin replied. "Repeatedly."
Silence settled. It wasn't entirely uncomfortable.
Gin studied Jakk's face. The exhausted lines. The way his shoulders hunched like he was used to taking hits meant for other people. The faint shimmer of heat around his skin, like the air near a kettle.
On cue, someone small and determined shouldered into the sickbay.
Tamsin stomped up to the cot, still in a damp under-suit, hair plastered to her forehead in stubborn curls. Her cheeks were blotchy from cold or yelling or both. She clutched a salvage pouch in both hands like it might float away.
"You're an idiot," she announced.
Gin smiled weakly. "I'm sensing a theme."