The sea was black glass under a bruised sky. Waves rolled slow and heavy, dragging shadows across the ruined docks. Cain stood at the prow of the stolen vessel, coat snapping in the salt wind. His eyes tracked the horizon, though he wasn't searching for ships or storms. He was listening again—to the thrum beneath the surface, the way the ocean whispered of things older than nations.
Behind him, the deck groaned under the weight of scavenged weapons and fuel drums lashed down with rusted chains. Susan sat on an overturned crate, bandaged ribs bound tight, a cigarette between her lips. She hadn't spoken in an hour, letting the smoke speak for her. Her silence was less about pain and more about defiance—her way of telling the night it hadn't beaten her.
