Kash
I have often, if not always, wondered how differently life might have unfolded if Dad had been alive. It's a thought that clings to me like second skin, quiet but ever-present, especially on days when the sterile white walls of the institute feel like they're closing in. Perhaps, in another version of my life, I wouldn't have signed up for a PhD programme at the very institution where he once worked, walked, and eventually was dismissed from. I didn't choose this place out of love or ambition. In truth, I loathed it. The labs reeked of recycled ambition, the hallways echoed with the hum of unspoken pressure, and the research processes followed a mechanical rhythm that dulled even the most inquisitive minds.
Nothing ever changed here. The same centrifuge protocols, the same tedious titration curves, the same spreadsheets and data entry logs that drained the soul out of inquiry. Innovation, in theory, was our mission, but in practice, it was buried beneath layers of grant applications and KPI charts. This wasn't a sanctuary of discovery. It was a graveyard of potential.
The funny thing is, though perhaps 'ironic' is the better word, they never glanced at my application and went, Oh, Dr. Berry's son. No respectful nods, no awkward pauses, not even an accusatory raise of the brow. If any of them remembered him at all, they never showed it. And as heartbreaking as that erasure may be to some, I found a strange kind of comfort in it. I didn't want to be known as the son of a man who was excommunicated for his "delusions." A man branded mad because he believed in things this institution didn't want anyone to believe in, things it actively buried beneath bureaucracy and scientific silence.
My current mentor, Dr. Jayesh Bhatnagar, a seasoned Fifty-year-old biotechnologist with a precise walk and a habit of humming old Bollywood songs under his breath, was working on a project called BT Fishery. The initiative was funded with the aim of enhancing bioengineered fish stock, essentially, manipulating growth cycles to yield higher production in shorter spans, all for human consumption. The grant money was good. The science was palatable. Ethical debates were shelved quietly under urgency clauses.
But I didn't join his lab because I cared about fish. I couldn't care less about genetically bulked-up tilapia. What brought me here, what tethered me to this place despite my disdain, was the undercurrent. The silent promise of answers. This institution harbored secrets, deeply embedded within layers of classified research and erased employee records. Secrets so vast, even most employees had no clue what they were walking over.
And those who did know?
They were bound by ironclad NDAs, legally throttled into silence. The ones who dared to break their oath, who whispered too loud, or dug too deep?
They were discarded.
Just like my father.
Thrown to the wolves for daring to suggest a world beyond human comprehension.
And maybe that's why I stayed.
To finish what he started.
Or at the very least, understand what it was that drove him into ruin.
I had discovered, over time, a way to bend the system to my will. Not shatter it, just twist it gently until the cracks became seams through which I could slip. Even if it meant peeling those secrets on my expense.
"Dinner at my place?" Peter asked casually, his voice echoing a little too confidently over the steel bridge that connected the A-wing with the B-wing of Houston Marine and Oceanic Research Center. The bridge was more than a hallway, it was a line between two worlds. The A-wing was mine: modest, academic, built on meager government funding and steady ambition. The B-wing, however, was cloaked in shadows and privilege. That's where the real science happened. Or at least, the kind that wasn't supposed to be spoken of out loud. It was there, behind reinforced glass doors and biometric locks, that Peter worked, incidentally, in the very same department my father had once been employed in. Not that Peter knew that. He had no idea who I truly was. I was just Kashton Berry to him, a junior researcher with a winning smile. My father? He was a forgotten chapter in a closed book no one dared reopen.
But for me, HMORC was never about the research. It was a quest. A calculated pursuit to uncover the truth behind my father's mysterious death, a death that reeked not of tragedy but of erasure. I knew in my gut that this institution had known about the mer-folk, creatures like Delmar, long before my father ever laid eyes on one. So why the cover-up? What were they trying to bury so deep?
Peter, unfortunately, was my shortcut to the truth. Not my type by any stretch of the imagination. Some people liked older men. I didn't. Especially not ones who were nearing forty, had perpetually damp armpits, and wiped their forehead with the same threadbare handkerchief like it was a religious act. It wasn't about being shallow, it was about instinct. There was nothing in him that stirred even a flicker of desire in me. But still, I played the part. I played it well. Because there was a chance, just a chance, that this self-obsessed white man, who might very well be both fetishizing and quietly racist, held the key to the truth I was searching for.
We had been "together" for six months now. If getting his attention was easy, evading his hands was a daily battle of wit and excuses. His sexual advances had grown increasingly difficult to dodge, and I knew tonight might be the tipping point. I had postponed this dinner invite countless times, but now his patience was clearly fraying. He stood there, waiting for my response with eyes that saw more of my body than my words.
"Let's get a coffee first," I said, softening my tone with a practiced smile as we walked toward the cafeteria. A temporary detour. A buffer.
"Anything new in your department?" I asked, keeping my voice light, trying to shift the conversation before it could spiral again. My black coffee burned slightly on the way down, bitter enough to match the unease curling in my gut.
Peter, already bored, gripped his juice glass with subtle irritation. "No, Kashton. Nothing new. Same old DNA sequencing of some whale species. You know how it is."
I attempted a weak chuckle. "You guys don't hear any wild rumors about extinct species or anything crazy like that?" It was a desperate attempt at levity. Humor, I knew, wasn't my strongest suit, it often landed flat, and this was no exception.
Peter turned toward me, his brow furrowed with irritation. "Are you trying to avoid what I just asked?" His voice had dropped. "Just tell me if you don't want to have sex. I can be flexible. If you don't like being on top, I'll adapt."
The words hit me like cold brine. My cock shriveled at the idea of bringing it anywhere near him.
But I smiled through it anyway.
Because I was here for the secrets, not the man.
"It's not that. I do want to have sex but I just... I don't want our relationship to be based on it." My voice wavered despite my best effort to stay collected, and I hated the way I sounded, like I was tiptoeing over landmines, afraid of triggering the inevitable. "I know I'm sounding whiney, but hear me out, every single one of my past relationships ended right after I gave in. Like clockwork. The moment sex happened, things collapsed. I don't want that again." I took a shaky breath and reached out, squeezing his hand for emphasis, for sincerity, for control. "I like you too much to end it like that."
I saw the exact moment something inside Peter softened, melted even. His defensive posture loosened. The stiff line of his jaw relaxed. He nodded slowly, like a man who wanted to believe he was being noble.
"I'm not pressuring you," he said, voice low and even. "But it's been more than six months we have been together you know."
I offered a sorry small then leaned across the small café table to press a brief kiss to his lips. It was soft. Choreographed. Uncomplicated.
And yet my stomach twisted in quiet revolt.
Thank god Peter wasn't the first man I had kissed, because if he had been, I would have thought this was what kissing was supposed to feel like: lukewarm and distant. But I knew better. I knew the electricity a real kiss could carry. I knew the burn and pull and aching hunger that came with it. I knew what it felt like to forget your own name against someone else's mouth.
And every time I was forced to compare, I thought of him.
The kiss that changed me.
My chest constricted painfully at the memory, his taste, his warmth, the way time had stilled in that one moment. What is he doing right now?
No. I couldn't go there. I had made a decision, to move forward, to reclaim control. I had walked away for a reason. I couldn't afford to think about him every single day, every waking moment, like some desperate addict. This wasn't sustainable. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't fair, to Peter or to myself.
"You know," Peter started, casually picking up where we left off, "we found some crazy species of crustaceans on our last dive. They live in complete darkness, miles beneath the surface. And what's fascinating is their sensory adaptation, almost like they see with vibrations and chemotactic trails instead of actual eyes..."
I should have been intrigued. I usually was when marine adaptation came up. But just then, my phone began to buzz, insistent and loud, vibrating sharply against the metal tabletop like it was trying to break through a fog I hadn't realized I was drowning in.
"Uhm, sorry, it's my mom," I said, glancing down at the caller ID. A tight ripple of unease tugged through my chest. We hadn't spoken in over two months. She never called in the middle of the day, not unless something was wrong.
I answered, pulse ticking beneath my skin.
"Hello?"
"That guy is here. Looking for you," she blurted out, skipping any kind of greeting. Her voice was sharp, irritated, annoyed in the way only mothers could be when they felt inconvenienced.
My brows knit together. "What guy?" I asked, confused. Maybe I had mistakenly put my home address on a parcel order?
"He won't go away," she snapped. "He's got a girl with him. They're sitting by the door like stray dogs. Should I call the Cops?"
A sickening chill unfurled down my spine. "Which guy, Mom?" My voice dropped to a whisper as my brain clicked through possibilities.
"The guy from your Island City," she said dismissively, her voice laced with contempt. "The weird one."
My breath hitched.
No.
It couldn't be.
"Do you mean... Delmar?" I asked, though the words barely scraped past my throat. Saying his name out loud felt like invoking something sacred. My Delmar?
"I don't remember his name," she replied, flustered. "The pale guy. With weird eyes."
My hand flew to my chest instinctively. Something had moved inside me, physically moved. As though my heart had heard his name before my brain fully processed it.
"Take him in, Mom," I whispered, barely able to speak.
"What?"
And just like that, the world was no longer stable.
"Take him in. I'm coming home," I said, trying to sound calmer than the storm gathering in my chest. I did a quick mental calculation, five to six hours, if I got the next available flight out of Houston. That meant I wouldn't reach home until midnight at the earliest, and that too if everything went smoothly. A tall order when the universe clearly had other plans.
"You want me to bring him inside the house?" Mom screeched through the phone like I'd asked her to cradle a grenade. "Are you kidding me? What if he's a serial killer?"
"He's not a serial killer," I bit out, dragging a hand down my face. "He just..." I sighed, frustration washing over me in waves. God, she could be so thick-headed sometimes. Like her default setting was hysteria with a touch of drama.
"I'm not letting him in," she declared flatly. "I'm calling the cops."
"Mom. No!" I nearly shouted, earning a few curious glances from people around us. She wasn't bluffing. I knew her too well, she'd absolutely call the cops on the kindest, most harmless man who'd ever walked this Earth.
"Wait," she said abruptly, followed by muffled shuffling and the faint echo of her voice yelling something in the background. Then silence. A pause that stretched longer than I could bear.
"He's asking for your home address," she said when she returned to the line, her tone sharper now. Guarded. I felt my chest tighten.
My heart thudded like it was trying to claw its way out. "Give it to him," I said, my voice rough.
"Are you sure, Kash? Aren't you being a little reckless?" Her voice dropped to that half-mocking, half-genuine concern she used when talking about anything I did that deviated from her version of normal. "If it's a 'gay thing'... then I'm sure you can find better-looking guys than him, "
"Mom," I cut her off, firm this time. "Just give him the address. Okay?"
"Fine!" she snapped, the word like a slammed door.
My thoughts spiraled. He was coming. But how? How had he made his way to North Carolina? All the way from a remote island country, no passport, no paperwork. No one would have helped him unless... unless he'd figured it all out on his own. My Delmar. Sea-born, not human, but smarter than most of us could ever be.
"What did he say?" I asked finally, heart aching.
"He said thank you and left."