99 awoke slowly, as though surfacing from deep water.
The captain's cabin was quiet. The boards beneath him were warm from the sunlight filtering through the stern windows, though the light itself felt muted, refracted as if it had passed through the ocean before reaching him. His body felt… different. The familiar stiffness in his back was gone. His head was clear. His chest was calm.
For a long moment, he lay still, simply breathing.
'Strange… I never sleep like this.'
On Earth, he had been a light sleeper. Sometimes, no matter how tired he was, his mind refused to rest. He would toss, turn, stare at the ceiling for hours. Even as a child, sleep came grudgingly, as though it had to be bribed. Insomnia had been as much a part of him as his own hands.
'Why… why do I feel like I've been resting for days instead of hours?'
The thought lingered, uncomfortable. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The ship creaked faintly in greeting.
His eyes wandered to the lantern hanging near the chart table, the soft sway of its chain. He thought of the dream, of the countless voices that had spoken to him. Some warning, some guiding, some… watching.
'One of those voices… it could have been the ship.'
He spoke aloud, his voice cutting the stillness.
"What are you? And what do you want from me?"
The reply came immediately, as if the ship had been waiting. The sound was both near and far, the tone both angelic and ghastly. Each word was accompanied by the faint rush of waves against the hull, like syllables formed in water.
"I am what you suspect, precious one. A ship with mind and will. I am sentient. But to endure… I require a host."
99 froze.
"A… host?" His tone was tight. "Why?"
"To live," the ship answered with the ease of someone explaining the tide. "I exist in a fractured state. My vitality drains faster than I can restore it. Without a host, I will fade."
His brow furrowed. "So you feed on me."
"I take what I need. No more."
"That sounds like a parasite." 99 quipped.
The ship's voice did not change. If anything, it became almost indulgent.
"Some would say so. But I am not of the kind that drains until the host is nothing but a husk. I take only enough to sustain myself. In return, I protect. I carry. I shelter. I am… useful."
99 did not move. His fingers curled against the mattress.
"Explain."
"You know the vampire of your myths?" the ship began. "One can gorge, draining its victim of all blood, leaving a corpse. It feels sated for a time, but soon hungers again. This path ends with nothing left to feed upon.
"But another kind of vampire feeds sparingly. It drinks only enough to quench its thirst, leaving the host alive. Humans may donate blood and live. Over time, human bodies replenish what was taken and new blood will flow through their veins. The vampire may feed again and again without ending its source. And in exchange, it may guard the host. Ward away threats. Offer what it can in return."
The ship's voice softened slightly.
"I am the second kind."
For an instant, the image of a farmer tending his crops passed through 99's mind. Sustainable farming. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of a parasitic, sentient ship explaining resource management. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he forced his expression flat.
"And you expect me to trust you?"
There was a brief silence before the ship replied with an amused note.
"You ask that, yet you seem the more untrustworthy of us two."
99's gaze snapped to the wall before him. Lines were appearing in the wood, not carved but emerging, like ink seeping up through paper. They formed runes — a language he did not know, yet somehow understood.
It was a contract.
Every clause was meticulous. The terms were clear: the ship would take a fixed amount of vitality, no more, no less. In exchange, it would protect him, grant him use of its speed, shelter, and other capabilities. If either party broke the terms, the punishment was stated plainly.
A fate worse than death.
He read it twice.
'Worse than death… what could be worse than that?'
"How can I trust this?" he asked aloud.
The ship's voice came again, softer now, almost… fond.
"My precious… do you understand the weight of Laws in this world?"
The question was rhetorical, but before 99 could reply, the ship continued.
"Laws are absolute. They shape what is possible and what is not. Contracts are no exception. When you sign this, you will feel its truth."
The words stirred an echo in him, a memory of the dream, of the time limit burned into his soul. That binding had been just as absolute.
The ship seemed to sense his hesitation. "The terms are fair. I do not lie to you. Sign, and we both endure."
99 stood in silence. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded.
"All right. How?"
"You need not name yourself," the ship said, as though it had already read his mind. "Names carry weight, and yours is not ready to be spoken. Simply touch the wall with the intention of sealing the pact. Your soul will bear the mark."
He placed his palm to the runes. The wood was warm, as if it had been in sunlight for hours. The moment his intent solidified, something pressed back, not on his skin, but inside him. It was like a needle engraving a word deep into bone, only the bone was his soul.
A sensation bloomed through him: certainty. The terms of the pact were now part of reality, as immutable as the fact that water flowed downhill. He knew instinctively that if either he or the ship violated it, something would come for them both. And it would not be merciful.
He stepped back, exhaling sharply. The surprise faded faster than he expected.
'After the time limit etched into me… this isn't as shocking as it should be.'
The runes on the wall pulsed once, then sank back into the grain. The air in the cabin shifted.
A shape stepped into view.
She was tall, with the bearing of someone who had once been worshipped and perhaps still was. Her body was wrapped in a dress of flowing blue and white, its hem rippling as though stirred by unseen currents. Around her hips, strands of pearlescent shells clicked faintly together. Her skin was pale, touched with the faintest iridescence, like the inside of an oyster shell.
Her face was hidden beneath a veil as fine as mist. It obscured every feature, yet the pull to look was nearly unbearable, the same compulsion he had felt with the glass shard. The more he tried to glance away, the more his gaze slid back.
She smelled faintly of saltwater and something sweeter beneath, like the air in a garden just after rain. The sound of her movement was the hush of waves pulling back from shore. Her presence was neither cold nor warm, but balanced on a knife's edge, like moonlight on water.
When she spoke, her voice was melodic but tinged with something older, a patience that felt almost dangerous.
"I am Silla," she said. "Some call me the sleeping beauty who wields water. Others…" A small smile touched her tone, though not her veil. "Well. Let us leave that unsaid."
The air between them shifted again, and she inclined her head the slightest degree.
"Pleasure doing business with you, 99. I look forward to a vitalic partnership."
Her words lingered in the cabin long after the last syllable faded, mingling with the sound of the ship's gentle creak, as if the wood itself approved.
As she spoke her last word, the ship shook, the ocean trembled and the water cried.
Danger was approaching.
Fast.
Imminent.
Deadly.