Gin dreamed of trees.
Not the twisted driftwood sold in Hull-9's market stalls, not the sun-bleached planks that passed for decorations in the wealthier decks—but real trees, with canopies like green thunderheads and roots gripping soil instead of rusted metal.
The dream smelled like moss and rain.
He stood barefoot on dark earth, staring at an island that wasn't supposed to exist—an island he'd once heard about from a drunk sailor muttering into a tin cup:
"North 'o the Span… way past Hydrarchy waters… where the old thaw sleeps. Land, boy. Land with secrets."
In the dream, the island called to him.
He walked along its shore, past bleached coral spires and bone spirals that rose from the sand like ancient ribs. Water lapped at his ankles, warm and luminescent.
Somewhere behind him, he heard laughter—his own, younger, unburdened. And then voices: familiar ones, echoing through memory.
His mother's soft, worn-out sighs.
The foreman barking orders.
Dockhands shouting, "Gin! Fix this, would you?"
Lira murmuring, "Thanks for always being around…"
Monotony, stacked year after year.
He saw his own life painted in dull strokes:
Mending valves.
Patching leaks.
Smiling through exhaustion.
Letting Lira take more than she ever gave.
Letting everyone take more than they ever gave.
He saw the day Lira first kissed him—bright, sweet, surprising. A moment he'd clung to like hope. Then he watched it fade back into routine, swallowed by the sameness of Hull-9.
He saw his future stretching out before him like a rusted walkway.
Promotion.
More work.
More obligations.
Maybe a job with Lira's father if he bowed deep enough.
A life spent waiting.
Waiting for someone to notice him.
Waiting for things to get better.
Waiting for change to just… appear.
Then the dream shifted.
The island rose in front of him again—vast, wild, impossible.
And the currentscroll message whispered like wind through its trees:
"If you feel trapped, the sea is bigger than your cage."
His bones vibrated with the words.
Literally.
A warm tingling spread across his ribs, pulsing gently like a second heartbeat. The new forge-colony inside his marrow stirred, responding to his thoughts as if urging him forward.
Go.
Move.
Live.
Gin reached toward the island's horizon—
And woke with a loud, involuntary gasp.
The dorm was still dark, lit only by the weak glow of emergency strips along the ceiling. Four other sinkers snored in their bunks. Sweat cooled on Gin's skin as he sat upright, chest heaving.
His bones tingled again—this time brighter, almost playful.
"Not now… whatever you are," he whispered, pressing a palm to his sternum.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He never had dreams like that.
And waking made it worse. Thoughts flooded him—messy, relentless, honest.
I could never leave.
What about Lira? My responsibilities?
Maybe I'll travel once I get promoted…
Maybe Lira's father will hire me… someday… maybe…
He clung to the excuses, one after another.
And then the currentscroll's words flared in his mind again—sharp, undeniable.
The sea is bigger than your cage.
He froze.
His breath steadied.
A strange clarity washed through him—not gentle or slow, but sudden, electric.
I'm trapped.
I've been trapped this whole time.
And I've been waiting for a door that no one else is ever going to open.
He felt it then—freedom.
Not the fantasy kind.
Not the storybook kind.
The real kind.
The kind that demanded a choice.
Not tomorrow.
Not after a promotion.
Not after begging Lira's father for a position he'd never get.
A pressure built in his chest—then burst.
Gin laughed.
A raw, startled, bubbling laugh that he tried—and failed—to smother.
One of the sinkers jolted awake. "What the hell—Farcast? Are you okay?"
Gin grinned at him, eyes wide with something wild, something new.
"I'm leaving," he announced.
The man blinked. "…Leaving what?"
"The Hull. The whole damn place. I'm going to find that island."
Silence.
Another sinker groaned, "Yeah, he snapped. Knew that trench dive cooked his brain."
Gin only laughed harder. His ribs buzzed with warmth—the microbes reacting like cheering spectators.
"Get some sleep, Farcast," someone muttered.
"No," Gin said, standing up. "I'm done sleeping."
By midmorning, he had emptied his savings—every Rimark he'd scraped together over years of patchwork labor—and stood in the office of Lira's father, Horvik Delna, owner of Delna Freight & Salvage.
Horvik stared at him over steepled fingers, his expression stuck between annoyance and suspicion.
"You," Horvik said flatly, "want to buy a boat."
"Yes," Gin replied simply.
"You can't afford a boat."
"I can afford a bad one."
Horvik snorted. "Why in damnation would you want a boat?"
Gin inhaled—and for once in his life, spoke without softening his edges.
"So you never have to look at me again."
That surprised Horvik. His brows lifted sharply.
Gin continued, voice steady:
"You've hated me for years. I've felt it. And honestly? I don't like you either. So this is perfect. You sell me the worst vessel you have, I leave Hull-9, and we never have to pretend again."
The older man leaned back, assessing him with new eyes.
"You're serious."
Gin nodded. "Completely."
A beat of silence.
Then Horvik laughed—a short, incredulous burst. "Fine. I have a rustbucket that hasn't sailed in six years. You'll die in it."
"I'll take it."
"No haggling?"
"No."
Horvik shook his head, bewildered, but handed over a battered key fob, a weather-softened map of the northern Blue Span, and an old compass missing half its paint.
"You're insane," he muttered.
Gin flashed him a grin sharp enough to sting. "Feels great."
He went next to the diver bays.
His coworkers stared at him like he was a wounded animal wobbling toward a cliff.
"I'm leaving today," Gin announced.
Silence.
Then someone snorted.
Another burst out laughing.
Another clapped him on the back. "Sure you are, Farcast."
"No, really," he insisted. "I bought a boat."
"Right. And I bought the Hydrarchy."
Gin exhaled, strangely calm. "None of you ever listen, do you?"
He turned and left to their laughter echoing behind him—light, dismissive, forgetful.
He didn't look back.
Lira. She found him before he could reach the outer docks, storming toward him with fire in her eyes.
"Did you seriously go to my father and insult him? What were you thinking?! And why do you have a boat key? Gin, what is going on?"
He stopped.
Turned.
And for the first time in their relationship, he didn't shrink.
"Lira… we need to break up."
The words stunned her. She jerked backward like he'd struck her.
"Are you—what?! Gin, don't be stupid!"
"It's not that I don't care about you," he said quietly. "I do. But you don't love me. You've never loved me. You just… depended on me. And I let you. I let everyone."
Her jaw clenched. "Don't twist this. You're having a breakdown."
"No," he said, a small smile forming. "I'm finally waking up."
Lira scoffed, folding her arms. "Fine. Go play pirate. I'll be waiting for you to crawl back tomorrow morning."
She turned sharply and marched away, leaving a trail of cold fury in her wake.
Gin watched her go with a strange, light ache.
Not heartbreak.
Closure.
The dock was nearly empty as he loaded the rustbucket with supplies: two small barrels of desalinated water, emergency rations, rope, a tarp, his old repair kit.
He worked alone.
No send-off.
No cheers.
No good lucks.
Just the creaking of metal and the soft slosh of waves.
He stepped onto the deck, ready to push off—
Footsteps approached.
Gin turned.
Foreman Vexa stood at the end of the dock, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she grunted, "You're really going."
"Yeah."
"About damn time."
Gin blinked. "You're… not mad?"
"I'm too old to get mad at someone for wanting more than this heap." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "You were a good worker, Farcast. Better than I deserved. You kept this place running more than any of those loudmouths down there. And I…" She hesitated. "…I'll miss having someone I could rely on."
Warmth gathered in his chest—gentle, unlike the forge-fire of the microbes.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Vexa shoved something into his arms. "Here. Don't get mushy."
Gin looked down.
An old diving suit—thick, reinforced, lovingly maintained. And a spear-gun, polished despite its age.
"My husband's," she said. "He'd haunt me if I let it rust away in storage. Man never knew how to sit still—you two would've gotten along."
Gin swallowed, overwhelmed. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything." She clasped his shoulder, squeezing once. "Just survive, Farcast. And if you find something out there worth fighting for… fight like hell."
He nodded, throat tight.
She stepped back.
"Go," Vexa commanded. "Before I remember I'm supposed to stop you."
Gin climbed aboard.
The boat groaned beneath him, ancient but eager—like a stray dog waiting for someone to finally take it for a run.
He untied the ropes.
His bones tingled.
The horizon called.
The wind smelled like possibility.
Without hesitation, he pushed off from the dock.
Hull-9 drifted behind him—steel, rust, and years of quiet suffocation fading into the distance.
Gin Farcast stood at the bow, eyes bright, grin stretching uncontrollably across his face.
He was free.
And the sea was bigger than his cage.
Much, much bigger.