One-eyed pirate. That's what he looked like now.
Except not like the stories.
Not like the old, hardened sea dogs with grit in their teeth and steel in their voice.
No, he looked like a parody of them. A hollow version.
Terrified. Weak. Useless.
His mouth still twitched like it wanted to scream, like his brain was catching up to what his body had just endured.
But nothing came out. Just heavy breaths. Silent horror.
I looked at him, head tilted slightly, considering.
I wanted to take the other eye too—just to see how deep his terror could go.
Just to play a little more.
But no.
What fun is repetition?
What lesson is there in making the same cut twice?
No. He had tried to jump earlier, hadn't he? Thought the sea was kinder than me.
He wanted escape.
Then I'd give it to him.
On my terms.
I grabbed his hair, what was left of it—matted with sweat and blood—and yanked his head up. His spine arched unnaturally as I pulled him to his feet.
His legs barely cooperated.
He stumbled, dragging behind me like a puppet with one too many broken strings.
I marched him to the edge of the ship, to the railing he once eyed as salvation.
Now it stood as judgment.
I pointed at the waters.
Still. Endless. Waiting.
"Jump." I said.
Just one word.
But it weighed more than anything else I could've screamed.
He didn't move.
Not at first.
I saw it—the hesitation, deep and primal.
Maybe before—before the eye, before the chewing, before the pain had redefined his understanding of suffering—he would have leapt.
But now?
Now, it was different.
Now, the ocean wasn't escape.
It was a grave.
His one remaining eye locked onto mine. Wide. Pleading.
It screamed the truth his mouth couldn't form:
Please. No more.
I saw it.
I understood it.
But it didn't matter.
He had made his choice the moment he struck me.
The moment he played his role in this cursed world.
And now he would finish what he started.
I raised my foot, planted it against his chest, and without another word—
Kicked.
His body arced backward, arms flailing, mouth opening in a raw, broken scream.
One last cry from a man already dead in every way that mattered.
I looked down at the waters.
Still. Serene. Blue like polished glass under the sun.
Too calm.
Too quiet.
Why had he been so scared?
The sea looked almost inviting, like it held no secrets, no danger.
There were no leviathans breaching the surface.
No monstrous shadows circling below.
At least—not in my sight.
So why had he hesitated?
Why had he clung to the ship like it was life itself, even after everything I did to him?
He had known the answer.
And I—I had been blind to it.
I kept watching. Kept thinking.
He thrashed like an amateur at first, arms flailing, legs kicking water in every direction.
But he knew how to swim. I could see it in the rhythm once it started to return.
Not elegant, but practiced. Functional.
So it wasn't ignorance.
It wasn't helplessness.
Then what?
Maybe it was the pain—his missing eye, the nerves still screaming through the ripped mess of flesh.
Maybe it was blood loss—enough to make the world tilt sideways and his limbs slow.
Maybe it was trauma, panic, the chaos still buzzing in his brain like a hornet's nest.
Whatever it was, it delayed him.
Made his strokes weak.
Kept him close.
He didn't swim away.
Didn't flee into open sea like a man desperate for distance.
No—he stayed near the hull.
Close enough to touch the wood.
Like a child hiding behind their mother's leg, hoping the monster wouldn't reach.
And then I saw it.
The blue.
The subtle shift beneath the surface.
Not a wave. Not a trick of light.
But movement—something swimming upward. Something fast. Controlled.
Familiar.
A ripple of dread crept up my spine.
Then it broke the surface—scaled, slick, glistening in the sunlight.
The bastard.
That Komodo dragon bastard.
The same kind that circled my raft before.
The same kind I kicked off in a fit of nausea and desperation.
The same one I had killed to survive.
The same one I had eaten.
It shot toward the man like a spear, splitting water as it closed the distance.
He saw it too.
His strokes turned frantic—wild, hopeless.
But it didn't matter.
The creature leapt from the water with a surge of muscle and weight—jaw open, limbs ready.
But just as it reached him, his foot kicked out—panicked, reflexive.
And somehow, it worked.
The thing snapped back into the water, motionless.
Dead.
Was it that weak?
Or was he just that lucky?
I didn't get time to ask the question.
Because the sea boiled.
One became two. Two became five. Five became a swarm.
Dozens of them rose from the deep.
Sleek. Hungry. Waiting.
They circled him like sharks, eyes fixed, mouths twitching.
And then they pounced.
They didn't wait for him to drown.
They didn't wait for him to beg.
They wanted flesh.
Now.
They dragged him under so fast I barely saw it—just a glimpse of his one-eyed face before it vanished beneath the churning blue.
Then came the screams.
Muffled, gurgled, desperate.
The water turned dark around him—red bleeding into blue.
Limbs thrashed.
Then floated.
Then sank.
It was over in seconds.
They devoured him alive.
Bit by bit.
Limb by limb.
Pain by pain.
And in that moment—watching the waters swallow him whole—I understood.
That was why he hadn't jumped.
Not me.
Not death.
But them.
The monsters beneath the waves.
Silent. Patient. Always watching.