Chapter 28: It's Here

Amidst the howling winds, Will struggled to keep his balance on the pitching deck, the waves slamming against the landing craft that carried twelve passengers aboard.

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Washington’s upper hull could actually split open. Not only did the multi-purpose turret emerge from its hidden compartment, but the side panels of the submarine could also be retracted to deploy an extendable crane—one designed to lift objects from the outside and store them in the cargo bay on the third deck. In this case, it had been used to lower their landing craft into the abyss of the Sunless Sea.

Instinctively, Will reached for the small camera mounted beside his head, afraid it might come loose. But to his relief, the device was securely attached to the standard U.S. military combat helmet via an accessory rail—an intentional design, it seemed. The camera held firm, unmoving, despite the relentless assault of the waves.

"Stop messing with it. It’s not going to fall off. Focus on holding the railing unless you wanna go for a swim."

Sonia’s voice crackled through the portable earpiece lodged in his ear, another salvaged relic from the unfortunate soldiers who had met their end aboard the ship.

"Tell me you at least cleaned these before making me wear them," Will grumbled, suddenly realizing the grim reality of where the equipment had come from. "I swear I can still smell the last guy’s earwax."

"I didn’t turn on the mic right now, by the way," Sonia replied dryly. "Didn’t want the sound of the waves to blow out my eardrums. You can hear me, but I won’t be able to hear your whining. Now, first thing’s first—I should probably apologize in advance because those earpieces aren’t exactly washable, even if they’re waterproof. Secondly, the signal works the same way as your camera—lose connection or move too far out of range, and it’s useless. And third—don’t even think about cutting off my signal or turning off your mic, got it?"

Will gritted his teeth as he gripped the railing tighter. Great. More of Sonia’s insane scavenged tech.

"I managed to eavesdrop on the mission briefing," Sonia continued, her tone light, almost nonchalant. "We’re calling this Operation Aurora. Your mission is to board and investigate the ghost ship—where, theoretically, there should be no one onboard."

That did not make Will feel any better. "It’s a ghost ship. Isn’t that the whole problem?"

"You’re being such a coward, I know what’s in your head right now." Sonia scoffed. "There’s no such thing as ghosts. Besides, you’ve got Rain, the captain, and Commander Hector with you. Whatever’s on that ship, it’s not gonna be a problem. You just need to go in, look around, come back, and then the captain will sink it. After that, we get our fuel and move on. Easy."

Easy, Will thought bitterly. Yeah, right. Let’s see if you’d say the same thing if you were the one going aboard.

He wanted to believe things would go smoothly, that there was no hidden threat waiting for them. That they’d board the ship, confirm it was empty, and blow it to hell.

And yet…

The moment the floodlights of the landing craft illuminated the Aurora’s hull, his gut twisted.

The ship was old—far older than he’d imagined. Its once-solid steel was corroded and riddled with rust, massive patches of dark red eating away at its structure. The waves slammed against it, rocking it slightly with each impact, creating a hollow, metallic groan as the hull scraped against itself.

The sound sent a chill down Will’s spine.

Everything was going to be fine.

There was nothing to fear.

Nothing at all.

Will watched as Holland and Hector assembled the harpoon launcher, securing the nylon rope to the railing of the landing craft before loading the harpoon into place.

"Ten bucks says you miss," Holland remarked casually as he aimed at the ship's railing.

"Bet’s on! Watch and learn!" Hector barked back, lifting the harpoon gun with practiced ease before pulling the trigger almost simultaneously with Holland.

Holland’s harpoon arced gracefully through the air, its trajectory clean and precise. The moment its momentum died, the rope twisted tightly around the railing of Aurora, securing itself in place. Hector’s shot, however, barely grazed the railing before overshooting, reaching the limit of the rope and yanking back violently.

Will and the rest of the team aboard the craft barely had time to react before the iron harpoon came hurtling toward them at terrifying speed.

A blur of motion—someone slammed into Will, knocking him to the deck just as the harpoon speared through the space where his face had been. Before he could process what was happening, a hand shot out, catching the harpoon mid-air with perfect precision.

Will stared, his breath catching in his throat. The harpoon’s wickedly sharp tip hovered mere inches from his face.

"Thanks, I—"

His words were cut off as the entire coil of rope that had been attached to the harpoon came tumbling down, landing squarely on his head.

"Now that’s what I call a hell of a start, ghost ship!" Hector bellowed, his voice thick with amusement, while the rest of the team erupted into raucous laughter at Will’s expense.

"Don’t go blaming ghosts for your shitty aim," Holland quipped, entirely unfazed. "And you owe me ten bucks."

Without another word, Holland tested the rope’s strength before gripping it and beginning his ascent.

"Rain, Will, Da Costa, George—follow me up, two at a time. The rest of you, stay with Hector. If that bastard manages to land his shot before we return—" Holland smirked "—well, that’d be a first."

Another round of laughter rang out before Hector’s furious bellowing for discipline and silence cut it short.

Rain climbed next, moving swiftly and silently. Will followed only once Holland had reached the ship’s railing.

As he scaled the rope, he stole a glance at the sheathed katana strapped across Rain’s back.

He’d never actually seen the boy use it in a proper fight before. No—he had seen him fight, but only against enemies who had already been consumed by that ‘thing’, or whatever had been controlling them. They hadn’t cared about strategy, hadn’t feared the blade. They had mindlessly lunged at him, hands clawing at the air, indifferent to whether they lived or died.

He had never seen Rain go up against another human in a true battle.

Sonia, of course, loved to brag about him. She had told him stories—absurd ones—about how Rain had taken on ten men at once and emerged unscathed. Will had never truly doubted her.

Because on that island—when he had been forced to kill, when every moment had been soaked in blood—he had seen the aftermath of Rain’s skill firsthand.

Bodies littered the ground around him and Esther. Some were missing limbs. Some had been cut open, their entrails spilling onto the dirt. Others lay still, blood still gushing from gaping wounds, their fingers frozen mid-clutching, as if trying to hold their lifeblood in place.

He knew Rain had fought to protect Esther until they had arrived.

And he knew—just by looking at the sheer number of corpses—that there had been more than twenty of them.

This guy has to be reliable, right?

Surely Holland wouldn’t bring a kid who wasn't even old enough to be a proper sailor just to throw him into a death trap, would he?

"Are you afraid?" Rain’s voice cut through the wind from above.

"W-what makes you think that?" Damn it, he stuttered. That just made it even more obvious he was scared.

"Your hands are shaking. Makes climbing harder." Rain’s tone remained as detached as ever.

"Sorry, I’ve been scared of ghost ship stories since I was a kid." He blurted it out before he could stop himself—before remembering that Rain was younger than him, and that he was still wearing the damn earpiece.

Sonia’s laughter exploded through his ears. "You—ha! Ha ha ha! You’re scared of ghost ship stories?! Oh, this is gold! Ha ha ha!"

"I should’ve declined this earpiece, just like you did," he muttered to Rain. The boy had outright refused to wear the device, claiming it interfered with his hearing too much. Will now understand that sentiment perfectly.

But at least Sonia’s laughter took the edge off the eerie silence surrounding them.

"If I die and become a ghost, I’m going to haunt you." He had to say something to save a shred of his dignity as a soldier.

At last, they reached Aurora’s deck. Will extended a hand to help Da Costa up the last few rungs before unslinging his rifle and readying his aim.

Ahead, Holland held a flare, its glow casting long shadows over the massive hull. The ship stretched for at least three hundred meters, an endless steel graveyard filled with towering shipping containers. Rain was already prying open one of them. He pulled his head out and gave Holland a silent shake of his head—nothing inside.

"Everyone aboard?" Holland asked, turning toward them.

"Just waiting on George, sir! Almost got him up!" Da Costa responded with unnecessary detail.

Will could hear Holland sigh as George finally hauled himself onto the deck.

"Alright. Let’s move. The bridge is our first stop."

Without waiting for a response, Holland led them into the maze of containers.

Suddenly, Rain veered off-course, slipping between two massive containers and vanishing into the darkness.

Will opened his mouth to call him back—but hesitated.

"Let him go. Rain is scouting ahead for us." Holland’s tone was calm, steady. "Single file. Watch each other’s backs."

A tense journey through a maze of metal begins.

Will swept his flashlight in the opposite direction of Holland’s, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Sometimes, the light caught the reflective sheen of cold metal, blinding him momentarily. Other times, the angles of the containers cast deep, jagged shadows, making it feel like something was always moving at the edge of his vision.

Holland was with him. Rain was with him.

Everything would be fine.

Even as they tried to step lightly, their footsteps echoed against the ship’s metallic shell.

The clarity of their own steps meant the silence around them was absolute.

There was the faint howling of the storm in the distance, but it was noticeably quieter than when they were on the landing boat.

"So quiet for a ship caught in a storm…" Will’s voice was hushed.

“How big is this thing, really?” Sonia sounded equally puzzled.

Finally, they arrived at the ship’s bridge—a looming, rectangular structure of solid steel sitting at the far end of the deck.

And at its entrance, a sprawling pool of blood.

The stain covered the entire landing area, spreading outward in messy streaks.

It wasn’t a single spill.

It was a chaotic spray—

like someone had painted the deck in carnage.

Holland signaled for everyone to halt immediately.

He turned to Rain, who had already positioned himself near the door.

“Any body parts?”

Rain shook his head.

Instead, he gestured toward the largest pool of blood near the threshold.

“Whatever happened here… the bodies were dragged inside.”

Will looked up at the steel fortress before them.

It suddenly felt even darker, even more ominous.

“Calm down. It could be just cleanup from the attack at New Marrakesh.” Sonia’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “After all, ‘something’ might’ve attacked this ship.”

If the bodies had been removed, that meant their enemy had flesh and blood—

Or it was a monster… hungry enough to consume every last scrap.

Will forced himself to push away every unnecessary thought.

Finally, Rain took a step forward, crossing the threshold into the darkness beyond. The wet squelch of his boots against the blood-soaked floor made Will shudder.

They stood at the threshold of the ship’s bridge, keeping a wary watch on their surroundings until Rain finally returned.

"Path to the bridge is clear," the boy reported, his voice steady.

Will let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

"Did you check the bridge itself?" Holland asked.

Rain nodded slightly. "This ship is out of fuel. No telling how long it’s been like that, but I’d say it shouldn’t be moving anymore."

"That’s good news. Saves us a torpedo," Holland muttered before motioning toward the darkened smears on the floor. "Did you find whoever left those blood trails?"

Rain shook his head this time, offering no further comment.

Holland exhaled slowly. "That means they’re still here. Below deck. Somewhere deep inside the ship."

Will noticed both George and Da Costa looking at the captain like he’d just told them to jump into a shark pit. He was pretty sure he had the same expression on his own face.

"You serious, Captain?" George asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, come on, sir," Da Costa chimed in quickly, trying to appeal to reason. "We already know this ship isn’t a threat anymore. That’s enough, right?"

Holland didn’t so much as waver. His stance remained steady, his expression unreadable.

"I have a feeling those villagers didn’t tell us everything." His voice was calm, almost contemplative. "I want to know what really happened here."

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"Did you catch this disease from Esther?" Sonia’s voice crackled through the earpiece, stunned.

Will couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

With no further arguments, Holland led them into the bridge in a single-file line.

The interior of the vessel was tight—claustrophobic. Narrow corridors, metallic walls reflecting the sound of their footsteps in ominous echoes, overhead pipes snaking along the ceiling like rusted veins. It reminded Will of the inside of a submarine, every inch of space engineered for function over comfort.

Walking through the container maze outside had been bad enough, but this was worse.

The passageway was technically wide enough for two people to pass each other, but Will, walking third in line behind Holland and Rain, couldn’t see a thing past their backs. It left an uneasy sensation creeping up his spine, like the darkness ahead held something just waiting for them to step into its grasp.

And yet, he still preferred his position over Da Costa’s, who was bringing up the rear.

When they reached the first stairwell, Will’s stomach sank. The sign at the landing indicated two paths—upward to the bridge, or downward to the crew quarters and cargo hold.

He briefly considered stopping, bending down to tie his shoelaces, and letting everyone else pass so he could quietly sneak up to the bridge instead.

A childish thought.

He swallowed hard and followed Holland down into the shadows.

The clatter of boots against metal steps, the flickering shadows cast by rifle-mounted flashlights, the oppressive silence pressing in from all sides—everything about this descent set Will on edge. His gaze darted warily around the stairwell, unable to shake the gnawing fear of something lurking just behind him, waiting for him to turn his back.

"Would you quit spinning around? You're blinding me." George, walking just behind him, shielded his eyes with an irritated grunt.

Will forced himself to focus forward—downward—into the abyss that swallowed the lower decks.

Stay calm. You’re not at the front of the line. You’re not at the back either. Breathe.

Holland was here. Rain was here. Everything would be fine.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped off the last stair and planted his boots firmly on the grated floor. Painted letters on the wall confirmed their location:

Deck Two – Crew Quarters.

Holland swept his flashlight across the ground, and the beam illuminated something that made Will’s stomach twist. A trail of dried blood—thick, smeared, and unmistakable—streaked from the stairwell they’d just descended and led down another flight toward the third deck. Deeper into the ship’s bowels.

"Looks like our bodies are in the cargo hold," Holland remarked, his voice disturbingly nonchalant.

A collective groan rippled through the team—including Will.

"That’s enough, boss."

"Captain, this is straight out of a horror novel. You know that, right?"

"At the very least, shouldn’t we wait for Commander Hector to catch up?"

Holland regarded them all with the expression of a disappointed parent. "Go find yourselves some skirts," he sneered before continuing down the next flight without hesitation.

Rain followed without a word.

And so, they had no choice but to follow.

…

Deck Three was a cavernous space. Will stepped off the stairs onto an elevated platform, overlooking the vast cargo hold stretched out before them. Unlike the deck above, which had been packed with rusting shipping containers, this level housed a cluttered mess of wooden crates, rolls of animal hides, and construction materials—oak planks, ironwood beams, and bundles of ash lumber stacked high on towering metal racks. The aisles between them were narrow, maze-like, and marked by faded placards denoting their contents.

The blood trail didn’t hesitate.

It streaked straight from the stairwell, smeared across the warehouse floor, before vanishing into one of the aisles.

Above it, the placard read:

LIVESTOCK.

Holland gave Rain a sharp nod. Without a word, the young man unsheathed his sword, its metal glinting faintly under the dim light, before slipping into the maze of towering storage racks.

The captain of the Washington turned back to the rest of them.

"Disengage safeties. Stay sharp. We’re close."

Will had just opened his mouth to ask how Holland knew that—when the stench hit him.

A wave of putrid, rotting decay rolled through the air, thick and choking. It clung to the back of his throat like a disease. The unmistakable scent of decomposing flesh.

Holland moved forward, leading the way. Will followed, then George and Da Costa. They advanced in single file, stepping deeper into the corridor of towering shelves. Will’s flashlight swept over the rows of massive cages stacked on either side, their bars rusted and empty. Scattered inside were scraps of food, tufts of fur, and claw marks etched into the metal.

"What the hell were they keeping here?" Da Costa murmured from behind.

"Livestock. Didn’t you read the sign at the entrance?" George shot back.

"I don’t read, genius. More importantly—where the hell are they now?"

No one answered.

Will let the question hang, dreading the implications. His mind grasped for a rational explanation, one that didn’t involve what every instinct in his body was screaming at him. Maybe, whoever took this ship had offloaded the livestock after leaving New Marrakesh—after the city fell to ‘something’. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?

But then…

That would mean the blood on the upper deck came after the ship had been abandoned.

And no scavenger in their right mind would drag bodies down here, into the cargo hold—especially not one meant for food storage.

So who—

No.

What had done it?

Will swallowed thickly, the nausea rising like bile in his throat.

There was nothing but silence in his earpiece. Sonia hadn’t said a word since they stepped into the cargo hold. Maybe she was just as caught up in this as he was.

But right now, he would have killed to be sitting next to her, watching all of this unfold through a camera lens rather than experiencing it firsthand.

The deeper they went, the worse the smell became. The air was thick with decay, the kind that clung to your clothes and burrowed into your skin. It didn’t just stink—it saturated the space, making every breath feel like an assault.

Will finally gave up and yanked his collar up over his nose, suppressing a gag. George and Da Costa weren’t faring any better. Holland, as usual, remained unaffected, moving steadily forward, his pistol raised and unwavering.

Then, at last, the rows of storage racks ended.

They reached the far side of the cargo hold.

And there—just beyond the last row of towering shelves—Will saw it.

A hulking mass loomed in the darkness.

Even with only its vague outline visible, even before his flashlight could fully reveal it, he knew.

This was the source of the smell.

And it was enormous.

Holland had seen the shadow before any of them. With a silent hand signal, he ordered them into a line formation. Stifling coughs and covering their mouths and noses, they rushed forward, positioning themselves in a row as instructed.

Once they were in position, Holland motioned for them to shine their flashlights forward.

What Will saw nearly made him vomit.

The massive silhouette before them was a mountain of corpses, stacked haphazardly, reaching over three meters high. Human bodies lay tangled together in grotesque angles, hollow eye sockets staring back at him in eerie silence. Among them, the carcasses of livestock—cows, horses, pigs—all mutilated, all decayed.

The second the lights hit the pile, a swarm of flies erupted into the air, buzzing wildly, their wings reflecting off the beams.

Da Costa and George instantly doubled over and vomited, their retching noises drowned by the droning hum of insects.

"What the hell is this!?"

"God have mercy…"

A voice crackled in Will’s earpiece—Sonia. "What am I looking at?"

Will clenched his jaw, unwilling to open his mouth for fear of swallowing the flies that now filled the space around them.

Holland, unfazed, stepped closer. He knelt at the base of the pile and pulled free a corpse that wasn’t as deeply buried as the others.

It was a woman—middle-aged, wearing a naval uniform distinct from those on the Washington. Another crew. Another ship. Her reddish-brown hair was thick with maggots, writhing between strands like living filth. But it wasn’t the decay that caught Will’s attention—it was the gaping wound in her abdomen.

Holland shone his light over the gash.

"Her stomach’s been sliced open—cleanly, with a blade." Holland stood, sweeping his flashlight over the rest of the pile. "The others are the same."

Will followed the captain’s gaze, and dread crawled up his spine.

Every single body—human or otherwise—was missing parts. Arms, legs, sections of their torsos, some stripped down to bare ribs. The cuts were precise, surgical. No tearing, no claw marks.

"It's as if someone took a sword to them—" Will started, but then he froze.

His throat went dry.

"What is it?" Holland asked, noticing his sudden silence. He followed Will’s trembling flashlight beam.

Will’s flashlight hovered over the peak of the corpse mound.

There, something grotesque awaited.

A dark film, deep crimson, oozed over the bodies, stretching like viscous sinew, a sickly veil fusing them together.

The corpses were no longer separate beings.

A woman’s head melded into the shoulder of a man.

A child, his torso half-swallowed by the bloated gut of an obese figure.

Where flesh met flesh, a black ichor oozed, sealing their bodies like grotesque adhesive.

That was horror enough.

But what made Will’s stomach clench with cold terror wasn’t the mutilated bodies—it was what sat at the very summit of the grotesque heap.

A black, glistening mass.

It was ovoid in shape, its surface coated in a slick layer of mucus that reflected the light in wet, shimmering streaks. The center had been ripped open, revealing an interior of pulsing veins, stretching outward like tendrils.

Will wasn’t the only one staring.

George and Da Costa, standing beside him, had their eyes locked on the same thing.

"What the hell is that?" George whispered.

"Looks like a giant ball."

"No," Will said. His voice felt distant, detached. "It looks like an egg."

Silence crashed down over them.

A suffocating, heavy silence.

And then—realization.

George swallowed audibly. Da Costa’s breathing hitched. They all turned—slowly, painfully slowly—to look again at the gaping rupture in the blackened shell.

"An egg that’s already hatched…" Holland murmured.

Then—he flinched.

His body jerked, his instincts screaming before his mind even caught up.

His gun snapped up, aimed at the darkness.

"Everyone, watch your surroundings!" Holland barked.

Steel clicked as every man swung their rifles, scanning the looming maze of storage racks behind them.

Will turned, his flashlight beam cutting through the empty aisles, tracing the skeletal remains of abandoned livestock pens.

And that was when it struck.

A shadow burst from beneath the corpse mound.

Fast.

Unnaturally fast.

Will barely had time to register movement before the figure was on him.

His flashlight caught the flash of metal—

A blade.

And there was no time to dodge.

His breath seized. His muscles tensed.

And then—

A second shadow moved.

A blur of white and black flew past his shoulder.

A sword.

The unmistakable gleam of polished steel collided with the oncoming blade, deflecting it away from Will’s exposed throat.

The attacker staggered backward.

And before Will could even regain his breath, Rain was already in motion.

The young swordsman surged forward, blade drawn, meeting the darkness head-on.

Rain’s blade was a blur of steel as he pressed forward, relentless in his assault. Each stroke came with fluid precision, striking at angles designed to overwhelm and dismantle his opponent’s defense.

The shadowed figure moved like a specter, slipping between Rain’s attacks with uncanny reflexes, deflecting each strike with a flick of their gleaming dagger. Step by step, they retreated, guided not by desperation, but by calculation.

Will raised his rifle, sighting the enemy—but Rain was too close, his swift movements an unpredictable shield blocking any clear shot. Damn it. He was useless in this fight.

But wasn’t Rain a master swordsman?

Will had never witnessed the young warrior fight seriously before—not like this. Rain’s movements were liquid, his stance unshakable. Every step forward forced his opponent back. He was pushing them, tightening the noose with sheer skill and speed.

And yet—

The enemy did not falter.

They matched Rain’s pace, their dagger flashing like a streak of liquid silver. Every deadly arc of the samurai blade was caught, turned, redirected with eerie precision.

Sparks erupted. Metal clashed against metal, the sound growing sharper, faster.

The combat blurred into something beyond human speed—two weapons dancing, too fast for the eye to track.

Then—

Everything stopped.

A final clash.

A single miscalculation.

Will saw it.

Rain’s katana spun through the air, tumbling end over end before it clattered onto the steel floor. Blood dripped from his palm. A blade had pierced straight through it.

The enemy had been hiding a second knife.

The shadow figure had feigned weakness, lured Rain into overextending, and in that split second, they had struck—driving the dagger straight through his sword hand, disarming him in a single motion.

Rain barely had time to react before his arm was wrenched back, twisted at an unnatural angle. The enemy moved like smoke, circling behind him, using his own wounded arm to pin him in place.

And then—

A second blade pressed against his throat.

A sudden, perfect silence settled over the room.

The entire team had their rifles raised.

Every gun aimed directly at the shadow holding Rain hostage.

"Holland, shoot!" Rain’s voice was raw, strained with pain.

No one fired.

The squad shifted their eyes to Holland, waiting.

The captain stood motionless, his jaw clenched, his gaze locked onto the blade resting against Rain’s neck.

Seconds stretched. Three. Five. Ten.

The silence was suffocating.

Then—

Laughter.

Low and chilling.

The enemy laughed.

"I knew it."

His voice was smooth, mocking.

"You won’t shoot."

"Who the hell are you?" Holland’s voice was low, sharp, barely leashed.

The figure behind Rain chuckled, a light, almost playful sound, disturbingly out of place amidst the carnage. "Someone who’s been waiting for you."

There was something eerie about the way he spoke—like a child savoring a game.

Holland’s grip on his gun tightened. "Did you do all this?" He motioned towards the grotesque mound of corpses behind them.

"Oh? You mean, did I kill them all?" The figure let out a mock gasp of surprise. "No, not my handiwork."

Will swallowed hard. His fingers twitched against the trigger of his rifle. "Then what do you want?"

"Help." The answer was simple. "I want passage aboard your ship."

Holland’s expression didn’t change. "If you need help, you could’ve just asked. There was no need to take a hostage."

The blade at Rain’s throat tilted slightly, catching the dim glow of their flashlights. "Oh, come now, Captain. If I had just walked up to you, you’d have put a bullet in me on sight—assuming you believed I was responsible for all this."

He wasn’t wrong.

"If you didn’t do this, then why the hell are you here?" Will demanded, his voice carrying the unspoken question everyone had. "What the hell happened on this ship?"

The boy—because now, listening closely, Will was sure it was a boy’s voice, young but unsettlingly composed—was silent for a beat. Then, he started talking.

"I was traveling with my father," he said, the playfulness in his voice finally receding. "We were among the refugees fleeing from New Marrakesh. We found that settlement on the sea stack and thought we could start over. But the adults… they started fighting. I don’t know why. The group split into two. My father was killed in the fighting."

A pause.

"The ones who lost fled back to this ship. But by then, we were low on fuel. Low on food. I don’t know what happened next—I was hiding in a supply crate when the fighting started again."

His words carried no emotion. No grief, no anger. Just detached recounting, as if the horrors of what he had survived didn’t touch him.

The four men exchanged uncertain glances.

"I told you," the boy said, his voice dipping into something bitter. "You don’t believe me, do you?"

Da Costa muttered under his breath, "That doesn’t match the story we got from that settlement."

"One of them is lying, obviously." George rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"But if the losers of the fight were exiled onto this ship, then why hire us to sink it afterward?" Will asked, more to himself than anyone else.

A crackle came through Will’s earpiece.

"Because they didn’t just abandon this ship," Sonia said grimly. "They used it to hunt down the fishing boats from that settlement—to get revenge. If that’s the case, everything makes perfect sense."

Will flicked his gaze to Holland.

The captain was still, gun steady, but his eyes burned with something cold, calculating.

He was hesitating. Weighing something.

Will knew that look.

Holland was trying to decide whether to take the shot.

At last, Holland let out a slow exhale and lowered his gun.

"I believe you. Now it’s your turn to believe in us."

A moment of silence.

Then, the voice from the shadows responded, "Much appreciated."

The knife slid away from Rein’s throat, and the boy took a step back, finally letting his captive go.

As Rain straightened up, Will got his first good look at their supposed enemy.

And he was just a kid.

A boy, barely fifteen or sixteen, with strikingly sharp features—pale skin, a slender face, and a height just an inch or two taller than Rein’s. His clothes were simple: a deep red hoodie, worn jeans, and sturdy black boots. But what caught Will’s attention first were his eyes—a piercing, unnatural shade of blue—and his hair, a long tail of pale green, tied loosely behind his head.

Will had never seen anyone with hair that color before.

Rain reached up and yanked the knife free from his palm. Blood dripped in scattered droplets against the floor, but, as always, the boy’s face betrayed nothing.

"Who are you?" His voice was calm, but his grip on his knife tightened.

The green-haired boy smirked. "Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, Senpai?"

Rain’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the air around him sharpened.

"I’ve never met you before."

"No," the boy agreed, tilting his head, "but I know you quite well."

There was something in his voice, something mocking, a quiet amusement like he knew something they didn’t.

The muscles in Rain’s jaw twitched. His stance tensed, weight shifting forward. Will had seen this before—the way his teammate moved when he was about to strike.

But just before Rain could act, the boy moved first.

He dipped his head, lowering his body in a perfectly executed bow—a formal gesture of respect.

"My name is Satoru," he said smoothly.

When he straightened, his gaze locked onto Rain’s. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."