waves
When Mary opened her eyes, the sky was not as she once knew it. Before her stretched a celestial arc cutting across the horizon—not a rainbow, but a radiant cosmic gate, pulsing with sharp, vivid colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet, extending in precise geometric paths toward the void. The light did not emanate from a sun, but from a strange source pulsing behind those colors, as if the sky itself were opening its mouth to swallow reality.
Before her stood a majestic entity: a golden corpse, masterfully crafted. Its skull was adorned with a frame of green stones, around which coiled an ancient royal crown. Its metallic fingers bore intricate engravings, pointing toward a chalice floating above its palm—as if gravity here had forgotten its rules. The chalice was no ordinary one; it was of an old oriental design, encrusted with gems, from which small glowing orbs ascended upward—like freed souls, or rituals just unleashed.
Its hollow eyes—or what remained of them—gazed upon her as if they beheld bygone eras and dimensions beyond grasp. Behind it, upon the horizon, stood a colossal stone pillar, resembling a calcified human finger, rising from the earth in defiance of the sky. At its peak yawned a black opening—like a watching eye, or a speaking mouth. The land around it was desert-like, yet not dead—it pulsed with a hidden rhythm, as if it were living skin crawling slowly.
Before this being, a table had been set, covered with a luxurious red cloth. Atop it lay a book with a cover of intricate geometry—interlocking symbols and circles, like a map to the end of the world, or incantations from a forgotten civilization.
Mary did not scream. She did not flee. She merely gasped... for the terror was not in the scene, but in the thought that seeped into her mind:
"I… am no longer in the world of men."
---
Then, without warning, the scene shifted.
The hollow eyes of the golden lich suddenly flared with green flames—still and blazing—like windows onto a strange realm inhabited only by fear. Then, all things began to fracture around Mary—light, sand, horizon, the book, even time itself. All began to melt like a candle burning in reverse, returning to some obscure, unknown point.
Silence became a scream.
And with the vanishing of the last speck of light…
---
…her eyes opened upon another vision.
Mary now stood amidst an abandoned gothic graveyard.
The sky was pale gray, void of life—as though an echo of a space long dead, leaving behind only this faded painting. The trees were dead and rigid, their branches sharp and withered, writhing in the wind though they did not move. The graves stretched endlessly, one headstone after another—some crooked, some shattered.
The grass was tall, dry, nearly scorched, and the night's darkness was lit by naught but the flickering stars, the red moon, and flashing lightning.
Then Mary saw her.
A young, ancient witch, laughing with a snarl that revealed her beastly teeth. She was naked, save for the gloves upon her hands and the black witch's hat that veiled her face down to her mouth. She sat with one hand placed upon an old grave bearing the inscription:
LIIII P
Y, V, Ī
She was bent as though summoning something from the depths. Her hat was unnaturally long, her beauty strange—her hair fell like curtains of night, hiding nearly all her face, revealing only a twisted half-smile, etched by the years upon a body that knows secrets.
From the grave, a skeletal hand emerged, reaching for the witch's own. And the witch placed a Black Mamba upon the outstretched hand.
Mary did not breathe. She could not.
She was simply there—watching. And the air around her had become too heavy to inhale.
The witch looked at her.
And in that moment, Mary understood, without need for words:
"You are now in a place to which you do not belong… and from which you cannot leave."
She awoke from her nightmare—feverish, gasping, confused and shaken by her strange dreams. Upon her face, worry lingered. Had the dreams brought the fever, or was it the fever that summoned the dreams? Mary Winters did not know.
She rose from her bed, donned her raincoat and sailor's cap, and stepped out of the cabin—only to be greeted by a violent storm. The ship tossed madly upon raging seas. She wondered aloud—where had that living, skin-like land gone?
A mighty wave struck the vessel, causing it to sway and pitch. Mary lost her balance and slipped, tumbling toward the edge—about to fall into the storming ocean—when, perhaps, Mikhail's rope coiled around her left ankle and began to pull her upward.
Back on deck, her face dripping with seawater, her short dark-red hair soaked, and her long lashes beaded with dew upon her freckled cheeks, she lay there, looking up at him and asked:
"What happened? How did we reach this raging sea?"
Mikhail: "Ooooh, my little filly—you must be more careful. Mommy and daddy are not here to pamper and tend to you, and I believe the men aboard care more for your behind than they do for your life."
Mary, in anger: "Just answer the question, you lunatic!"
Mikhail: "Easy now, little cowgirl. It ain't my fault you've been asleep for two weeks."
Mary: "Two… weeks?"
Mikhail: "Two weeks, yes—two weeks, lad. Now come along, there are urgent orders from Captain Enrique."
Captain Enrique stood at the ship's stern, barely holding onto his hat before the storm stole it away, sending his brown hair—flecked with gray—into the wind. He spoke with firm resolve:
"Listen up, children. We are drawing nearer, not farther, from the skinlands. That means the Eye of Neperia is close. And that means every pirate across the world—every treasure-hunting scoundrel—will be waiting, ready to slit our throats. We must be prepared."
"Also, you all know about the search for your Italian crewmate, Vito. Most assumed he fell into the ocean… but I and my first mate, Chicharito, do not rule out the possibility that he was murdered. Which would mean… there is a killer among us."
Shock, fear, and suspicion crept over Mary's face. Her eyes darted nervously around the crew—there was no longer trust among shipmates. Her gaze even landed upon our protagonist, Mikhail, who sat calmly, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee, reading The Silence of the Lambs. Yet, he did not appear to be her primary suspect.
No—behind her, at the stern of the ship, sat a woman who had killed before: Lady Lucia Frankfurt. Everyone knew that Captain Enrique had personally secured her release from prison. She murdered her husband when she caught him with the maid—stabbed him sixty times and dumped the body into a vat of acid. If anyone knew how to dispose of a corpse, it was her.
Add to that the numerous heated arguments she had with Vito. He had a reputation for harassing her constantly. Their altercations weren't merely verbal—she had struck him once. Then there was First Mate Chicharito—also not above suspicion. Vito had been close to the Captain and had long rivaled Chicharito for the position of first mate. Tensions between them were no secret. Vito also bore a deep prejudice against Spaniards, constantly mocking the first mate.
And then… the whispered rumor among the crew: that Vito had once courted Chicharito's daughter. They were neighbors in Rome before the journey began. But two days after Chicharito forbade her from seeing Vito—she was found dead.
Mary said to herself, This means Mikhail is the only suspect without a clear motive… yet he's the only one who radiates an unnatural aura of terror and mystery.
She stepped forward before all and declared to the captain:
"I will take on the investigation. As you all know, I graduated from law school—and spent some time as a police aide in America."g