The hunger didn't feel like starvation.
That was the unsettling part.
Gin leaned over the rail of his skiff, forearms braced against cold metal, staring down into the water as dawn smeared pale gold across the surface. His stomach wasn't growling. His head wasn't light. His body wasn't weak.
But something inside him was focused.
Sharpened.
Every ripple below caught his attention. Every flicker of movement sent a pulse through his arm, a warm, eager thrum that ran from his shoulder down to his wrist, like bone remembering a job it was built for.
"There you are," he murmured, eyes locking onto a shadow gliding just beneath the surface.
A long-bodied fish drifted lazily through the upper current, scales catching light like broken mirrors. Big enough to matter. Slow enough to catch.
Gin's pulse quickened—not with fear, but anticipation.
"…Okay," he said softly. "So this is what you want."
The hunger leaned forward inside his arm.
Not food.
Blood.
He didn't hesitate.
Gin drew his knife and pressed it against his palm.
"Easy," he muttered—not to himself, but inward. "We're experimenting, not going feral."
He sliced.
Pain flashed—brief, sharp—and blood welled instantly. Before it could drip, it responded.
The iron-rich fluid thickened, darkening as it stretched outward from his skin. Heat bloomed along his forearm as the blood hardened, layering over itself in jagged ridges. In seconds, a crude harpoon took shape.
Gin stared at it, breath hitching.
"…That's incredible."
His arm bone thrummed, satisfied—like a tool finally put to use.
"Oh don't get cocky," he said quietly. "I did the cutting."
The harpoon felt heavy in his grip—dense, perfectly balanced, humming faintly with tension. Gin leaned over the rail, eyes tracking the fish below.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's see if you actually work."
He threw.
The harpoon punched into the water with a vicious crack, slicing clean through current and scale alike. A heartbeat later, the fish thrashed once—then went still.
Moments later, it floated back up.
Gin hauled it aboard, chest tight with exhilaration.
He knelt, hands trembling—not from revulsion, but from the sheer rightness of it. He sliced the fish open and pressed his mouth to the wound.
The blood was warm.
Salty.
Shockingly refreshing.
Energy surged through him, not wild or overwhelming, but stabilizing—like a circuit clicking into place. The ache in his arm eased. The hunger quieted to a satisfied calm.
Gin leaned back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and laughed softly.
He exhaled a short, disbelieving laugh.
"…Okay. That worked."
His arm warmed faintly, a subtle, satisfied thrum.
"But let's be clear," he said, rolling his shoulder. "I'm driving."
Gin glanced at the horizon, eyes bright.
"Let's go earn some Rimark."
Hull Khelt rose from the water like a clenched fist.
Unlike Hull-9's sprawling, stitched-together chaos, Khelt was compact, dense, aggressively vertical. Platforms stacked atop platforms, reinforced plating layered thick around the core. Hydrarchy banners fluttered from antenna masts, their blue-and-white sigils catching the light.
Order. Control. Profit.
Gin eased his skiff into the outer docks.
The dockmaster took one look at Gin—his patched gear, sunburned face, and shipwreck of a boat—and barked a laugh anyway.
"Stars above, you look optimistic."
Gin hopped down, tossed him the docking fee. "I'm new."
The man caught the Rimark chip, still snickering. "That explains it."
Gin smiled and moved on.
Hull Khelt smelled different.
Less oil. More sterilizer. The air carried the sharp tang of regulated desalination and corporate polish. Armed Hydrarchy patrols moved through the walkways in pairs, uniforms crisp, eyes bored and watchful.
Gin checked in at the diver station.
The clerk barely looked up. "Independent?"
"Yeah."
"Salvage zones are listed. Payout percentages are final."
Gin skimmed the board. Fees. Cuts. Additional processing charges. Hydrarchy skims layered on top of local skims.
"…That's brutal," he muttered.
The clerk shrugged. "That's policy."
Gin smiled thinly and stepped away.
Good to know.
The bar was loud, low-ceilinged, and smelled like salt, smoke, and bad decisions.
Gin loved it immediately.
"Real pirates drink," he muttered, ordering rum without knowing why.
He took one sip and immediately regretted it.
His face twisted. "Why does it taste like regret?"
Someone nearby snorted.
Gin glanced sideways.
The man sitting next to him was broad-shouldered, slouched like gravity had given up on him. His clothes were scorched in places, patched badly elsewhere. A half-empty bottle sat at his elbow.
The man didn't look at him.
Gin tried again. "Do you… drink it for the smell or the flavor?"
The man finally glanced over, eyes flat. "Neither."
"Ah." Gin nodded seriously. "Then why?"
"Because it burns," the man said. "Some of us deserve that."
Gin blinked, then smiled. "Fair."
They sat in silence.
After a moment, the man muttered, "You won't last."
Gin turned fully toward him, cheerful. "Probably."
That earned a longer look. Not impressed. Not amused.
Just… assessing.
The man took another drink and looked away.
Gin went back to fighting the rum.
The shipyard smelled like old metal and resignation.
Gin found the shipwright bent over a Hydrarchy engine, hands steady, movements precise. The man didn't look up when Gin approached.
"I need repairs," Gin said. "Nothing fancy."
"No," the shipwright replied immediately.
Gin paused. "You don't even know what's wrong."
"I know you," the man said quietly.
That stopped him.
The shipwright finally looked up—eyes sharp, tired, and heavy with something unspoken.
"Independent," the man continued. "Unregistered. No Hydrarchy mark. Worn gear. You'd cost me more than you'd pay."
Gin frowned. "That's an assumption. I could be a spoiled second-generation heir slumming it for character development."
The shipwright's gaze flicked—briefly, carefully—to the raised Hydrarchy oversight platform above the yard.
"…My hands are tied."
Gin studied him for a moment.
The refusal wasn't dismissive.
It was restrained.
Gin smiled—not discouraged, but thoughtful.
"Alright," he said lightly. "I'll figure something out."
Hull Khelt loomed behind him as Gin walked back toward the docks.
Oppressive. Controlled. Watching.
He wasn't afraid.
If anything, he felt energized.
Something new was unfolding—inside him, around him—and for once, Gin Farcast wasn't waiting for permission to exist.
He stepped back onto his battered skiff, hand resting on the rail.
"Don't worry," he murmured to the boat. "We'll fix you."
His arm warmed faintly in agreement.
The Hydrarchy banners snapped overhead.
And somewhere in Hull Khelt, threads were already tightening around him.