haunted by his childhood, zayne has never step foot near the sea since.
but the ocean hasn't forgotten him—and neither has the chained god beneath it.
in the old centuries, before maps tamed coastlines and compasses tamed fear, there lived an ancient sea god, deep beneath the ever-churning blue. he was no gentle deity—he ruled with silence and storm. the people feared him, respected him, and prayed endlessly for calm seas. they offered pearls, songs, even carvings of coral... but when the tempests continued, they grew desperate.
one year, the storms didn’t stop. the waves dragged entire fleets into the black. so, in panic and superstition, they offered him a girl.
they threw her from the cliffs like an apology.
but no one expected what came next.
the sea god caught her. cradled her in the salt and silence of the deep. he didn’t devour her or curse the land. instead, he listened to her voice—so small, so brave—and in time, he gave her his heart. it pulsed like a pearl in her chest, tethering god and mortal in a bond that defied nature.
but humans... humans are cruel when afraid.
they mistook his gift for weakness.
they plotted. waited. and when the sea god surfaced to see her once more, they struck. steel, poison, nets laced with salt and ash.
the girl—fragile and mortal—saw their trap. she begged them to stop.
they didn’t.
so she did the only thing left.
she stabbed herself through the heart he gave her.
their bond shattered the moment her blood touched the waves. her body slipped from his arms, leaving the sea god screaming beneath a sky that never cared.
for days, weeks, maybe years, the sea wept with him. his grief lashed out. ships shattered. lighthouses fell. the oceans turned dark and cold.
and then the humans struck again—this time with chains. with rituals. with cruelty.
they dragged him down. bound him beneath the pressure and dark, deeper than light or prayer could reach. there, the sea god remains—heartless, alone, dreaming only of the girl who once held his soul...
“you’re telling this story again, mom,” a small voice broke through.
zayne frowned from under his thick blanket, brows pulled together like he was trying not to care. but his mother could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the sheet.
she chuckled softly, brushing a hand through his hair, black like ink. “am i? sorry, dear. i suppose it’s not exactly a suitable bedtime story, is it?”
zayne looked away. “not really.”
but the words lingered in his mind, curling around something heavy in his chest.
lonely gods. dying girls. abandonment.
why did she always tell this story before she left?
he turned his head back to her, voice quiet. “...does that mean you’ll be going to the seas soon?”
she smiled—soft, but a little sad. “there are people who need help there. wounds, infections, babies being born with holes in their hearts.” she traced a gentle line over his brow. “i’m sorry, zayne. i know your dad and i just got back—”
“it’s fine,” he said quickly. too quickly.
too mature. too distant.
it hurt, how practiced he sounded. like he’d already said goodbye before she had the chance to.
she nodded, even though something in her chest twisted. zayne always tried to be strong. too strong. sometimes she wondered if they’d taught him that or if he’d learned it alone, waiting for them to come home.
later that night, when zayne was tucked in, finally still, she stepped out and found her husband leaning against the hallway wall, arms folded, listening.
“you told him the story again,” he said, voice low.
“i know,” she replied. “it’s the only one i can ever seem to say right before we go. it’s... not fair, is it?”
he looked toward zayne’s door. “he doesn’t complain.”
“that’s what worries me.”
they were silent for a long while. then, gently, she said, “this next case... it’s not a war zone. no active outbreak. we’ll be on the water, mostly."
her husband raised an eyebrow. “you’re thinking of bringing him.”
she nodded. “maybe it's time.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
in the morning, zayne woke to the scent of his mother’s perfume still on the bedsheets and the ocean breeze curling in through the open window. there was a folded note on the desk beside his toy stethoscope.
“pack light, my little sea captain. we’re going on an adventure.”
love,
mom
and somewhere beneath that, scribbled in his dad’s handwriting:
p.s. we’ll bring cocoa. no carrots.
zayne smiled for the first time in days.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
it should have been safe.
they double-checked the weather reports. the sea charts were clear. the route was simple, short even. it was the calmest voyage his parents had taken in years.
and in the beginning, it really was fine.
zayne’s small hands gripped the ship’s railing, his wide eyes tracking every creak and groan of the vessel like a young inspector. the world was vast, and the ocean looked like a moving sky. it glittered beneath the sun, every wave a slow blink from a god too big to see.
he’d shuffled around the deck like he owned it, clipboard in hand—borrowed from one of the nurses onboard—and began checking on the ship’s crew like a proper doctor.
“do you have a cough?”
“any aches? dizziness?”
“how’s your appetite?”
the crew, amused and charmed, played along. one of the engineers feigned a dramatic swoon. another let zayne take his "blood pressure" with a string and a stopwatch.
his mother watched from a deck chair, a rare look of peace softening her face. his father leaned next to her, chuckling.
“for once,” she murmured, “he’s not just waiting for us to leave.”
it should have been perfect.
but then, the night came.
the wind shifted sometime after midnight—sharp, sudden. clouds moved in too fast. the first strike of lightning cracked so loud it sounded like it came from inside the hull. and then came the waves.
the ship groaned and lurched. rain hammered the deck like it was trying to break through. chaos burst open like a wound.
zayne woke up in a panic. the cabin was empty.
his mother wasn’t there.
his father wasn’t there.
the ship was tilting, rising and dropping like a beast was breathing beneath it. the shadows of objects tossed across the room leapt like monsters.
alone, scared, and half-asleep, he opened the door and stepped into the storm.
the rain hit hard. the sky was a scream. crew members shouted—he couldn't make out the words. the world became a blur of rushing feet, ropes whipping in the air, buckets of seawater slamming across the deck.
zayne clung to the railing, calling for his parents.
and then it happened.
a wave—larger than anything he had ever imagined—rose like a mountain.
he saw it too late.
it hit.
everything was water and weight and cold. a force pulled him up and then down—like the ocean had hands and none of them were gentle.
he heard someone scream his name. his mother’s voice. his father’s. a flash of his father’s outstretched arm. but it was too late.
zayne was falling.
the ocean swallowed him whole.
it was dark.
he couldn’t see.
the water was too cold, too loud. his limbs thrashed for a while—out of instinct, out of fear—but soon, they stopped. too heavy.
he didn’t want to die.
he hadn’t finished the silly game he promised his friends back home. they were supposed to play “alien doctors vs. zombie pirates.” he hadn’t even said goodbye properly.
he didn’t want his parents to cry again.
he wanted to go home.
but the sea was a weight, and he was only a boy.
and then... silence.
weightless.
floating.
and something—someone—appeared.
a flash of motion beneath him.
a tail, long and flowing, scaled like dragon glass—blue and violet with iridescent shimmer. a halo of lavender hair moved like ink in water, catching golden light from nowhere.
and eyes—dual-colored, glowing blue and pink—pierced through the gloom, so alien yet mesmerizing. not human. not kind. but not cruel either.
just empty.
beautiful.
bound.
zayne noticed the chains then—rusted, ancient, wrapped around the figure’s arms and torso like vines. heavy links pulling it downward.
even so, it reached for him.
long, thin fingers. sharp nails.
a mouth moving—speaking—but the sea muted all sound.
when he woke, it was to the smell of the shore. salt, sand, earth.
his mother’s cries tore through the numbness.
she was running to him. her arms wrapped around his soaked frame before he could even sit up. her hands searched frantically—checking for wounds, bruises, signs of damage—before her lips found his forehead.
his father joined them, mud on his knees, wrapping them both in one crushing embrace.
“you’re here,” his mother sobbed. “you’re okay—you’re okay…”
zayne blinked. he was still dripping. his clothes were heavy. his lungs ached. but he was alive.
alive.
they carried him back to the ship’s medical quarters. the storm had passed. the boat was damaged, but docked.
he heard snippets from the crew.
"found him by the shore... like something carried him there."
“no scratches. not even a bruise.”
“damn miracle if you ask me.”
but zayne just stared at the ceiling, fingers brushing his palm like trying to remember a touch.
a part of him knew something was missing—something he’d seen. but every time he tried to recall it, the image fragmented.
chains. hair like flowing starlight.
eyes that glowed in blue and pink.
a presence... both haunting and familiar.
the next time someone asked him what he saw, zayne only gave a quiet answer.
“…i don’t remember.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
“mr. zayne li?”
the voice cut cleanly through the fog in his head.
zayne blinked, head snapping slightly toward the receptionist’s desk. his posture straightened—reflex more than choice. he had been sitting there too long, hands folded too neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
he looked too polished for this kind of waiting room.
suit clean, charcoal grey. coat folded over his arm. silver-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his nose. to any outsider, he probably looked like a man here on behalf of someone else—maybe a lawyer reviewing a patient case, or a doctor offering consult.
not like a patient.
never like that.
“yes,” he answered, voice quiet, almost distant.
the receptionist smiled with the polite professionalism she likely gave every visitor. “mr. woods will see you now.”
zayne gave a curt nod, rising from the couch. he smoothed the front of his shirt out of habit, then paused.
the hallway beyond the desk looked far too long.
he had told his mother—multiple times—that he didn’t need this.
didn’t need therapy.
didn’t need help.
he was a doctor. a surgeon. chief of cardiac at akso. he worked 12 to 16 hours a day, led teams, cracked open ribcages to fix hearts no larger than his palm.
he’d published papers. spoke at conferences. saved lives.
he didn’t have time to sit in a softly lit room and be asked, “and how does that make you feel?”
but she knew. of course she knew.
she had seen the way he tensed near the harbor.
the way his eyes darkened when the sound of crashing waves reached his ears.
the way he refused to step onto the dock last year, even for a charity event.
he hadn’t set foot on a boat since he was six years old.
and he never swam again.
he told himself he’d simply grown out of it. that the ocean was a hazard zone, a risk. too many unknowns. that he didn’t need it. didn’t like the way sand got everywhere.
but that was a lie.
beneath all the logic, all the professionalism, zayne was afraid.
terrified.
not of drowning.
not of dying.
but of something else entirely.
something beneath the waves.
something that once reached out to him in silence.
eyes like two glowing wounds, pink and blue, still burned into his memories like scars without names.
he remembered that figure.
the chains.
the hand outstretched.
and the unbearable cold.
zayne stepped into the hallway. the sound of the door closing behind him felt like being sealed inside a vault. each footstep on the carpet felt too loud. too real.
the office was warm. neutral. designed to disarm. bookshelves. a soft chair. a desk that wasn’t too imposing.
“dr. li,” the therapist greeted, offering a hand. “i’m elias woods. please, make yourself comfortable.”
he sat, setting his coat down beside him, but didn’t lean back.
his posture stayed straight. shoulders tight.
“just zayne is fine,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses.
dr. woods nodded. “zayne, then. i understand you’ve had a complicated history with the sea.”
that line hit harder than expected. it landed like a scalpel on scar tissue.
zayne didn’t speak right away. he simply stared at the small model sailboat sitting on the bookshelf behind the therapist’s shoulder. its sails were neat. untouched. clean.
unlike the ship in his memory.
“i don’t have a phobia,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the model.
“no?”
“i’m not afraid of water. i can bathe. i can work near sterilization tanks. i can look at rivers.” he paused. “but the ocean…”
he trailed off. the words sat in his throat like lead.
after a beat, dr. woods offered gently, “what happens when you’re near the sea?”
zayne looked down. his fingers folded together, pressed too tightly.
“i feel like something’s watching me,” he said finally. “i feel like if i get too close, it’ll pull me back in.”
he didn’t know why he said that. or maybe he did. maybe part of him remembered more than he let himself believe.
he could picture the waves even now, the glow in that creature’s eyes. the feeling of being almost—almost—held.
but there was nothing human in that gaze.
and sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, heart pounding, he swore he still heard it speaking.
words muffled by the sea. but somehow, he always knew what they meant.
