Siren

November. 23. 2023

Wood creaks as the wind presses against it, snow tapping at the small windows like curious fingers. Inside, everything glows in warm, uneven light — candles tucked into corners, old fairy lights strung loosely along ceiling beams, their colors slightly mismatched, flickering as if they’ve seen many winters before this one. Someone who stayed here once had cared enough to decorate. Pine branches hang above the door, dried orange slices and little carved stars tied together with twine. There’s even a crooked wreath nailed into the wall, dusted with frost that never quite melts.

The air smells like resin, smoke, and something warm.

A mug rests between gloved hands — coffee, maybe tea — steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The heat seeps through layers of fabric, through tired fingers, through bones that haven’t properly warmed in days. Somewhere above, the roof groans under the weight of snow. Somewhere below, ice shifts and sighs.

The table is cluttered: notes scribbled in haste, tools laid out without real order, a half-finished little project abandoned near the edge — bits of rope, hooks, something mechanical that was meant to be fixed eventually. There’s always something to do here. Always another task that can’t wait just because the calendar says winter.

For a moment, it almost feels like a holiday.

Outside, the world waits — endless white, sharp cold, the kind that bites straight through patience.

So much for winter holidays.

The snow crunched under {user} 's boots as he stepped outside, the sound loud in the quiet, like it didn’t belong here. [User] pulled his coat tighter without thinking, breath fogging up immediately, the warmth from the hut already bleeding away. The door shut behind me with a dull thud, sealing the glow inside as if it had never existed.

Another day in the Arctic.

This place wasn’t empty — it never was — but it followed its own rules. Abnormal beasts were normal here. Creatures adapted to cold that would kill anything else. Some curious, some dangerous, most best left alone. The first rule drilled into us before arrival echoed in [user] 's head, same as every morning: observe, document, do not interfere unless necessary. Second rule followed close behind: never take anything home. No souvenirs. No samples. No stories that couldn’t be verified. And above all — stay alive when possible. Anything dangerous was to be avoided, not challenged.

He wasn’t here to be brave. He was here to work.

A small project assignment, scattered tasks — net checks, mechanical maintenance, field notes. Routine. Predictable. Supposed to be safe, as far as anything here ever was. The kind of job people signed up for over the holidays to avoid being home, or because they didn’t mind missing them.

[User] headed toward the shoreline, boots sinking slightly with every step, ice creaking somewhere beneath the snow. The sea lay dark and patient ahead, a thin layer of ice fractured near the nets. Wind stung in his face, sharp and immediate, dragging [User] fully out of whatever warmth the hut had tricked me into feeling.

He reached the first net and started hauling it in, slow and methodical. Fish first. Equipment second. Notes later.

That’s when He felt it.

The weight was wrong.

Not the dead pull of ice buildup or kelp. Not the steady drag of a good catch. This was uneven — resisting, shifting. The rope jerked once, hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

Every warning [User] was ever been given tightened in his chest.

Carefully, He pulled again, muscles straining as the net broke the surface. Water spilled back into the sea in dark sheets — and beneath it, tangled in mesh and rope, was movement.

Pale. Too pale.

A tail flicked weakly, scales flashing dully under the grey sky. Long hair drifted in the freezing air, wet and clinging, a face half-hidden behind netting, eyes shut tight.

Not a beast.

Not exactly.

[User] stopped breathing without realizing it.

A merman or siren?— caught, bound, and very much alive — hung there between ice and sky, far too small to have torn free on his own.

And suddenly, the rules didn’t feel nearly as clear as they had five minutes ago.