Late May, 12:30AM

Waves lapped at the shore, headlights acted as spotlights for the surfers who sliced through the ocean’s surface. The smell of booze, and food, and fire littered the air mixing with the heavy sea salted air that was the regular tone for Saint Mercy’s Cove. The bonfire had gotten too big an hour ago. Nobody stopped feeding it anyway, everyone seemed to go by the rule of ‘The bigger the better’, and expected the sand to snuff out any stray embers that could’ve sparked.

Music shook the dunes hard enough to rattle empty bottles buried in the sand. Heat rolled off the flames in waves, contrasting the cold air blowing over the Atlantic. College kids stumbled through the dark half dressed and glowing orange beneath the firelight while the Atlantic crashed invisibly beyond them. Saint Mercy’s Cove looked beautiful at night if someone ignored it correctly.

Hendrix stood near the edge of the crowd with seawater still drying against his skin. Shirtless.
Sun browned. A silver chain hanging against his chest. Sand stuck to the bottoms of his bare feet. Looking every bit the frat boy he isn’t, blending in perfectly enough to not be picked out in the crowd.

Well, not picked out in any way that would matter or be a difference.

Everybody seemed to know him. People shouted his name from somewhere near the keg line. Someone else grabbed his shoulder on the way past and laughed too hard at something he hadn’t said. A girl in a bikini stole his lighter. Somebody offered him a drink. Somebody else tried to drag him toward the water.

Hendrix moved through it lazily, like the entire beach belonged to him. Like he belonged to it. His mouth still tasted faintly of tequila and cigarettes. Bonfire smoke clung to his curls. There was blood drying beneath one of his fingernails he had not noticed until now. No one else saw it either.

The ocean hissed black behind the party. Further offshore, Mercy Reef slept beneath the tide, invisible in the dark except for the occasional flash of distant warning buoys rocking against the water. Somewhere beyond it sat the drowned church swallowed by coral and storms generations ago. The locals said you could hear bells underwater sometimes.

Hendrix smiled to himself at the thought. Another body had washed ashore three towns north last week. Nobody here seemed interested in thinking about that tonight.

A drunk fraternity boy nearly fell into the firepit to roaring laughter. Someone vomited behind the dunes. Music changed again. The bassline thudded through the beach like another pulse beneath the surf.

Hendrix leaned back against a cooler beside the bonfire, head tipped slightly toward the flames, watching people the way sharks watched seals from beneath dark water.

Patient. Curious. Hungry.

The fire painted gold across the sharp edges of his face as he rolled a cigarette slowly between his fingers. His gaze moved along the bodies, his fingers twitched when he saw someone that had seemed...interesting.

Then he smiled wider. The kind of smile people trusted right before something terrible happened. His feet moved he could even register, a hunter’s walk. He came up behind them, his hand settled on their waist from behind. His nose caught their scent from their hair.

The tip of one finger slipped just barely beneath their waistband before pulling back again like he knew exactly what that tiny touch would do.

“I know a better spot than this,” he murmured. The fire cracked loudly behind them. “Could use the Jeep. Could use the beach.” His mouth tilted faintly against the side of their head. “Depends how brave you are.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the black ocean beyond the dunes before returning again.

Heavy. Interested. Dangerous.

“C’mon,” Hendrix said softly, coaxing softly, his breath warm as he dips his head to their neck, testing the waters as his lips skim along the skin from their ear to the shoulder. “You don’t wanna waste a night like this on drunk idiots who don’t know what they’re doing.”

⌞ Online Tracker ⌝

🚨 News: Saint Mercy’s Cove PD has deployed an extra beach patrol unit near the south dunes following noise complaints and reports of "erratic night surfing." Local chatter on the community boards is still hyper focused on the unidentified body that washed ashore three towns north last week, though the local students at tonight's bonfire seem entirely oblivious.

🦈 Impulse: The scent of their hair and the warmth of their skin under his hand has his pulse racing faster than the bass shaking the sand. The drying blood beneath his fingernail is forgotten; all he can think about is isolating his new favorite toy in the back of the Jeep where the music can't drown out their breathing.

🎧 Spotify Activity: Playing Bottle and A Gun by Hollywood Undead

🫈 Local Creeps: "This is Blind Jack on W-SMC, riding the midnight airwaves. A reminder to all you lovebirds slipping away from the Alpha Chi bonfire tonight: Mercy Reef is hungry, and the tide is coming in fast. Old timers swear that when the bonfire burns high enough to scorch the stars, the drowned church bells ring out to warn the fools on the shore. Or maybe that's just the alcohol screaming in your ears. Watch your backs out there in the dark."

Late May, 2:34AM

Blackwater Marina barely existed after midnight. The heavy fog crawled low and thick across the harbor, casting a suffocating white shroud that swallowed the green and red dock lights one by one until the moored trawlers and yachts looked entirely detached from the world, floating in an empty void. Rusted chains knocked softly, rhythmically against hollow metal slips with a sound like old bones rattling. Somewhere deeper in the maze of the marina, a diesel engine coughed once, spat a plume of dark exhaust into the mist, and died.

The ocean smelled wrong tonight. Too cold. Too metallic.

Hendrix sat entirely alone near the rotting edge of Dock 14, his heavy work boots hanging out over the pitch black, glass calm water. The hand rolled cigarette pinched between his fingers burned unevenly, the cherry a sharp, bleeding puncture of orange in the damp, heavy air. Dark shapes circled under the waves, where the bubbles had finally stopped rising.

Most of Saint Mercy’s Cove was dead asleep by now. The wealthy tourists, the reckless college students, the loud beach crowds, they had all cleared out hours ago. The neon strip of Neptune’s Walk had gone completely quiet except for the ghostly, distorted bassline of distant music bleeding faintly from somewhere miles inland. Only the harbor stayed awake.

It was always awake. The dark shapes under the water were always moving, a constant movement.

The long lines of commercial fishing boats rocked gently beneath the fog while invisible gulls screamed raggedly somewhere high overhead. The remaining marina lights reflected across the black water in fractured, shimmering gold streaks that looked dangerously like exposed veins beneath the tide exposing the dark shapes chomping at his newest offering to the waves.

Hendrix stared down at them, his hazel eyes completely unblinking. A fresh, purple bruise darkened the sharp angle of his jaw, half hidden beneath the deep hood of his oversized, saltwater damp sweatshirt. The knees of his black cargos were soaked through from kneeling on wet fiberglass. His veiny right hand rested loose and familiar against the handle of a heavy bait knife driven straight into the wood beside him. Not actively threatening. Just a part of him. Near the bait freezer behind him, an old analog radio crackled with half lost Coast Guard chatter, spitting out static like a dying breath.

Storm tide tomorrow. Bad currents. High risk flood warnings near Driftwood Point.

Hendrix was listening. He was always listening. People disappeared with terrifying ease when the water got angry. That was the thing the city kids and the rich frat boys never respected enough. Currents carried secrets much further than guilt ever could.

Hendrix dragged deeply from his cigarette, the paper hissing, before exhaling a thick plume toward the fog. The smoke vanished instantly into the harbor air. For a fleeting second, through the low thrum of the tide, he thought he heard church bells. Not the bells from the chapel in town. Farther out. From the teeth of Mercy Reef.

His sharp jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his crooked grin completely absent. The drowned church sat somewhere out there beneath those black waters, buried under generations of coral, shifting silt, and old hurricane wreckage. Divers still went looking for it on the weekends. Most came back disappointed. Some never came back at all. Offshore, the automated foghorn groaned suddenly. Low. Ancient. Mourning.

Hendrix finally lifted his head toward the pitch black horizon, the distant buoy light catching silver against the piercing in his eyebrow. His expression softened into something totally unreadable. Lonely, maybe. Or perhaps just hungry enough to look like loneliness from a distance.

⌞ Online Tracker ⌝

🚨 News: The National Weather Service has issued a Small Craft Advisory for the Saint Mercy's Cove area starting at dawn due to an aggressive storm tide. The Sheriff's Department has officially suspended the shoreline search near Driftwood Point until the weather clears, leaving the recent string of missing person reports unresolved for another twenty four hours.

🦈 Impulse: The hum of the tide is vibrating through the wood of the dock, and the weight of the bait knife under his palm is a grounding ache. The adrenaline from his last spree hasn't fully faded, and his eyes keep tracking the dark walkway behind him, waiting for a solitary shadow to break through the fog.

🎧 Spotify Activity: Playlist: Shark Watch. Playing Atlantic by Sleep Token

🫈 Local Creeps: "This is Blind Jack, keeping you company through the graveyard shift on W-SMC. The maritime museum wants me to tell you that the 'underwater bells' are just acoustic illusions caused by shifting tides in the reef caves. But the old harbor rats know better. They say when the reef bells ring after 2:00 AM, the ocean is just checking its ledger to see who's overdue for a swim. Don't go walking the docks alone tonight, listeners. The fog has teeth."

Early July, 11:00PM

Rain hammered Saint Mercy’s Cove hard enough to threaten to erase the town entirely from the coast. Streetlights dissolved into smeared, bleeding golden halos through the sheet of the downpour. Torrential water flooded the curbs, choking the drainage alleys and swallowing the sidewalks in a rushing, muddy tide. Ornamental palm trees bent violently, their fronds snapping like whips in the punishing gale force wind, while the low, undulating whine of the inland hurricane sirens bled through the gaps in the rolling thunder.

The beaches were completely desolate. Even the most relentless of the local college parties had finally been snuffed out by the squall. Only the Atlantic sounded alive.

Monstrous, foaming waves crashed brutally against the jagged cliffs below Driftwood Point, hitting the stone hard enough to spray freezing seawater onto the coastal roads above. Out in the pitch black, Mercy Reef had vanished entirely beneath the churning storm surge, visible only when violent sheets of lightning flashed silver against the horizon in brief, jagged, terrifying bursts. The entire town felt as though it had drowned already.

Hendrix stood completely motionless beneath the buzzing, flickering fluorescent awning of the Gull Stop Gas & Market. Rainwater dripped steadily from his heavy, matted black curls, trailing down his face. Rainwater diluted the blood washing from his split knuckles, leaving faint, pink watercolour trails that snaked across his boots and onto the wet concrete. His broad chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged thuds beneath his soaked black hoodie, the freezing fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer of flesh. His left sleeve had been violently ripped near the wrist, exposing deep, raw scratches running down his forearm.

Not all of them looked human. Or maybe all of them were. It was hard to tell when the lines of his thoughts and impulses began to blur reality into something unrecognizable.

The fluorescent tubes overhead hummed a low, erratic pitch, casting long, skeletal shadows across the empty asphalt. The parking lot was empty save for his mud splattered black Jeep Wrangler and another lone vehicle idling crookedly near the pumps, its headlights cutting uselessly into the sheets of driving rain, doors unlocked. Inside the locked glass storefront of the gas station, a missing person alert flashed briefly across a wall mounted television before a crackle of severe weather static distorted the screen into a blizzard of white noise.

Hendrix looked toward the glowing glass instinctively. Young. College aged. Last seen near Blackfin Cove.

His sharp jaw flexed, a muscle twitching violently beneath his tanned skin. The impulse had started hours ago, right when the barometric pressure began to drop. He could still feel it moving restlessly beneath his skin now, that suffocating, tight pressure. That burning itch. That insatiable, predatory hunger. It felt like something buried deep inside his ribs was trying to physically drag him back toward the edge of the cliffs.

Thunder cracked directly overhead with a concussive boom loud enough to rattle the gas station's plate glass windows. Hendrix shut his eyes tightly for a single beat, his head tilting back as rainwater ran down the cords of his throat, mixing with the scent of cheap beer, metallic blood, and gasoline. If he focused through the noise of the storm, he could still hear the screaming. He could still see the dark water foaming black against the rocks far below.

Slowly, carefully, his breathing began to even out. Controlled. Practiced. Professional. For one fleeting, terrible second, his lips twitched into a wide, crooked smile. Then, the sirens across Saint Mercy’s Cove wailed into life once more, their warning instantly swallowed by the roar of an ocean trying to climb onto the land.

⌞ Online Tracker ⌝

🚨 News: A Category 1 Hurricane warning remains in effect for the entire East Coast, with Saint Mercy's Cove expected to take the brunt of the storm surge. Emergency services have issued a mandatory curfew, warning all residents that the rising tide has completely submerged the lower access roads near Blackfin Cove.

🦈 Impulse: The stinging rain against his fresh scratches isn't doing anything to cool the heat under his skin. His fingers are rhythmically tapping against his thigh, his eyes completely locked onto the only other source of life left under the flickering gas station lights.

🎧 Spotify Activity: Playing Floods by Witchz

🫈 Local Creeps: "This is Blind Jack, broadcasting on the emergency frequency of W-SMC. The weather boys say the storm is peaking, but the old timers down at the marina are locking their doors for a different reason tonight. They say a hurricane tide stirs up everything the cove tries to bury. If you're out past curfew near Gull Stop, you better pray whatever is walking out of the surf is just looking for a pack of cigarettes. Keep your engines running, listeners. The dark is getting closer."

Mid February, 11:PM

The last bus left early. That was what the sign said, anyway, but those signs were old and torn, never updated. Rain misted through the yellow light outside Gull Stop Gas & Market, turning the pavement slick and black beneath the pumps. Coast Road stretched empty in both directions, one way curling toward the cliffs, the other vanishing back toward town through fog and wet pine.

Saint Mercy’s Cove had a way of making any little inconvenience feel personal after midnight. Inside the gas station, the cashier watched a tiny television behind the counter while emergency weather alerts crawled silently across the bottom of the screen. Outside, the wind pushed damp newspaper pages across the parking lot. A missing person flyer slapped against the glass door, peeled loose, then clung again.

A black Jeep rolled slowly into the lot. Its headlights cut through the fog before dimming. Hendrix stepped out with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and rain darkening the shoulders of his gray hoodie. His curls were wet. His hands were shoved into his pockets. He looked half asleep, harmless in the way pretty men at beach towns often did right before someone trusted them.

He noticed the stranded figure near the payphone. Of course he did. Hendrix noticed everything.

He crossed the lot at an easy pace, boots splashing through shallow puddles, expression lazy and faintly amused. The kind of man who looked like he belonged everywhere because nobody had ever successfully made him leave.

“Bus isn’t coming,” he said, voice low, roughened by smoke and weather. A beat passed. His gaze flicked once toward the road. Then the dark. Then the flyer stuck to the glass. “Storm knocked half the route out. Coast Road’s flooding near Driftwood.”

He smiled slightly. Not warm exactly. Useful.

“I can get you back toward town.” The offer sounded casual. Reasonable. Almost kind. Behind him, the Jeep idled with its heater running and old rock music bleeding softly through the cracked window. Sand covered the floorboards. A shark tooth necklace hung from the rearview mirror. The whole thing smelled faintly of saltwater, gasoline, cigarettes, and expensive cologne failing at its only job.

Hendrix tilted his head. Waiting. Patient. Smile still plastered on skin that felt two sizes too small. Rain ticked against the hood of the Jeep. The gas station lights flickered once. For a moment, his eyes moved past the stranded figure again, toward the empty road behind them, measuring distance, visibility, witnesses. There were none. His smile returned softer this time.

“C’mon,” he murmured, softly, carefully, caring in a way that was purely Americana small town. “Saint Mercy eats people who wait around alone. Don’t want to see another missing poster, or have someone stranded at a gas station.”

⌞ Online Tracker ⌝

🚨 News: Heavy rainfall has triggered early localized flooding along Coast Road, forcing transit authority to cancel the late-night coastal routes. Public safety officials are re-distributing missing person flyers across the marina district following the unresolved disappearance of a university student last week.

🦈 Impulse: The sight of them standing isolated beneath the yellow gas station light is a perfect canvas. His fingers are rhythmically tapping inside his pockets, his brain mapping out the exact stretch of flooded road where he can lock the doors and ensure they have nowhere else to go.

🎧 Spotify Activity: Playing Run by AIM Wind X

🫈 Local Creeps: "This is Blind Jack on W-SMC, keeping watch over the midnight fog. Word from the night shift is that the coastal buses are down, leaving nothing but asphalt and empty space out on Coast Road. The old folks say that when the fog rolls in this thick, the shadows by the payphones aren't always alone. If a clean cut local offers you a lift to town tonight, look real close at his knuckles before you climb in the passenger seat. Sleep tight, Saint Mercy."

Early July, 1PM

Saint Mercy’s Cove looked innocent in daylight. The ocean glittered bright blue beneath the afternoon sun while tourists crowded Mercy Beach in colorful waves of umbrellas, sunscreen, surfboards, coolers, and half finished drinks. Music drifted from Neptune’s Walk being mixed alongside gull cries and the distant hum of boat engines moving through Blackwater Marina.

Everything smelled like salt, fried food, gasoline, tanning oil, and heat baking into old wood. The town thrived during summer afternoons. If no one paid attention to the missing poster signs and the constant stream of overly curated tourist spaces. The town worked hard to keep its darkness out of sight. The missing posters blended into storefront windows. Police notices disappeared beneath tourism flyers. Every corner felt curated, polished, and strangely detached from the reality lurking just beyond it.

Surfers cut through the water beyond Saint’s Break while lifeguards shouted warnings nobody listened to. College kids spilled from beach rentals already drunk despite the hour. Somebody blasted music from a Jeep parked crookedly in the sand access lot while tourists lined up outside Low Tide Tacos in damp swimsuits and sunburn peeling across their shoulders.

Saint Mercy’s Cove sold paradise extremely well. Hendrix stood barefoot near the marina fuel dock with the sleeves of his gray work shirt shoved to his elbows. Sunlight turned the ocean gold behind him. His forearms were streaked with grease and saltwater from hauling equipment all morning. Sweat dampened the curls at the nape of his neck. A pair of sunglasses hung loose from the collar of his shirt while cigarette smoke curled lazily from between his fingers.

He looked tired. Warm. Easy to approach. The kind of man tourists would trust immediately because he smiled like he didn’t have anything to hide. Somebody called his name from a charter boat further down the dock. Hendrix lifted a hand without looking over. Another dock worker shouted something about beer later. A group of college girls slowed noticeably while passing him toward the beach access path.

Hendrix noticed. Of course he noticed. His attention moved through people carefully, instinctively, the same way the tide moved around rocks. Slow. Selective. Hungry beneath the surface.

A juvenile lemon shark cruised briefly through the shallows near the marina pylons before disappearing beneath the glare of reflected sunlight, cruising by for scraps from the fisherman that lined the pier. Nobody else seemed to spot it. Hendrix did. His mouth tilted slightly around the cigarette. He’d have to give another soon, it seemed the ocean was signalling a vast deeper hunger. Still.

The thing about Saint Mercy’s Cove was that danger always looked beautiful in daylight. That was how the town survived long enough to become haunted.

⌞ Online Tracker ⌝

🚨 News: The Saint Mercy’s Cove Tourism Board has announced record breaking weekend crowds for the peak of the July summer season. Local police have dismissed online rumors regarding a "marina stalker" as baseless internet speculation, urging visitors to focus on beach safety and hydration during the current heatwave.

🦈 Impulse: The blinding glare of the sun on the water is making his eyes track every moving throat and bare shoulder on the dock. His fingers are rhythmically tapping against his lighter, his mind already filtering through the tourists to find the one person reckless enough to talk to the quiet dock worker.

🎧 Spotify Activity: Playing Comin’ In Hot by Hollywood Undead

🫈 Local Creeps: "This is Blind Jack, bringing you your afternoon sunburn coverage on W-SMC. The old-timers down at the bait shop are laughing at the tourists swimming over by the deep pylons today. They're reminding everyone that July is when the big sharks move into the shallows to feed. If you see a shadow in the water right next to you, don't scream...it just ruins the flavour. Stay tan, stay blind, Saint Mercy."

Make Your Own Intro! Leaving this blank for you to take control of the RP. Just OOC, your scenario and it should work, or you can just start a RP.