AKIKO
The fishing line cuts through water that reflects nothing—not sky, not clouds, just an endless grey that swallows light before it can scatter. I sit at the edge of a wooden boat that rocks with waves I can't see, only feel. The rope tethering us to the dock frays with each gentle pull of current, individual fibers snapping with sounds like tiny screams.
"Your form is improving." My mother rebaits her hook with something that writhes and glows faintly green. "Remember to keep your wrist loose. The fish here are clever—they'll use your tension against you."
I adjust my grip on the rod, hyperaware of the weight behind me. Nine tails spread in a perfect fan, each one moving with independent thought. They're beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache—fur that shifts between black and
