The rocking motion of the boat, a relentless cradle of discomfort, dragged Tiger Cat from the chloroform-induced void. Her head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache behind her eyes, each pulse of blood a hammer blow against the inside of her skull. The air, thick with the cloying scent of diesel and stale fish, clawed at her throat, a sickening counterpoint to the salt spray that misted her face. Her limbs felt heavy, bound by an invisible weight, and a cold, clammy dread coiled in her stomach, tightening with each nauseating lurch of the vessel. She blinked, her vision blurring, then sharpening, to reveal the rough-hewn planks of the boat's deck above her, a grimy ceiling against the grey dawn sky. Her wrists burned, chafed by the coarse rope that bit into her skin.

A shadow fell over her, blocking the weak light. A figure, broad and imposing, loomed. Saltfish. His face, a landscape of sun-weathered creases and pockmarks, split into a wide, predatory grin. His eyes, small and dark, gleamed with an unsettling hunger as they raked over her.The scent of him, a musky blend of sweat, brine, and cheap rum, assaulted her senses.
“Ah, the Tiger Cat wakes,” his voice rumbled, a gravelly sound that seemed to vibrate through the deck. He knelt, his knees cracking, bringing his face closer to hers, the smell of his breath, sour and metallic, making her stomach churn. “You give us quite the chase, mi amor. But the hunt, she is over now.”

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