A D R I A N

The sea keeps the echo long after the flare dies. In the pause between thunder and surf, I can still taste the smoke on the wind. Elara’s hand is still there, warm against mine, trembling, defiant. One heartbeat of stillness, then I move. The decision isn’t noble or careful; it’s pure instinct, the kind that’s gotten me through storms and boardrooms alike.

“Gear up,” I tell her. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. She doesn’t argue. Headset. Harness. Her fingers shake only once before she locks the clip.

“Ethan, Roco, secondary skiff,” I ordered. “Track our signal and stay on the channel. If we lose contact, you wait for daylight, understand?”

“Copy,” Ethan’s voice crackles through the static. “Don’t get clever, boss.”

“No promises.”

Roco’s grin flashes once in the lightning before they shove off, their smaller boat vanishing into the spray.

Outside, the tide claws at the rocks like it wants us back. I gun the engine, feel the RIB shudder under me, and aim for the blood-red horizon. The flare might already be sinking, but if someone’s alive out there, we’ll find them, or die trying.

The wind doesn’t roar, it screams.
Salt lashes my face, sharp and stinging, and every gust hits like a reprimand from the sea itself. The RIB bucks beneath us, rubber hulls slamming each wave like a heartbeat too fast to count.

Elara braces beside me, headset crackling, one hand clamped on the console rail. The other anchors her med kit between her boots. She’s drenched, hair whipping across her mouth, but her gaze never wavers from the dying glow ahead.

Lightning forks, carving her features in white fire, the fierce line of her jaw, the concentration that makes her beautiful in a way that’s almost violent. I swallow the thought and focus on the water.

“Visibility’s garbage,” she shouts.

“I don’t need visibility.”

“What do you need then?”

“To be right.”

The words snap out before I can stop them. She doesn’t answer, just leans closer, squinting into the chaos.

I find the rhythm, three-count rise, two-count fall. The old diver’s pulse. Trust it or drown. My hands work on muscle memory: left throttling the power, right reading the waves for the narrowest path through.

A swell breaks too soon. I swerve, water exploding over us. Elara’s hand lands on my shoulder, fingers digging through the slick fabric to bone. The touch grounds me harder than the engine’s vibration.

“We’re flying blind, Adrian.”

“Not blind.” My teeth grind together. “I can feel it.”

And I can. Every tilt, every roar. The current talks through the hull, and I answer with the throttle. It’s madness, but it’s the only language that ever made sense to me -reckless precision.

“Flare’s fading,” she warns.

“Then we go faster.”

The boat launches off a crest, slams down again hard enough to jar my spine. Elara’s breath catches in the headset, fear, or awe, or both. Ahead, the red smear of the flare collapses into dark water, leaving only the storm to follow.

I aim for it anyway. Because control means nothing if you never use it when it counts.

Lightning forks again, and for an instant the sea glitters like shattered glass. Between the flashes, I catch it, a black split in the cliffs, a mouth swallowing the surf.

“There!” Elara yells, pointing. “The outer cavern!”

I throttle down just enough to read the waves. Foam rushes in, drawn toward the gap. The water’s moving fast, dragging us whether we like it or not.

“That’s suicide,” she says.

“Maybe,” I answered. “But it’s a cover.”

“Adrian..”

“Trust me.”

The words are a plea and an order tangled together. She glares but doesn’t argue, fingers locking around the grab rope.

A swell builds behind us, a wall of green and lightning. I time it by instinct, the same madness that’s saved me before. The pulse of the sea aligns with my own.

“Now!”

I punch the throttle. The RIB lunges forward, nose cutting into the break just as the wave crashes behind us. Water detonates across the bow, drenching us in salt and thunder. The boat rides the force like a bullet, slipping into the dark slit of the cavern.

Stone walls close in, slick and dripping. The engine growls, echoing like a monster’s breath. I kill the throttle halfway, letting momentum carry us in. The RIB scrapes rock, harsh, screaming rubber. Elara braces, knuckles white.

“Are you insane?”

“Usually,” I grit out. “Hold on.”

Another surge shoves us deeper. I swing the tiller hard, angling toward a narrow ledge of rock. The current tries to yank us back, but I fight it, muscles locking.

We slam against stone. The impact jolts up my arms, teeth rattling. I throw the gear into reverse for half a breath, then cut power. The RIB wedges perfectly, nose jammed between two spurs, hull cushioned by the tide.

It holds. Barely.

Elara’s breath hitches. “You meant to do that?”

I glance at her, water sliding down her face. “Reckless precision,” I say.

“Precision doesn’t usually involve crashing.”

“It’s only a crash if we sink.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, half hysteria, half awe. It loosens something in my chest.

I switch on the deck light. The beam cuts through mist, painting the cavern walls in ghostly white. The chamber narrows ahead, breathing with the tide. Every exhale of the sea pulls water from under us; every inhale shoves it back.

Elara studies the rock. “The tide’s climbing fast.”

“Yeah.” I flick the beam upward. Nothing but darkness and dripping stone.

A low growl rolls through the chamber. The incoming tide slaps the hull harder. The bow shifts half an inch. I feel it through the soles of my boots.

“Adrian…”

“I know.” My throat’s dry. “If we move now, we’ll be crushed on the rocks. We wait for the pullback.”

She looks toward the mouth of the cavern. Lightning flashes outside, then another crash of surf, sealing it in red haze. When it fades, there’s no gap left, just water and night.

Her voice drops. “We’re trapped.”

I nod once, jaw locking tight. “For now.”

The engine ticks as it cools. Drips echo. The tide climbs another inch, slapping against the gunwale.

Elara’s breathing steadies beside me, even as her fingers tighten on the rail. The storm rages outside, but in here, it’s the silence that feels dangerous.

And I can’t tell which scares me more, the sea closing in, or how close she is in the dark.

The tide climbs faster, black water licking the hull. Each swell presses the RIB higher against the rocks.

“We can’t stay here,” Elara says. “If the bow shifts..”

“I see it.” A slick ledge gleams above. “There. Go.”

She doesn’t wait for permission, harness clip, boots on wet stone, flashlight beam trembling. I follow, every muscle coiled.

Her boot slips.

“Elara!”

She slides; the light tumbles away. I catch her harness before she hits the water. She crashes against me, chest to chest, breath hot on my throat.

“I’ve got you,” I rasp.

For a heartbeat, everything stops. Salt, breath, heartbeat. Then she exhales a shaky laugh. “You always do.”

“Get used to it.”

We haul onto the ledge. Water drips from her lashes; she wipes it away and lifts the light.

Something glints red.

“Adrian…” Her voice goes small.

The beam finds a man wedged against the far wall, half-submerged, life vest torn. Blood drifts in ribbons around him.

I wade through the shallows, grip his shoulder. A faint groan answers. Alive, barely.

“Elara,” I call, already reaching for my knife. “We’ve got a survivor.”

She’s beside me in seconds, unzipping the med kit, hands steady even as the water creeps higher around our knees.

The hull below groans again, louder this time.

We’re not safe. Not yet.

And the tide’s still coming.