"Hydrarchy officer on scene," the barman went on, "neutralized the pirates. Saved the ferry. Pulled two half-drowned brats out of the water. Told one of them he owed his life to Hydrarchy. Told the other he'd make a fine compliance officer."
His gaze flicked to Jakk. Then to Gin. Then to the wrapped sword.
"That officer was Marren," he said. "Those boys… you've met."
Silence settled over the bar like a drawn net.
Tamsin swallowed. "So that's why he—" She looked at Jakk. "You thought you owed him everything."
Jakk stared into his cup.
"I did owe him something," he said quietly. "He pulled us out. We would've died without him."
Gin leaned forward. "You were kids."
"Kids drown all the time," Jakk said. "He didn't have to stop."
"Maybe not," Gin said. "Doesn't mean he gets to charge interest for the rest of your life."
Jakk flinched like the words hit something tender.
The barman nodded. "Marren's good at making gratitude sound like a debt that never ends."
He shifted his attention back to Jakk. "You showed up on this Hull later with a different problem," he said. "Saltplate reef blooming under your skin. Armor trying to grow where there was no battle to fight."
Tamsin frowned. "Saltplate?"
"His first strain," the barman explained. "Made him harder to kill than most. Salt crystals pushing through his pores like scales. Did wonders against steel and bullets."
Jakk said nothing. His grip on the cup turned his knuckles white.
The barman's voice gentled.
"He hated it," he said. "Thought it made him a monster. He felt helpless; even with all that power, he couldn't save his friend. So he tried to starve it."
Jakk laughed once, short and bitter. "Didn't work."
"No," the barman agreed. "You drank instead. Figured if anything was going to kill you, it might as well be on your terms. You fed that reef nothing but ethanol and regret."
He nodded at the faint, crystalline lines on Jakk's forearms.
"Saltplate took the hint," he said. "Adapted. Turned into a furnace that eats booze and spits heat. Brinefurnace."
"That's not how that is supposed to work," Gin muttered.
"Guess his strain was as stubborn as its host," the barman shot back.
He looked at Jakk.
"You tried to die," he said simply. "And instead you lit up."
Jakk's shoulders hunched, as if trying to fold in on himself.
"I killed a lot of things for him," he said hoarsely. "Beasts. Pirates. Anyone the Hydrarchy pointed at and called 'threat.' Told myself I was protecting people. That every monster I burned was one less kid in a rowboat."
He swallowed.
"And every time I thought about pulling away, Marren reminded me who owed who."
"You were a kid," Gin repeated, stubborn.
"I'm not anymore," Jakk said.
"Right," Gin said. "You're a grown man who just put his body between a compliance officer and a shipwright's family because you couldn't stand seeing it happen again. You're allowed to move on."
Jakk laughed again, dry and painful. "You make it sound simple."
"It isn't," Gin said. "But it is possible. It's a decision you can make."
Jakk's breath hitched.
He thought of a boy whose name he hadn't said out loud in years. Of shared stolen bread, of whispered plans about ships and storms and seeing anything that wasn't rust and ledger ink. Of hands reaching for each other as the boat pitched under gunfire.
Of losing that grip.
"Yeah," Jakk said, voice breaking. "You're right. If he could see me now, he'd call me an idiot."
Gin's mouth tilted. "Seems to be a theme."
Jakk's shoulders started shaking.
At first, Gin thought he was laughing. It had the same rhythm as the rough huffs he'd made earlier. But the sound that escaped him next wasn't humor.
It was a choked, ragged sob.
He slapped a hand over his mouth like he could shove it back in. His other hand clenched so hard around the cup that the ceramic cracked. Broth spilled over his fingers, steaming on bandaged knuckles.
"There's," he muttered. "Something in my eye."
"Yes," Gin said without missing a beat.
"So," he continued. "How do you feel about not working for the Hydrarchy anymore?"
Jakk huffed, voice raw. "They're not going to keep me after today anyway."
"True," Gin said. "So you might as well come with me."
A reluctant, broken smile tugged at Jakk's mouth.
"You want me on your boat, Farcast?" he asked.
"Obviously," Gin said. "I need someone around who knows what they're doing. I need a fighter."
Jakk stared at him.
Something in his chest—something rusted, something welded in place years ago—gave a protesting creak.
Then, with a wrenching, painful lurch, it shifted.
He took another breath.
It didn't feel like penance.
It felt like air.
"Alright," he said. "Alright."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I guess I'll be playing pirate once again."