The water held its breath.

The Crocodile drifted beneath the surface, still as a stone, its great body swallowed by the shadows of the shallows. Only the eyes remained, unblinking, watching the world above. The sea was patient. The Crocodile was patient.

Time did not matter here.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound floated through the water, faint and steady. A heartbeat, a rhythm the Crocodile knew well. It stirred a memory deep inside, a taste. The taste of iron, of salt. Of him.

Hook.

The hunger was always there, gnawing, endless. But it was not the hunger that drove the Crocodile. It was something older, something deeper. The pull of the ticking. The reminder of what had once been taken, what must be taken again.

Tick. Tick.

The Crocodile shifted, its belly brushing the sand as it slid forward, silent. The seaweed whispered against its scales as it moved closer to the scent, the scent of fear. Even now, the air was thick with it. Hook was near. He was always near.

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He could not escape. Not forever.

The Crocodile remembered the man—the one who fled, who always fled. The scent of his fear was stronger than the iron of his hand. Sweeter than the salt of his blood. The Crocodile could taste it even now, a promise yet to be fulfilled.

The clock had once been a warning, a curse. Hook had heard it and known the Crocodile was coming. But time was no longer Hook’s ally. It was the Crocodile’s. Every tick of the clock was not a signal of danger—it was a summons. A call.

Tick. Tick.

The ship rocked gently against the shore, a toy in the vastness of the sea. The Crocodile’s eyes broke the surface, watching. The laughter of boys, faint in the distance, meant nothing. The games of the island meant nothing. There was only the waiting.

And the taste.

Tick.

The Crocodile sank deeper, the water folding over it like a blanket. Hook would return. He always returned. The tide pulled everything back eventually. Hook could run, and run, and run—but he could not run forever.

The sea did not forget.

The Crocodile drifted, the cool depths wrapping around its body. The world above might change—boys might come and go, pirates might fall, but the Crocodile would remain. The ticking would go on.

And when the time came, the beast would rise again. The hunger would end. And the ticking would be no more.

Tick.

But not yet.

The Crocodile closed its eyes. The world was still.

Silent. Waiting. Watching.