The last thing Mizuki saw was the Gyarados coiled around her arm. The ink, a deep blue that contrasted against her pale skin, twisted from her wrist to her shoulder, powerful and protective. She’d gotten the tattoo after her world had shattered, after she had lost the only thing that made her feel alive. Now, as her vision blurred and the world around her dimmed, it was the only thing that brought her comfort.

Mizuki had once been unstoppable, a force in the water, representing Japan as an Olympic swimmer. In the 2012 London Olympics, she had claimed silver in the 200-meter freestyle, an achievement most could only dream of. But for her, it wasn’t enough. She had wanted gold—needed it. So she pushed herself, harder and faster, every day. She trained relentlessly, aiming to stand at the top of the podium in the 2016 Rio Olympics.

But fate had other plans.

While preparing for Rio, disaster struck. A minor earthquake had rattled the city while she was in her apartment. Nothing major, just tremors, but enough to cause part of the building to collapse. Mizuki had been trapped in the rubble for hours, crushed beneath debris, unable to move. The physical injuries she suffered were severe, but the real damage came later, in the hospital, when the doctors told her she’d never swim at an elite level again. She had lost the fluidity, the precision, the strength in her legs that had made her a champion.

Her world had come crashing down. The water, her sanctuary, was now a distant memory.

But her love for the ocean and its creatures never faded. When swimming was taken away, she turned to her second passion—fishing.

As a child growing up in Kagoshima Prefecture, she had always loved the sea. She spent hours with a rod in hand, casting lines off the docks, hoping to reel in something spectacular. Even after her swimming career ended, she returned to the water, though now it was only with a fishing rod instead of a competitive drive. She found solace in the simple act of waiting, of being part of the ebb and flow of the ocean.

On her off days, she'd sit by the docks, casting her line, waiting, as if hoping that the sea might one day offer her solace. And when it didn’t, she sought refuge in her favorite series: Pokémon.

She had grown up with it, fascinated by the idea of befriending water-type Pokémon, imagining herself swimming alongside a Gyarados or riding a Lapras across the ocean. Her room, modest yet filled with reminders of her passions, was covered in posters of water-type Pokémon, plushies neatly arranged on her bed—Magikarp, Milotic, and, of course, Gyarados.

There was one Pokémon that resonated with her the most—Gyarados. It wasn’t just about power or beauty. It was about transformation, the ability to overcome weakness and evolve into something magnificent. After her accident, she found solace in getting a tattoo of the creature—a Gyarados, coiling around her arm, a symbol of strength she desperately clung to.

Yet, nothing could take away the fear that gnawed at her. The claustrophobia from being trapped in the rubble had never left. Neither had her newfound fear of the dark. Even years later, the sight of small, enclosed spaces sent her heart racing. The nights were the worst—endless black voids where memories of being buried beneath tons of concrete returned to suffocate her.

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Still, she pushed forward. No one would see her fear; she would never allow it. Instead, she kept swimming in her dreams, kept imagining what life might have been if she could just have had a little more time.

Now, at 26, living in a small apartment in Tokyo, she was far from the glory she had once known. The medals from her 2012 victory hung on the wall, dull reminders of a past she could never return to. Her plush collection of Magikarp, Gyarados, and Milotic sat on her shelf, comforting relics of a childhood dream she’d never really let go of.

But everything changed that fateful evening. It was just another walk back from her favorite fishing spot in Tokyo Bay. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the city in shades of orange and pink. The streets were busy with evening traffic, people rushing home or heading out for the night. That’s when she saw him—a young boy, no older than ten, completely absorbed in his handheld console, crossing the street without noticing the oncoming truck.

Mizuki didn’t think. She reacted.

The world slowed around her as she launched herself forward, her legs screaming in protest. The pain flared in her knees, old injuries reigniting as she pushed through the crowd, her body colliding with the boy’s just in time. She shoved him to the sidewalk, hard, feeling the resistance of his small body against her arms.

But she wasn’t fast enough.

The screech of tires on asphalt filled the air, the sound a deafening roar in her ears. She barely had time to turn her head before the truck hit her, sending her body into the pavement with a sickening thud. Pain, more intense than anything she had ever felt, ripped through her body. It was as though her bones were shattering one by one, the force of the collision too much for her already weakened frame.

Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she lay crumpled on the street. The world around her spun, colors blurring into a distorted haze. She could hear the distant cries of onlookers, but their voices were muffled, as if she were underwater. The darkness began creeping in, slowly suffocating her vision.

Panic surged within her. Not again. She couldn’t handle it. The fear she had long buried deep within her clawed its way to the surface. The darkness—the same darkness she had been trapped in after the earthquake—was closing in again. Her chest tightened, her heart pounded in her ears, and for a moment, she felt like she was back under the rubble, unable to breathe, unable to move.

“I’m not ready,” her mind screamed, but her voice wouldn’t come. The weight of the world pressed down on her, just as it had years ago.

Her gaze fell on the boy, wide-eyed and shaken but alive, standing safely on the sidewalk. She had saved him. But what about her? The pain coursing through her body was unbearable, each heartbeat sending another wave of agony crashing over her.

She tried to focus, to stay conscious, but her body wasn’t responding. She was losing control. Her muscles refused to obey, her fingers twitching uselessly at her sides. The sensation of her life slipping away terrified her. She didn’t want to die—not like this.

As her vision dimmed, her mind returned to the Gyarados tattoo coiled around her arm. It had been her symbol of strength, of endurance. The Gyarados, who had once been a  weak and helpless Magicarp, had transformed into something unstoppable. Mizuki had always wanted to do the same, to rise above her limitations. But now, the ink on her skin was just a reminder of what she would never become.

Her breathing grew shallow, each breath a battle. Her heart slowed, and with it, her racing thoughts. She could feel herself slipping, the fear ebbing into something else—resignation, maybe. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Through the haze, she whispered a final thought: I wish... I could be part of their world.

And then, the darkness consumed her completely.

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