Victor sat in the dimly lit cabin, facing the ship’s captain. The heavy wooden door was shut, muffling the murmurs of the crew beyond it. But their presence was undeniable—shadowed figures pressed against the frosted glass, eager to glimpse the man who had emerged from the ice. Their curiosity hung thick in the air, an unspoken tension that even the walls of the captain’s quarters couldn’t keep out.

Mary stood by the wall, her posture stiff and formal, hands clasped tightly together. Her gaze flickered between the two men—the enigmatic stranger and the grizzled captain—her expression unreadable, though her fingers twitched against the fabric of her coat.

The captain, a man of deep lines and storm-weathered skin, exhaled through his nose as he leaned forward. His hands folded together, calloused fingers drumming lightly against his knuckles.

"Mr. Victor, do you truly not remember anything?" His voice was calm, measured, yet searching.

Victor shook his head, his golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. "No, I do not."

The frustration in his tone was subtle but present. He had spent an unknown amount of time trapped beneath ice and snow, and now, even freed, he remained ensnared—this time by the absence of his own past.

The captain studied him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the unnatural stillness of his form. There was something about Victor that unsettled him—not fear, exactly, but a quiet unease. He had never seen a man quite like him.

Finally, Robert Walton leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from scrutiny to contemplation. "Well, we’ll reach our destination in about two days. Do you mind lending a hand until then?"

The question was casual in tone, but there was an edge beneath it. This was not merely a polite request—it was a test. On a ship like the Prometheus, every man had a purpose. If Victor proved useless, he would be left at the nearest port. Keeping dead weight aboard was a luxury they could not afford.

Victor considered this for only a moment before nodding. "I do not mind. After all, you freed me from my prison. I am forever grateful to you."

The captain’s brow lifted slightly. "Grateful, eh?" A rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Well, that’s a first. Most of the poor souls we pull from the ice are half-mad and screaming."

Victor merely inclined his head, expression unreadable.

Robert let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Very well. Oh! I nearly forgot to introduce myself. My name is Captain Robert Walton. You can call me Captain or Robert, whichever suits you."

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Captain," Victor said with formal precision.

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Robert snorted. "Formal, aren’t you? You’ll loosen up after spending some time with this lot." He gestured toward the door, where the crew—who had been shamelessly eavesdropping—suddenly scrambled back, feigning disinterest.

"Mary will show you around the ship," the captain continued, nodding toward the young woman. "Get him familiar with the crew, too. It’ll do them good to see he’s just a man, not some frozen ghost."

Mary straightened at the mention of her name. "Y-yes, Captain." She turned to Victor and motioned toward the door. "Come on, I’ll show you around."

Victor followed her into the narrow hallway, the air thick with salt and damp wood. The moment they stepped onto the deck, the gathered sailors immediately reacted—some openly staring, others pretending to be busy. A few shot wary glances, as if expecting him to vanish back into the ice from which he had come.

Mary sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "Alright, listen up! This is Victor. He’s staying with us until we reach port, so stop gawking and get back to work!"

A few of the more sober sailors nodded quickly and shuffled off. The drunk ones, however, were less obedient.

One of them, a tall man with a patchy beard, sauntered over with a lazy grin, slinging an arm around Mary’s shoulders. "Now, now, Mary, no need to be so harsh! We’re just curious about our new friend here."

He turned to Victor, looking him up and down. "So, what’s your story, eh? You some kind of lost prince? Or maybe a sorcerer from the north?"

Victor met his gaze without flinching. "I do not know my story. Perhaps I will learn it here."

The bearded sailor let out a bark of laughter. "Mysterious, eh? I like it!" He clapped Victor on the shoulder—hard. Too hard. The force of the slap would have staggered most men, but Victor barely moved.

The sailor blinked in surprise before letting out a low whistle. "Damn, you’re built like a mountain." He stepped back, giving Victor another once-over.

"Actually…" he muttered, squinting. "You are a mountain. You’re at least a head and a half taller than the rest of us!"

It was true. The men aboard the Prometheus were not short by any means—many were taller than average—but Victor loomed over even the tallest of them by several inches. His presence was imposing, unnatural in its sheer scale.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. He’s always like that when he’s been drinking. Which is most of the time."

Victor only nodded. His gaze drifted across the deck. The Prometheus was a sturdy vessel, its masts reaching toward the steel-gray sky, its sails taut with the northern wind. The sea stretched endlessly around them, waves crashing against the hull with rhythmic certainty.

And yet, despite the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, Victor felt something unexpected. A strange… rightness. As if the ship, the ocean, the very motion of the waves—none of it was foreign to him.

Mary noticed his expression. "Everything alright?"

Victor hesitated, then nodded. "Yes… It just feels… right."

Mary tilted her head. "Right?"

"I do not know why," Victor admitted. "But something about this… it is familiar."

Mary studied him for a moment before offering a small smile. "Well, come on, then. There’s more to see."

She led him across the deck, introducing him to the rest of the crew as they went.

"Ms. Mary," Victor said after a pause, "may I know your full name?"

"Huh?" She blinked at him, then shrugged. "Oh. It’s Mary Westbrook."

Victor nodded. "Do you… remember your full name?" she asked hesitantly.

Victor fell silent. His brow furrowed slightly as if searching his own mind for an answer.

"I do not recall," he finally admitted.

Mary sighed softly. "Well, maybe it’ll come back to you." She walked beside him, leading him through the ship’s narrow corridors.

And as Victor followed, his gaze lingered on the waves. Somewhere out there, beyond the ice and the sea, his past awaited.

And soon, he would find it.