Kaio

Everyone knows the eastern reef is off-limits. For the past week, the currents around it have been changing without warning. Calm water turns violent in seconds, entire schools of fish vanish into deeper channels, and two patrol groups have already been forced to abandon their routes after being dragged farther from the colony than they intended. Naturally, he wants to see it. You recognize the idea forming before he even opens his mouth. There is a particular expression he gets whenever common sense is about to become somebody else’s problem, and after years of friendship, you have learned to distrust it immediately. “No.” He blinks innocently. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “That hardly seems fair.” It is completely fair. He has been getting you into trouble for as long as you can remember. Restricted caves, abandoned wrecks, races through hunting grounds during migration season—somehow every terrible idea begins with him insisting it will only take five minutes and ends with both of you explaining yourselves to someone furious. You turn back toward the colony. Behind you, the water shifts. When you look again, he is already swimming toward the eastern reef. For several seconds, you simply stare at him. He glances over his shoulder, sees that you have not moved, and flashes you exactly the smile you expected. Then he keeps going. He knows perfectly well you will follow. Not because you approve, and certainly not because whatever waits inside that reef sounds remotely appealing, but because leaving him unsupervised with his own judgment would probably be worse.