He came back to himself in stages.
First: sound. Muffled voices. The clink of glass. The low background rumble of Khelt's belly.
Then: smell. Smoke, salt, something fried. And under that, faintly: burnt metal and rum.
He opened his eyes.
The bar ceiling stared back.
"Welcome back to consciousness," someone said dryly. "Try not to throw up on my floor; I just cleaned it last month."
Gin turned his head.
The barman loomed over him, expression somewhere between concern and exasperation. Gin realized he was stretched out on a bench along the wall, a folded jacket—Jakk's, by the smell—shoved under his head as a pillow.
His bones buzzed in offended agitation. His shoulder throbbed where Venn's hand had clamped down. When he tried to lift that arm, it jerked once and then behaved like a numb piece of someone else's body.
"Okay," he croaked. "No more handshakes."
A snort came from nearby.
Jakk sat at the counter again, but his posture was different now—tighter, shoulders corded, like he was ready to launch himself at something that had already left.
Gin pushed himself upright slowly, ignoring the way the room swayed. "What… happened?"
"You picked a fight with Compliance Officer Holst," the barman said. "He shocked you senseless and very nearly filed you under 'accidental hull fatality.'"
Jakk spoke up. His voice was low, flat. "I dragged you out before he decided you were more trouble alive than dead."
He didn't look at Gin. His gaze was locked on some distant point behind the bottles.
"What about Tamsin?" Gin's voice sharpened. "Her father?"
"She's with him," Jakk said. "Marren signed an amended labor note. Rell does his rotation in dry-works; Tamsin gets supervised visits. Holst doesn't touch either of them again. For now."
"For now," Gin repeated. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you understand they're alive," Jakk snapped.
Gin stared.
Jakk exhaled, long and slow, like something inside him was leaking.
"I cashed in what I had left," he said, quieter. "The debt I owe Marren has only grown. Told him if he turned you into a warning, he'd lose his best beast-hunter. Told him if he buried Rell completely, he'd lose the only man in the yard who can keep this rustheap from opening along her seams next storm."
He flexed his fingers, staring at his hands as if surprised they were still there. Faint crystalline lines along his forearms caught the bar's dim light.
"Marren likes numbers," Jakk went on. "I gave him numbers. He listened."
"And Holst?" Gin asked.
Jakk's mouth curled, humorless. "Holst listens to Marren."
Gin sank back against the wall, head spinning—even without the jellyfin echo frying his nerves.
"So I lost," he said.
"You lost the second you walked into that office," Jakk said. "That's how they build them. No exits you can walk out of with your dignity intact."
Gin snorted, but it came out thin. "Good news. I didn't walk out at all."
The barman flicked his ear. "You're alive, pirate. Take the win you've got. Leave this place..."
Gin's bones muttered at him, still irritated about the failed spear. His shoulder twinged; a faint, electric aftertaste licked along his nerves, his colony grumbling like a dog kicked off its bed.
He pressed a palm against his chest.
Gin looked at Jakk.
"At the bar," he said slowly, "when I decided to go up there… you told me the system was ugly but stable. That if I stirred it, other people would pay."
Jakk said nothing.
"You were right," Gin admitted.
The barman blinked, startled.
Gin's lips twisted. "That doesn't mean I was wrong."
Jakk's eyes finally met his.
There was no anger there. No mockery.
Just a heavy, bone-deep tiredness. And behind that, under all the scars, something simmering.
"You think you're the first one to see it's rotten?" Jakk asked. "We all know. We live in it. Marren's good at keeping the rust from showing on the outside. Holst keeps it polished. But underneath—" He tapped the bar with one knuckle. "Everything's corroding. Slowly."
"Then why—"
"Because I tried once," Jakk said sharply. "And my best friend died for it. Because when you rip rust off too fast, you take half the metal with it."
He took a drink, winced as it hit whatever his brinefurnace did to his veins, and set the cup down with a thunk.
"I'm telling you to understand what you're hitting before you swing," he said. "Marren's Strong. And Holst's jellyfin strain might as well be a leash wired into half this Hull. You can fight, Farcast, but you're not there yet."
Gin listened.
He thought of the trench, the long-neck, the way his blood had driven spikes through a monster's skull. He thought of how little that mattered when someone touched his shoulder and flipped his body off like a switch.
He laughed.
"It doesn't matter whether I'm there or not. I'm not running away," he said.
Jakk huffed. "You're impossible."
Gin considered that. "That sounds like a compliment."
The barman rolled his eyes skyward. "Seas help me, you two are going to get this Hull killed or saved, and I'm not sure which."
Gin smiled despite himself.
"That fight was exciting," he said softly. "Going up against someone strong, standing up for what you believe in... it feels good."
The barman gave him a curious look. "Even though you lost?"
"Especially because I lost," Gin said.
Jakk shook his head. "You're going to be trouble."
"Probably," Gin admitted. "But at least I'll make things interesting."
He swung his legs off the bench, standing carefully. His shoulder protested; he ignored it.
"Where are you going now?" the barman asked.
"To check on a boat," Gin said. "And a girl. And to figure out how to stab electricity without getting fried again."
He patted his ribs lightly. "You hear that? Homework."
His bones buzzed, begrudgingly enthusiastic.
He headed for the door.
Behind him, Jakk stared into his drink like it might have answers printed at the bottom. The barman watched them both, lips pressed thin.