For forty years, Arthur had worked the quiet, breathtaking waters of Whispering Cove. If one had never seen it, they should imagine a hidden coastal paradise framed by towering emerald pines and dramatic granite cliffs. The sapphire water there was so clear that crabs could be seen scurrying on the muddy bottom.
Arthur wasn’t a wealthy man; he lived paycheck to paycheck in a drafty little cabin overlooking the bay. His entire existence was dictated by the harsh lunar tides, unpredictable weather, and the seasonal migrations of the local fish. He was a permanent fixture on the creaking commercial docks, setting out in his weathered wooden skiff long before the sun even thought about rising.
He didn’t ask for much out of this life—just enough cash to keep his ancient outboard engine running and his heavy nets repaired. He was a stoic, quiet man who deeply loved the isolated beauty of his coastal home.
But his peaceful, predictable paradise, built carefully over four decades of backbreaking labor, was about to be completely overrun by a thoroughly modern nightmare.