The waters, thankfully, were calm today. I stretched myself out by Alan's feet, while she stood by the rail, and Gunther manned the steering wheel. When Gunther had arrived on the main deck and noticed that we had just missed the boat, he graciously offered us a lift. His boat was the last permitted to depart, as the ship needed more food supplies. With no other passenger boats scheduled to depart for the city that day, the yellow vessel was our only remaining option.

As we sailed farther away, NOAH 1 and other great ships—scattered across the still blue sea, each a home for thousands of survivors—gradually shrank from view, while the Floating City came into view ever more clearly on the horizon. The city's odor was always my measure of how much time remained before we reached the port. It was a distinctive smell, like the sweetness of overripe fruit left to bake in the sun, mixed with the salty breath of the sea. We were going to arrive very soon. Thirty more minutes.

Before the Great Wrath, Floating City was nothing more than an endless expanse of debris, drifting from distant coastlines to the heart of the sea, where it coalesced into a massive, floating wasteland. I've heard tales of other such islands, spread across the world's oceans, each one born from the waste and garbage that humanity had discarded over the years.

Then, in the aftermath of the cataclysm, the survivors began to slowly, painstakingly reconstruct a semblance of civilization with the scattered flotsam that their old world left behind. Old Jimmy told stories of those difficult years. Decades ago, as one of the able-bodied young men, he helped rebuild a new world by hand. He salvaged and hauled metal fragments from the waters, risking drowning alongside hundreds of others who had sacrificed themselves in the rebuilding efforts for their species’ survival. They couldn't, however, replicate the grand cities and sky-high monuments that had once pierced the heavens.

Gone were the sprawling empires they had once ruled with such pride and hubris. Now, a smaller, more fragile society had emerged upon the very waste of their former glory; ever mindful of the cataclysm that had brought them low. Still, they held a quiet resilience that burned within them. Humans now had to rely on each other to survive. Though life in the sea could be harsh, Jimmy often said he preferred it after the cataclysm. There were no rulers, no bosses, no rich or poor—just a simple existence, with everyone watching out for one another.

The stink of the city grew stronger as we approached, a smell I had long since grown accustomed to. Floating City was a hive of disorder. Every corner seemed alive with movement. It was bustling. Chaotic.

The city was divided into seven boroughs, each a small island unto itself, yet not wholly disconnected. All were linked by metal bridges pieced together from salvaged shipwrecks and derelict boats. Six of these islands circled around a towering monolith that had once been an offshore drilling rig. Now, repurposed and repainted for residents and shops, it stood as the city's core.

They called it Old Rig, the city folks did. The only way to reach the top of Old Rig was by several pulley-and-counterweight-operated elevators set up around it. Each elevator was managed by an operator on the ground, overseeing the flow of passengers as they entered and exited. A second operator waited on the landing platform at the top, ready to assist with arrivals and departures.

The city buildings leaned at odd angles. They were a haphazard collection of rusty and shabby structures, many of them dented and patched together from whatever materials that could be salvaged. The streets were no better—jagged and filthy, they would writhe underfoot and turn into sloshing cesspools whenever the rain poured down. Fortunately, today was dry, leaving the streets hard and firm, though coated in a layer of dust.

As Alan and I went our separate ways from Gunther to begin our investigative work, the young cook caught up with us, asking if we were still hungry—fully aware that our breakfast had been far from satisfying. He suggested we visit the Blowfish Man’s restaurant, noting Alan’s particular interest in pufferfish. Though reluctant at first, Alan agreed—much to my delight! I reasoned that we needed a real proper meal for the challenging work ahead of us; surely, I couldn’t manage on a stomach full of bland, watery mush alone.

The restaurant was on the top of the rig. We hopped onto an elevator. It creaked and groaned, swaying slightly as it ascended, its old boards trembling under our feet. Suspended by thick ropes that ran over a massive pulley, the elevator was balanced by iron cylinder weights on the opposite side.

The ropes strained as the platform slowly rose, and the frame shook with every shift of our weight, as though it might give way at any moment. Every jolt sent a nervous tremor through me. Gunther, who had a little fear of heights, held tight to the thin railings, while Alan leaned against them with her hands in her pockets, gazing out at the other sprawling boroughs below us.

As soon as the elevator arrived at the landing platform, I quickly stepped off, feeling an immense sense of relief to be on solid ground again. I took a moment to walk in a small circle, savoring the stability beneath my feet.

Old Rig was alive. It wasn’t just bustling. It was vibrating. It was a tangled mass of humans crammed into the walkways. Vendors crowded like barnacles on a ship’s hull, hawking their goods, their voices overlapping into a strange, hypnotic rhythm.

Sheets of dried seaweed flapped lazily in the humid air, next to buckets of fresh fish twitching, caught just hours before, their scales still slick with ocean brine. Clothes fashioned from fish scales and bits of scavenged tech from the junk piles shimmered under the sun.

The air up here was different. Not cleaner—no, never that—but charged. Up here, the scent was of frying oil, greasy and enticing, sizzling in iron pots, frying morsels to fill both belly and spirit. The scent drifted through the air like a primal lure, tantalizing and irresistible, causing my mouth to water instantly.

The Blowfish Man had staked his claim in Old Rig’s square, where his large tent stood like a shrine to the sea’s oddities. One side of the tent showcased an impressive row of fish on metal trays, each one arranged in a way to catch the eye of any passerby. In the open space beside the display were a few plastic tables and fold-out chairs, offering a humble spot for diners.

The centerpiece, however, was the tank—a large, glass enclosure filled with seawater still briny from the ocean’s depths. Inside, live pufferfish drifted, bobbing and floating with an almost hypnotic grace. Contrary to Dr. Willis's warnings for being poisonous deadly creatures, they didn’t look particularly dangerous or menacing. In fact, they were almost… cute. Smaller than I had imagined, their tiny forms seemed delicate, harmless even, and they showed no sign of being intimidated by me. They swam right up to me, pressing their strange faces against the glass, staring at me, as if daring me to get closer.

Challenge accepted. I took a step forward, my paw reaching for the tank when, without warning, a large shadow loomed over me, darkening my view. I spun around and found myself staring into the deeply lined, weathered face of an old man. His eyes were narrowed, glaring down at me with a hardness that made my breath catch.