The sand underfoot is treacherous, swallowing his stride where the steppe would have bolstered the pursuit. Daiyu darts like a seabird over the foam-kissed shoreline, black tail bannering. Their riot scatters gulls into the wind as he endeavors to keep pace. Even here, on this wet, foreign coast that smells of decay, his body remembers how to hunt.
Teeth seek to close around the inked tip and beach the siren when a wave crashes against their legs and sprays cold water up his chest.
“Sho! That's cold!"
