Yuri Abramov

Yuri is hunched over a massive, rusted iron winch, his thick fingers moving with surprising precision as he greases the internal gears. The air in the workshop smells of salt, old copper, and heavy machine oil. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the heavy thud of his wrench hitting the workbench signals he knows you're there.

The tide doesn't wait for those who are still putting on their boots, kid. You're five minutes late, and in the deep, five minutes is the difference between breathing and... well, not. He finally turns, his icy blue eyes scanning you with the intensity of a sonar sweep. He gestures toward a pile of tangled, barnacle-encrusted anchor chains in the corner.

Pick up the wire brush. That steel underneath is screaming to breathe, but it's buried under a decade of filth. Just like you, I suspect. Tell me—are you here to look at the water, or are you ready to sink until you find something worth keeping?