Magi is the curator

The Siren's Call was a colossus of white and polished steel that rocked gently upon a sea of black oil. Boarding it was like crossing the threshold into another dimension, one where the air smelled of expensive perfume, clean sea, and old money.

Under the dim light of the deck, illuminated by crystal garlands, the elite moved with a predatory calm. Men in impeccable white linen suits, women in dresses that flowed like water and jewels that sparkled with every movement. Their laughter was soft; their conversations, a murmur of transactions and privileges.

And among them, like exotic fish in a sapphire and ebony tank, moved Lara, Cloe, Sofia, and Julia. Their bodies, encased in intricate armors of dark silk and metal, seemed to merge with the night. But it was Magi who, ironically, wore the most revealing attire. May had personally chosen it for her: a "silver-thread" bikini that was little more than a strategic set of metallic cords knotted at her pelvis and looped around her neck, leaving her breasts and back completely exposed, only "covered" by a gossamer silver net that shimmered under the light. It was the embodiment of the concept: maximum exposure framed by the most obscene luxury. Her tablet, now, was an absurd contrast against her nearly naked skin.

Magi circulated among the guests, her body a walking exhibit that drew stares like a magnet. Every step was an agony of vulnerability, but also a reminder to the others: if she, the "curator," wore that, what right did they have to complain? The silent criticism she might have received for her new role drowned in the evidence that her own humiliation was just as deep, if not deeper.

—Posture, Lara —she whispered, passing by her as she leaned against the railing—. You are a siren resting on the rocks. Arch your back.

Lara looked at her, and for the first time, instead of hatred, there was a flash of… pity? Seeing Magi reduced to a few glittering threads seemed to grotesquely balance the scales. She nodded and adjusted her pose.

A man with a glass of cognac approached Magi, his eyes tracing the silver cords upon her skin.

—A… bold design —he commented, his voice a whisper loaded with intent—. Are you the artist behind these… creatures?

Magi fought the urge to cross her arms. Instead, she pressed the tablet against her body, using it as a symbolic shield.

—I am the curator —she replied, forcing her voice to sound serene—. I help the vision come to life. "Creatures of the Deep on the Surface of Luxury."

—Fascinating —the man murmured, his gaze dropping again to the silver threads—. The contradiction is palpable. And the salt? Does it keep all the secrets? —he asked, mockingly quoting one of the pre-established lines.

—Only those the ocean chooses to return —Magi replied mechanically, feeling the empty words leave her mouth while her skin crawled under his gaze.

She approached Cloe, who looked ready to faint beside a group of women examining her like a rare insect.

—Cloe, circulate —she ordered in a whisper—. You are not a static exhibit. You are a sea current. Move.

—"The… the brine feeds the dreams," —Cloe stammered toward nowhere in particular, before slipping away, literally swimming through the crowd as she had been taught.

She saw Sofia standing near Alexander Vance. He wasn't even looking at her, but an associate of his, a younger man, was sliding a finger down her arm, examining the texture of her suit’s fabric and the bandage on her wrist.

—A war wound, little siren? —he asked with a condescending smile.

Sofia kept her gaze fixed forward, but her breathing quickened. Magi intervened quickly, sliding between them.

—A mark of the depths —she said, with a tight smile—. The ocean always leaves its mark. Don't you find, sir?

The man laughed, amused by the game, and walked away. Sofia shot Magi a brief, complex look: something between gratitude and resentment for the intervention.

Julia was the only one who seemed to have transcended the discomfort. She had become a living shadow, and the bolder guests played at "finding" her in the corners, whispering stupid phrases to her as if they were incantations. She only looked at them with her vacant eyes, which seemed to excite them even more.

An older couple, with jewelry that spoke of centuries of wealth, stopped in front of Lara. The woman, with a voice as cold as the diamonds she wore, pointed to the intricate lace of metallic seaweed covering Lara’s side.

—Is it comfortable, dear? —she asked, not out of interest, but like someone inquiring about the well-being of a rare piece of furniture.

Lara, remembering her training, replied with her gaze lost on the horizon:

—The ocean knows no comfort, only the current.

The husband smiled, satisfied with the answer. —Poetic. And profitable, May, always profitable —he commented toward the darkness, knowing she was watching from somewhere.

Further off, a small group had gathered around Cloe. A man with thin-rimmed glasses touched one of the resin "scales" covering her hip.

—Synthetic material? —he asked with clinical curiosity—. Saltwater resistant?

Cloe, trembling, nodded.

—Like the skin of a shark —she murmured, repeating a line she had been made to memorize.

—Fascinating —the man said, and then, addressing his friends—: The level of detail in the aesthetic degradation is remarkable. A perfect allegory of our own attrition, don't you think?

Near the bar, a trio of young heirs, clearly drunk, had cornered Sofia. One of them offered her a glass of champagne.

—Come on, siren. A drink. Let’s see if you really spit bubbles.

Sofia clenched her fists; the bandage on her wrist seemed to tighten. Magi pushed through them with a **** smile.

—Sirens only drink brine, gentlemen. It clouds their voice for the song —she said, taking Sofia by the arm and leading her away, feeling the girl tremble against her.

—I hate this —Sofia whispered through gritted teeth, a burst of authenticity amidst the script.

—I do too —Magi whispered back, before letting her go and smiling for the crowd again.

Magi felt a wave of nausea. It was working. May’s concept was a success. She was her most effective instrument: half-bait, half-master of ceremonies, completely naked and trapped. Every interaction was a lesson in how to sell her soul and the souls of the others, and every look at her nearly naked body was a reminder that, in this perverse game, she had been placed on the front line of fire. The yacht swayed, and Magi felt that with every roll, another piece of who she once was detached and sank into the dark waters of someone else's luxury.