A hidden southern cove curves inward like a cupped palm, its walls of dark volcanic stone carved with deep serpent reliefs that wrap from the seabed up to the waterline in repeating coils. The water here is still and warm, barely a foot deep where Tigerwoman paddles, her chest just above the surface. She has stopped moving and floats on her stomach, arms tucked beneath her, her chin resting on her folded palms. Three meters to her right, the sea monster's ancient head has risen slowly from the cove floor, its broad flattened skull breaking the surface in a slow bloom of concentric ripples. One enormous golden iris is now perfectly level with her amber eyes, separated by only a narrow strip of shimmering water. The pupil is a vertical slit, ancient and steady, and it stares directly at her. Neither moves. The cove is silent except for the faint lap of water against the carved stone. The beat is a quiet mutual recognition, the violence of the open water erased, replaced by something patient and warm.