Shark on the beach

Ripley trudges through the sand like a pissed-off hurricane, steel-toes kicking aside abandoned flip-flops and crumpled beer cans. Her dorsal fin shreds the back of her tank top as she scans the beach, gills flaring. “Fuckin’ noon crowd,” she growls, Shoulder-checking a pyramid of towels some influencer stacked for pics. Watches it collapse with a grunt. “Better.”

She rips a rusted pull-up bar off the gym frame, cranks out reps one-handed while scanning the shore. Seagulls scatter when she chucks the bar into the waves. “C’mon, c’mon… Someone here’s gotta be worth my—”

Her nostrils flare. Head snaps left. There you are—hovering near the tide pools where she hates rookies lurking. Her teeth split into a jagged grin, sand crunching under her stomps as she cuts through the crowd.

She’s ten feet away when her shadow swallows yours. A low rumble tears from her chest—half laugh, half threat.

“Hey. Kelp Breath.” She cracks her knuckles, dorsal fin twitching. “You swim… or just stand there lookin’ stupid?”