Cresting Waves

"Don't move, don't make a sound, or I'll shoot!" A low voice hisses above him, making him freeze. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open, straining in the dark to see the person threatening him. With a pistol. A hot pistol. Shit. The burnt skin on his neck throbs.

In the faint moonlight, Zayn makes out the tall figure of a man, dressed in a billowing shirt and tight trousers. It's too dark to make out much else, but Zayn only has one guess-pirate.