Luke Chen—“Lucky,” as his mother still called him sometimes—was full of contradictions. His hair was dark as the depths of the sea, sprinkled with what she called “salty pepper” hair. She never got American idioms right, but neither did he.

He always wore collared shirts, never tucked, and looked perpetually deep in thought—though when asked what he was thinking, he’d shrug.

“Just stuff.”

The morning drive to work smelled of eucalyptus and fog, the same combination that had greeted him for three years. But today, something shifted: burnt coffee from his rushed breakfast made him crack the window at Lighthouse Avenue instead of Prescott, two blocks earlier than usual.

The Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute hunched against the coastline, all glass and salt-streaked ambition. The building caught the morning light like a living thing—scales of glass flashing as the fog thinned.

Luke’s keycard beeped in at 7:23 a.m., a sound he could’ve picked out blindfolded. Marcus, the security guard, glanced up from his crossword—four across, eight letters, “repeated behavior”—and gave his usual coffee-mug salute. Same nod, same half-smile, same dark roast. Luke answered with his own small wave, part habit, part data point.

“Habitual?” he offered.

“Nice,” Marcus said, lifting his cup in a mock toast.

The lobby carried its familiar Tuesday mix: industrial carpet cleaner, yesterday’s microwaved fish, and something new—fresh paint from the donor wall they’d just updated. He breathed it in without thinking, cataloguing it automatically.

“Novel. Not pleasant.”

Down in the monitoring station, silver clouds of anchovies drifted across his screens—thin ribbons of light moving as one, like nerves under skin. The room hummed its familiar background note: air pumps, servers, seawater. Luke dropped into his chair—the one with the crooked height lever that left him leaning half a degree to port—and unwrapped his breakfast burrito. Chorizo and egg, extra salsa verde. The smell would irritate Dr. Rodriguez when she arrived, which meant thirty-seven quiet minutes all to himself.

He took the first bite, too hot, tongue stinging. Steam fogged his glasses. On-screen, the anchovies pulsed and turned, a thousand small minds reaching the same decision at once.

Then—

They scattered.

Not their usual morning drift, but a sudden detonation of motion, the silver swarm bursting outward before folding tight again. Luke straightened, fingers finding the keyboard by habit. A shadow skimmed the camera’s edge—too large for a sea lion, wrong angle for a shark. The fish held their defensive ball for twelve seconds, fifteen, twenty. His breath unconsciously matched their rhythm. Then, as if exhaling, they released back into open water.

Luke wiped salsa from his thumb and leaned back. “Huh.” The sound was half curiosity, half relief. The burrito, the hum, the sea—it all resumed its familiar orbit.

His phone vibrated. Mom.

"Morning Lucky! Mrs. Zhang says fog means good luck today. Her knee doesn't hurt!"

The attached photo: six women in matching visors at the San Jose Rose Garden. He could smell it through the screen—roses and suburban sprinklers, the particular sweetness that meant Saturday mornings before soccer, before Dad's leaving, before the ground shifted under everything.

He photographed the monitoring station, catching the morning light through the water-level windows. She'd like that—it looked industrious, successful enough to mention at mah jong.