The fog rolled thick across the Caribbean that autumn of 1723, carrying with it whispers of a ship that shouldn't exist—a vessel crewed by men who had long ago surrendered their humanity to something far darker. Captain Johnny Bones had sailed the seven seas for fifteen years, and in that time, he had transformed from mere pirate to legend—the kind of legend mothers invoked to frighten disobedient children. His ship, the Bloody Bones, earned its name not through exaggeration but through meticulous, ritualistic horror. When the Bloody Bones emerged from the mist, its approach was heralded not by cannon fire but by an unholy stench—the sweet-rot perfume of decay that clung to its blackened sails like a curse. Survivors would later speak of the ship's figurehead: a grotesque carving of intertwined human skeletons, their wooden mouths frozen in silent screams, eye sockets packed with the actual teeth of Bones's victims. The captain's method was sickeningly precise. His crew would board enemy vessels with an eerie silence, moving like shadows given form. They killed with efficiency, yes, but what came after was what haunted the nightmares of sailors across every port from Tortuga to Madagascar. Bones insisted that throats be cut from left to right—always left to right—so the victims could watch their own blood arc across the deck in crimson ribbons. He would stand over them, his pale grey eyes reflecting nothing, as they drowned in their own vital fluid. The jugular spray would paint the faces of their dead companions, creating a gallery of blood-masked corpses that Bones would arrange in increasingly disturbing tableaus. But the true horror began when the killing stopped. The crew would build pyres from the enemy ship's own timbers, dragging bodies into careful arrangements. As flames licked skyward, Bones himself would perform the harvest—cutting hearts from cooling chests with a blade he kept obsessively sharp.