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PROLOGUE

The Sea of Japan is home to a monster.

In its black waters lurks the gorira maguro.

Ren Harada first spotted the giant bluefin two years ago and gave it the name that had haunted him ever since—gorilla tuna.

The fish was massive, nearly twenty feet. Harada estimated it weighed over two thousand pounds, a beast that had evaded capture for twenty years. A ghost of the deep. A monster no one could catch.

Every season since, Harada had chased the gorira maguro, only to return empty handed. The other fishermen mocked him, calling him a mad old fool with a child’s imagination. Only his first mate, Danno Suzuki, believed him, though he hadn’t been there the day Harada first saw the creature.

Harada swore to anyone at the fish market who’d listen that he’d seen it. The tuna had surfaced alongside his boat, its round, glassy eye as big as a watermelon locked onto him, daring him to capture it. Then, with a single swipe of its massive tail, the giant vanished into the depths.

Now, Harada and Suzuki were back on the Sea of Japan, chasing the phantom monster as they did every year. The sky hung low under dark-gray clouds, a storm brewing on the horizon. The swells rolled, restless but manageable. The rain held off for now, leaving the sea open and waiting.

Since Harada first saw the colossus, it hadn’t surfaced. He wondered if its time had passed and it now lay rotting on the seabed. But he always dismissed the thought, clinging to the hope that the beast still swam in those waters.

Today, that hope burned white hot. Harada felt it in his gut. If the gorira maguro was going to resurface, it would be today.

To catch the monster, Harada chose the traditional method: hook and line. He would set live bait, a small skipjack tuna, and let it thrash in the water.

Suzuki dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, calling the bait too big for any Pacific bluefin to swallow.

Harada whipped his head around, his stare like a harpoon finding its mark. “For the gorira maguro, it’s an appetizer.”

This wouldn’t be a battle of strength alone. Harada had prepared for that. He’d bought a custom-made fishing gimbal belt designed to secure the pole to his body, locking him into the fight. Once the fish was on the line, it would be man against monster.

Suzuki hated it. “If that fish is as big as you say, it could pull you overboard and drag you under.”

Harada dismissed the warning with a nod toward the belt. It had a quick-release mechanism if things got dangerous. What worried him more was the fish ripping the pole clean out of his hands. He’d seen it happen before, even with tuna half this size.

“You’ve always been stubborn, Harada,” Suzuki muttered.

Harada glanced back at him, his grip firm on the pole. “You know why this fish matters?” he said. “It’s not just about catching it. It’s about proving it can be caught, that no dream is too big.”

With those words hanging in the air, Harada cast the bait. It skipped across the surface before sinking into the depths. Now, all Harada could do was wait for the silver beast to strike.

Back inside the cockpit, Suzuki gripped the wheel, his gaze darting between the water and Harada. He’d wanted a third guy on board to help today, but Harada refused, stating that all he needed was a fishing pole, his best friend, and a little luck.

The skies were still clear, the storm holding off for now. Suzuki split his attention between his friend and the horizon. At the stern, Harada stood with both hands gripping the fishing pole, his feet planted wide for balance, braced for whatever came next.

Then the pole bent sharply into a perfect, trembling C. Suzuki’s heart jumped. He’d never seen a rod that size give like that. It could mean only one thing: Harada had been right.

Harada leaned back harder. His body tilted at nearly sixty degrees as he fought to keep control. The fiberglass pole groaned under the strain, threatening to snap at any second. Suzuki gripped the edge of his seat, half expecting the sound of splintering fiberglass. But the pole held.

The line jerked violently, whipping the pole left, then right, then left again, each pull nearly yanking Harada off his feet. He staggered, losing ground with every shift, but his grip never faltered. It was a deadly game of tug-of-war, mano a mano.

Suzuki’s gaze snapped to the speed gauge. The boat had slowed—the engine, powerful as it was, strained against the force below.

A fish stronger than the engine? Impossible.

From the depths, the gorira maguro erupted, breaching the surface in a sweeping arc. Its entire body hung in the air for a moment, a monstrous colossus made real. Suzuki sucked in a breath.

Like a razor-sharp mohawk, the dark-blue stripe along its back shimmered in the gray light. Its underbelly gleamed white, taunting surrender like a raised flag, though the fight was far from over.

The silver titan twisted in slow motion, defying gravity as it hung in the air longer than anything its size should. Then Suzuki saw it. Its massive, round eye glinting like polished glass. The black pupil locked onto Harada, unblinking, filled with an eerie intelligence.

It hadn’t forgotten.

Harada didn’t back down. He leaned farther back, defying gravity, his body tilting past the point of balance. At that angle, he should’ve fallen onto the deck, but the sheer force of the fish held him upright. With a violent dive, the tuna plunged back into the water, dragging Harada to the keel.

Suzuki gasped, letting go of the wheel as he bolted from the cockpit. He stumbled down the stairs to the deck, barely keeping his footing. Before he could steady himself, the fish yanked hard to the right, whipping the boat around. Harada slid across the slick deck and slammed into the starboard side with a heavy thud.

“Let go of the pole!” Suzuki shouted. Harada didn’t flinch. His grip was unrelenting, his eyes burning with determination.

Suzuki fought to stay upright as the boat pitched violently. He had to reach Harada. The only thing keeping Harada on deck was the gunwale, barely high enough to brace him. Could Suzuki get to him in time?

He was just steps from grabbing Harada when the tuna jerked hard again. This time, the gunwale couldn’t save him. Suzuki’s fingers brushed against Harada’s jacket, but it slipped through his grasp. In an instant, Harada was yanked overboard.

“Ren!” Suzuki shouted, slamming into the gunwale. He leaned over, scanning the water. Harada’s bright-yellow jacket glowed like a beacon in the blue-gray depths, just feet below the surface.

“Let go!” Suzuki’s voice cracked in desperation.

For a moment, it seemed like Harada might surface. Then, in a flash, the beast dove. Harada’s yellow slicker shrank to a pinpoint before vanishing into the abyss.

“Ren!” Suzuki screamed, his hand outstretched over the water, ready to pull his friend back the moment he surfaced. But the seconds dragged on, each one heavier than the last until Suzuki’s hope sank like a stone.

He collapsed to his knees against the gunwale, staring into the empty water. “You mad old fool,” he said, his voice breaking. “Why couldn’t you let it go?”

But the answer was clear. It wasn’t the tuna that had won. It was Harada’s pride.