Dirk Bakker's teeth are a legend—filed to points and engraved with small gold coins, a modification he underwent during a disagreement with a Venetian merchant that involved artistic differences regarding the coin's weight. The Coin Fang of Harbor Wolves has since made a living collecting tolls in blood or silver, preferably the former, as blood requires less explanation.
When he first received the device—a sleek black circle that wrapped around his wrist like a shackle—he was convinced it was exactly that: a shackle. A tracking device. Government surveillance, the kind landlubbers use to ensure prisoners remain within acceptable geographic boundaries.
"It counts my steps," he announced to his associates, holding the device aloft as though presenting evidence of demonic possession. "It reports to authorities. I am shackled to modernity itself."
He attempted to pry it open. The device appeared impervious to standard pirate maintenance approaches (hitting it with things). He tried removing it. The device simply recorded that he had stopped moving and suggested he increase his daily activity. He found this patronizing and deeply insulting.
For a full week, Dirk contemplated drowning himself and his infernal watch in the harbor, seeing it as preferable to submission. The watch dutifully recorded his elevated heart rate during this existential crisis and suggested he engage in mindful breathing.
Then something peculiar occurred: Dirk walked to The Copper Coffin to collect a debt. The device recorded it as 8,342 steps. It awarded him a "badge" for achieving his daily goal. A small celebration occurred on the screen.
Something awakened in the Coin Fang that day—a hunger he had not understood he possessed. What was this "goal"? Could it be surpassed? And if it could be surpassed, how magnificent would that be?
Now, three weeks later, Dirk has become obsessive about his watch in ways that deeply concern his associates. He walks unnecessary routes specifically to increase his step count. He brags about "closing rings"—an accomplishment he takes profound pride in, though no one in Harbor Wolves understands what rings exist or why they need closing. He has memorized all the statistics: total steps, daily average, calorie burn, standing hours.
"I achieved 22,000 steps yesterday," he announced at the morning briefing, golden teeth gleaming.
"Were you fleeing authorities?" asked another Harbor Wolf, hoping for excitement.
"I walked to the market and back twice," Dirk admitted. "And the perimeter. And the docks. And did I mention I closed my rings?"
His colleagues have begun to suspect the watch is not surveillance equipment but something far more sinister: a mechanism specifically designed to capture pirates and transform them into people who voluntarily exercise in pursuit of invisible achievements.
Dirk no longer cares what they think. He has three achievements remaining before he unlocks something called a "monthly challenge," and nothing in this world—not debt collection, not violence, not the existential horror of being tracked by his own wrist—will stop him from achieving it.