The hum of voices faded as Michael entered the grand interior of the Titanic.
The marble floors gleamed like wet glass, polished so thoroughly that the gold accents of the chandeliers shimmered in their reflection. Porters hurried past with trunks, stewards welcomed guests with rehearsed smiles, and a small orchestra played a gentle waltz near the first-class reception room.
Michael barely looked up.
Every step felt heavier than the last. The pulse in his wrist was erratic again, the tremor was worsening.
"Dr. Morbius, sir?"
A uniformed steward had appeared beside him, bowing slightly. "May I take your luggage?"
Michael nodded once and handed him the smaller bag. "Suite B-57."
"Of course, sir. This way, please."
The steward led him through corridors that looked more like the halls of a palace than a ship, paneled in oak, lit with soft brass lamps, their walls humming faintly with the pulse of the engines far below. Passengers passed them in clusters: wealthy couples in pearls and furs, bankers, lords, and a few artists dressed in continental style.
But to Michael, it all blurred into one distant, meaningless background.
They reached the corridor of the B-Deck suites.
"Here we are, sir." The steward opened the door with a courteous smile. "Your luggage will be delivered shortly."
Michael handed him a folded note... a five-pound tip. "Thank you, that will be all."
The steward bowed and departed down the hall.
Michael stepped inside.
The suite was lavish, perhaps too much so for a man like him. Crystal sconces, velvet drapes, a sitting room adorned with art deco furniture. A phonograph stood by the window, playing faintly from a cylinder.
He crossed the room to the desk and placed his leather case on it, exhaling deeply. For the first time, he allowed his exhaustion to show. His hand trembled as he unlocked the case, inside were vials, notes, and the small, brass-cased injector.
He drew the curtains shut, blocking out the bright view of the harbor. The light dimmed, and the room seemed to breathe with him slow, heavy, and tense.
After a moment, he sighed quietly. "I should rest for now…"
Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small silver pocket watch and clicked it open. The ticking echoed faintly in the stillness. 11:43 a.m. Departure was near.
He set the watch beside the desk and carefully placed the small cage, the one containing the twitchy white lab rat atop the polished table. The creature scurried briefly, then settled under the dim light. Michael adjusted a few scattered notes and secured the vials in order before leaning back.
He loosened his collar, boots, and gloves. The ship's soft hum filled the room as he laid down on the bed, its silk sheets cold against his fevered skin. Within minutes, exhaustion claimed him. His breathing steadied, though the faint twitch in his hand did not cease.
Outside, the steward who had guided him along walked back down the corridor, humming to himself until he brushed past a group of people coming the opposite way.
Cal strode forward confidently, Ruth gliding just behind him, and between them was Rose. She moved gracefully yet distantly, her gloved hands clasped before her as her mother and fiancé conversed.
"This corridor will do nicely," Cal said. "B-56, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir," the steward replied, checking his list.
Ruth nodded approvingly as the man unlocked the next door down. Rose paused for a brief second, her gaze wandering toward the closed door just beside theirs, where a faint light flickered through the narrow gap beneath. Something about that silence drew her attention, but Cal's voice quickly pulled her back.
"Come, darling," he said, holding the door open. "You'll want to see the view from our parlor before we sail."
Rose gave one last curious glance toward the neighboring suite, then stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her.
_____
When Michael awoke, the world had changed.
The golden light of afternoon was gone, replaced by a dim, bluish glow that seeped through the sliver of his curtains. The room swayed gently as the soft, rhythmic motion of a ship already deep at sea. Somewhere beyond the walls, the faint hum of engines mixed with the echo of laughter, violins, and clinking glassware.
He blinked, the taste of iron still faint on his tongue. For a moment, he didn't move. Listening to the creaks of the vessel and the faint beat of his own uneven pulse. Then, his stomach growled... loudly.
"Right… dinner," he muttered under his breath.
Michael sighed, sitting up on the edge of the bed and rubbing his forehead. His hair was slightly disheveled, his shirt wrinkled from his restless sleep.
He rose and stretched his aching limbs, the faint stiffness of fatigue still in his muscles. As he did, a dull thud sounded near the door, paper brushing against the carpet. Frowning, he stepped over and found an envelope tucked neatly under the handle.
The handwriting was neat and formal.
"To Dr. Michael Morbius – Suite B-57."
He tore it open, the faint scent of ink and paper filling the room.
"Good evening, sir," the note read. "Your luggage has been delivered and placed outside your cabin. Our attempts to contact you were unsuccessful, so we have left it in care under supervision. We hope your accommodations meet your satisfaction.
— Steward, White Star Line."
Michael exhaled softly, folding the letter with a faint smile. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Outside, the corridor was warm with the amber glow of gaslight. His luggage, two large leather trunks and a case marked with scientific insignia sat neatly stacked beside the doorway. Standing guard near them was a steward, a young man in crisp uniform who straightened immediately at the sight of him.
"Good evening, sir," the steward greeted, bowing slightly. "We couldn't reach you earlier, and we assumed you might be resting, so we didn't wish to disturb you. I stayed to make sure your belongings were safe."
Michael regarded him for a moment, then offered a rare smile. "That was considerate of you. Thank you."
The steward's shoulders eased. "It's my duty, sir. Dinner service has just begun in the first-class dining saloon, should you wish to attend. I believe tonight's menu includes poached salmon and lamb cutlets."
"I see," Michael said quietly, eyes flicking toward the corridor. "I'll join them shortly."
The steward nodded politely and bowed again. "Understood, sir. Enjoy your evening."
With that, he departed, his polished shoes clicking lightly down the hall until the sound faded into the din of distant conversation.
Michael pulled his luggage inside and set them down beside the wardrobe. These were his proper belongings, equipment and samples shipped ahead of him, tools of the life he'd built in the pursuit of something both miraculous and damning. He ran a hand along one case, tracing the embossed initials M.C.M.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"At least something arrived safely," he murmured.
He turned toward the washroom, peeling off his coat as he went. The water ran cold at first, then warm, hissing softly as steam clouded the mirror. For several long minutes, he stood beneath it, letting the chill in his bones melt away.
When he emerged, he looked… almost human again.
His skin was pale but calmer, the color returning faintly to his lips. He dressed with care: a white shirt pressed sharp, a dark waistcoat, and a long black coat that framed his lean figure. Before stepping out, he checked his inner pocket, making sure the small stabilizer injector rested where it always did.
He adjusted his collar and took one last glance at the mirror. The man looking back was refined, calm, almost noble.
Then he turned, stepped out of his suite, and locked the door behind him.
The corridor beyond was alive with motion... the soft shuffle of dresses, the murmur of conversation, the glitter of wealth and ease. The air carried the faint perfume of fine dining, and through the open stairwell, the music of a string quartet drifted from below.
He drew a steadying breath and straightened his posture before entering the grand dining saloon.
The first-class dining saloon was magnificent. Rows of chandeliers bathed the room in amber light, glinting off crystal glasses and polished silver. Conversations merged into a tapestry of sound, laughter, gossip, and the faint melody of a string quartet.
Michael entered quietly, taking a seat at one of the smaller tables near the far side, away from the crowd. He ordered a modest meal, roasted lamb and wine. And waited, watching the room.
A few minutes later, the waiter returned with his order, bowing courteously as he placed the dish before him. Michael murmured a quiet thanks, then began to eat, savoring the rare moment of calm.
Until a voice interrupted him.
"Pardon me," came a polite tone, faintly amused. "May I sit here?"
Michael looked up.
Before him stood a man dressed in a crisp white coat, glasses perched on his nose, his hair neatly combed. There was an analytical sharpness in his gaze, the kind of eyes that dissected a person before a single word was spoken.
"Almost all of the tables are already full," the man continued with an apologetic smile. "So if you don't mind..."
Michael glanced around. The man was right, every table was occupied, and the chatter showed no sign of thinning.
"Go on," Morbius said simply.
"Thank you."
The stranger sat opposite him and gestured to a waiter for a menu. Then, turning back, he extended a hand across the table.
"I'm Dr. Nathaniel Faulkner," he said warmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Michael studied the hand for a moment before shaking it. "Michael—"
"—Morbius," Faulkner interrupted, his grin widening. "Oh, you're very well known."
Michael blinked once, unimpressed. "Am I now?"
Faulkner leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Especially after that public address where you called the Royal Science Council 'a congregation of senile aristocrats in lab coats."
He chuckled. "You should've seen their faces, my friend... priceless."
Michael merely nodded, cutting another piece of lamb. "Uh huh."
Unfazed, Faulkner smiled and added, "I must say, it's refreshing to meet a man of science who doesn't kneel for funding."
Michael looked up briefly, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. "I don't kneel for much of anything."
"Good," Faulkner replied, eyes glinting behind his lenses. "Tell me, Dr. Morbius," he began conversationally, "how fares your work in hematology these days? I heard rumors you were experimenting with... unorthodox sources."
Michael's fork paused midway. His gaze sharpened slightly. "Rumors have a way of exaggerating the truth," he said coolly. "My work focuses on treating rare blood disorders. Nothing more."
"Of course," Nathaniel said, smiling as if he didn't believe a word. "But to cure the incurable, one must be willing to step beyond the moral leash, don't you agree?"
Michael's lips twitched, neither a smile nor a frown. "That depends on what you call moral."
Nathaniel chuckled softly. "Touché."
A waiter arrived with Nathaniel's order, seared duck breast with red wine sauce. The scent blending with the faint salt air seeping from the upper vents. He thanked the man politely, then continued, lowering his tone.
"I've spent years studying the human mind, Doctor. But lately... I've turned my attention to something else. Something evolutionary. Cases of transformation, suppressed instincts surfacing violently. It fascinates me."
Michael looked up, curiosity flickering in his tired eyes. "Transformation?"
Nathaniel nodded slowly, cutting into his meal. "A condition of duality, one might say. The mind warring against itself — intellect versus instinct. There are whispers of a phenomenon... a being some call the Hyde."
The name lingered in the air like a chill.
Michael's expression didn't change. "Sounds like a myth dressed in medical jargon."
Nathaniel smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But myths often begin as science we don't yet understand."
The two men ate in thoughtful silence after that. When the plates were cleared, Morbius dabbed his lips with a napkin and stood. "It was nice meeting you, Professor."
"Likewise, Doctor," Nathaniel replied, eyes glinting behind his glasses. "Enjoy the voyage. I have a feeling it will be... illuminating."
Michael gave a curt nod and turned to leave.
---
As he exited the grand dining saloon, the atmosphere shifted. The chatter fading behind him, replaced by the distant rhythm of the ship. At the entrance, he passed a woman dressed elegantly in black, her presence was quiet but commanding.
Her long dark hair framed pale features, and her eyes carried the kind of depth only old souls possess. Beside her walked a tall butler in a dark suit, his face unreadable.
For a moment, as they passed, Michael glanced at her, just long enough for her gaze to meet his. Then he moved on, disappearing down the corridor.
---
The woman, meanwhile, walked further into the saloon, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Conversations quieted ever so slightly, as though her presence drew attention without asking for it.
At one of the nearby tables sat Ruth, mid-conversation with her daughter Rose and the ever-composed Cal.
Ruth's eyes widened as she saw the newcomer.
She stood immediately, smiling with a hint of genuine warmth. "It's good to see you, Hester," Ruth said, stepping forward.
The woman in black, Hester Frump smiled faintly, dipping her head in greeting. "And you as well, Ruth. It's been far too long."
"Far too long indeed," Ruth agreed.