Michael's pulse was still beating unevenly when he finally closed the door behind him. The faint aftershocks of the stabilizer rippled under his skin — not dangerous, but unsettling, like the distant echo of a storm that had not fully passed. He leaned his back against the door for a moment, breathing through the ache in his chest and the subtle tremor in his fingers.
This was the last time he would ever feel this way.
He drew a long breath, exhaled through his nose, and told himself, 'It's time'
He moved across the room with quiet deliberation. Each step purposeful. On the desk, he arranged the tools with the same meticulous care he brought to every experiment: the polished glass syringe, the vial of dark, unnervingly thick serum, and his old portable recorder. The metal casing of the recorder was worn smooth at the edges from years of use, but it still clicked to life with a familiar mechanical beep.
"Test two hundred forty-three," he murmured.
He inhaled deeply to ground himself. "Human trials."
For a moment, his hands hovered over the instruments. Then his fingers wrapped around the syringe.
He slid the needle into the vial, drawing the serum with slow, steady pressure. The liquid climbed, heavy and dark, almost too smooth as it filled the chamber. When it was full, he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the pale, thin stretch of skin over the vein doctors always used. The vein pulsed faintly, visible beneath his fragile skin.
He pressed the needle in.
Then he pushed the plunger.
The serum entered his bloodstream.
For several seconds, nothing changed. Michael kept his hand braced against the desk, waiting, watching his skin for any shift. His breath grew shallow as a faint tremor ran up his arm.
Then pain hit.
It slammed into his chest like an iron hammer. His breath caught in his throat and he staggered back, knocking over the chair. His legs buckled and he collapsed onto his knees, clutching at the floor as the convulsions began. His body jerked violently, white foam bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
He gasped then arched backward sharply, his spine cracking as it bent in an unnatural curve.
"ARGGH!!"
A guttural roar ripped from him, louder than anything a human throat should produce. His hands clawed at the wooden as his vision blurred. The veins beneath his skin darkened, bulged, throbbed.
The world blurred.
The agony built and built and built—
And then, suddenly, everything went still.
_________
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.
Only that waking felt like dragging himself up through layers of thick fog.
A low groan escaped him as awareness seeped back. His eyelids were heavy, glued by exhaustion, but he forced them apart. A soft wash of early sunlight filtered through the cabin window, brushing his vision in pale gold.
'Morning?' His sluggish mind stumbled over the realization.
He pushed himself upright, bracing a hand against the floor. A reeling pain throbbed at the sides of his head, but it faded quickly, like a distant echo rather than the crushing pressure he was used to. He rubbed his temples, steadying his breath.
Then he looked down.
And froze.
His arms once thin were… different. Thicker. Defined. He rolled up his sleeve quickly and the blue veins that had haunted him his entire life were gone.
He pulled his shirt aside and stared in disbelief at the faint ridges of muscular definition across his abdomen. His chest once sunken and weak was solid, healthy.
He swallowed hard, unable to process the sight.
Before he could think further, he pushed himself to his feet. His muscles responded effortlessly, no shaking, no strain. It felt… natural. Completely natural.
But when he reached for the bathroom door to steady himself—
CRACK.
The metal doorknob snapped clean off in his hand.
Michael stared at the broken piece resting in his palm.
He hadn't even pulled hard.
Slowly, he curled his fingers around it. The strength rippled subtly through his grip, quiet but vast, like something waiting beneath the surface.
A strength he had never known.
He stepped into the bathroom. His footsteps sounded lighter, more balanced, almost graceful. As if his body finally understood how it was supposed to move.
He lifted his gaze to the mirror and his breath caught in his throat.
The man staring back at him was someone he barely recognized.
Gone was the pale, exhausted, sickly scientist. Gone were the hollow cheeks, the dark circles, the frail posture.
In their place stood a man who looked… alive, healthy, noble, even strikingly handsome, in a way he had never been.
His skin held color again, his hair seemed fuller, his jawline more defined. His eyes once dull from fatigue now glimmered with sharp clarity.
He reached toward his reflection, fingertips brushing the cold surface. The man in the mirror matched him perfectly.
"Unbelievable…" he whispered.
He wasn't just cured.
He was reborn.
_______
The corridor to the outer deck was quiet at this hour. When he pushed open the door, a gust of cold air rushed past him, tugging at his coat and brushing against his skin like a welcome greeting.
He stepped outside and leaned onto the railing, letting himself breathe—really breathe. The Atlantic smelled sharp and alive, a mix of salt, steel, and distant mist. The breeze tingled against his face, almost startling in how clearly he could feel every shift in the wind. Even the sound of the waves folding under the Titanic's hull echoed with strange clarity.
He stared across the vast, endless ocean . For the first time since the strange symptoms began—the fever, the dizziness, the aching in his bones... he felt something close to peace or maybe it was anticipation. He couldn't tell.
Everything feels different tonight.
Stronger. Sharper. Like the whole world had stepped closer without him noticing.
He stayed there for several minutes, absorbing every detail, until he heard faint music drifting from the grand saloon. The reminder of normal life nudged him back inside.
The saloon was lively but elegant, filled with soft piano music and polite conversation. The white tablecloths, the sparkling crystal glasses, the smell of warm bread it all created a glow that should've felt comforting.
Yet he noticed something strange again.
People were staring at him. Not rudely, just discreet glances some curious, some confused. As if something about him had subtly changed and he didn't realize it.
He pushed the thought aside and took his seat.
A few moments later, he noticed her.
Rose.
She sat at a nearby table, her posture refined yet relaxed, red hair cascading over her shoulder like flickering fire under the chandelier. When she caught him looking, he dipped his head in a polite nod. She returned it with a small smile, a fleeting, polite acknowledgmen tbefore returning to her conversation.
The waiter arrived with his meal, elegantly arranged and steaming. It should've smelled wonderful. It should've made his mouth water.
But when he took the first bite…
It felt... wrong
The flavors were there, he knew they were but they didn't reach him. The texture felt off, the richness tasted thin. It was like eating a ghost of a meal, something that should have delighted but instead felt hollow.
He ate mechanically, finishing out of courtesy more than satisfaction.
When he stood and left the saloon, he still felt full. Overly full, even.
If anything, he felt… empty.
Yet halfway down the corridor toward his room… he stopped.
Like a hook.
A scent, soft at first slipped under the doorways and around the corner, brushing against him. He inhaled instinctively.
And nearly staggered.
The smell was warm, sweet and intoxicating.
A scent that curled under his ribs and dragged something primal awake inside him.
His body full from dinner suddenly felt starved. A deep, heavy pull gnawed at him, spreading through his veins like fire.
He clutched the railing along the wall, breathing in again slow, involuntary.
The scent sharpened, clearer this time.
He had no memory of ever smelling something so intoxicating. So irresistible. So… necessary.
'What is happening to me?' His breath trembled
The further Michael walked, the stronger the scent became.
It wasn't drifting aimlessly through the ship, it was pulling him.
Like a trail only he could sense, threading through the narrow hallways of the Titanic's lower decks. The polished floors and chandeliers of upper class slowly gave way to rougher wood, dim lamps, and crowded passageways that smelled of sweat, coal, and seawater.
He didn't remember deciding to go down. His feet simply moved on instinct.
He passed through the metal stairwells, past families settling in, past men smoking pipes and laughing. No one paid him much attention.
The scent grew stronger.
Thicker...
His breath trembled as he stepped into the 3rd class corridor, dim and cramped, where shadows clung to corners and silence hung too heavy.
Then he froze.
At the end of the hallway, one passage was almost completely dark. Just a few flickering lamps struggling to push back the shadows.
The smell came from there.
His heart pounded, his palms tingled, his mouth… watered.
Michael swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully.
'What is wrong with me? What is this?'
When he reached the dark corridor, he heard it.
A faint wet sound.
Sucking... Swallowing.
Michael stepped closer, each footfall silent despite the wooden floorboards.
When his eyes adjusted—
His stomach dropped.
A man knelt over a woman slumped against the wall. Her head leaned sideways, hair covering her face. She wasn't moving. And his mouth... his mouth was buried against her neck.
Not kissing but... drinking.
With slow, greedy pulls.
An unconscious child lay beside them, a small hand curled limply against the floor.
The man finished, lifting his head with a satisfied breath. Blood smeared his lips and chin, glistening under the dim light.
Michael's whole body went rigid.
His mind screamed to run.
But something deeper, instinctual, monstrous rooted him to the spot.
The stranger finally noticed him.
He blinked. Then smirked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, staining it dark red.
"Well now…" the man said, voice thick with accent and amusement. "Hey there, mate."
He angled his head, studying Michael the way one predator studies another.
"You hungry?"
Michael's throat tightened. His pulse hammered in his ears. The smell of blood hit him again stronger, richer and for a moment, he swayed.
His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
The vampire's grin widened.
"Thought so."
He reached down casually and lifted the unconscious child by the arm as if he weighed nothing. The boy's shoeless feet hung limp, toes barely brushing the floor. His small head lolled to the side, curls shadowing his face.
Michael felt something twist in his chest horror, revulsion, and something far more dangerous tangled together.
The man took a step closer.
Michael didn't move.
Couldn't.
The scent of fresh blood rolled off the man's sleeve, warm and metallic. It hit Michael like a physical blow. His breathing stuttered, his throat burned, and his stomach clenched in a sharp, animal hunger he'd never known before today.
The man noticed.
"Oh, you're new," he chuckled, eyes glinting. "Still fighting it, are you?"
Michael's nails dug into his palms.
He didn't trust himself to speak.
The stranger shrugged, amused.
"No need to be ashamed. First hunger's always the worst. Everyone thinks they'll be some sort of saint…"
He gestured toward the unconscious woman against the wall, blood still drying on her neck. "Then they taste it. Then they understand."
Michael swallowed hard.
The man took another slow, deliberate step, bringing the child closer.
"You smell it, don't you?" he murmured. "That warmth… that life, it calls to you. Same as me."
Michael's jaw tightened painfully.
He could hear it, the faint, fluttering heartbeat of the boy. A soft thump-thump-thump.
Weak, slow. Barely holding on.
His own heart matched pace, syncing, pulling him forward.
"No…" Michael whispered under his breath, forcing the word out.
But the vampire didn't hear or didn't care.
Instead, he smiled wide enough to show his fangs, two neat, perfect points. "It's all right, mate," he said lightly. "There's only a few of us on this bloody ship."
"It's bloody tough eating up there," he said, jerking his chin toward the upper decks.
"All those nobles and rabid dogs poking their noses everywhere."
He lifted the unconscious child toward Michael, holding him out like an offering.
He licked his lips slowly.
"So…" His grin widened, eyes bright with something feral. "We should help each other."
Michael's breath hitched.
His stomach twisted not in disgust, but in yearning. His mouth filled with saliva, his fangs ached underneath his gums, threatening to pierce through.
He felt himself drowning in the scent. Drowning in need.
His fingers curled involuntarily, knuckles trembling with the effort to hold himself back.
The vampire watched this with amusement, raising a brow.
"What's the matter, mate?"
His voice was a dark whisper.
"Aren't you hungry?"