New York City
A pallid moon light filtered through the towering windows of the executive suite, casting long, cold reflections against polished marble. The city sprawled below, engines rumbling, boilers hissing, smoke drifting from countless chimneys.
The man who owned that view, Mr. Alistair Harland, head of Harland Transatlantic Lines, the fiercest rival of White Star, stood with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His posture was immaculate, controlled… dangerous.
Behind him, two men knelt on the floor, their faces swollen and mottled with bruises. They trembled beneath the iron grip of two uniformed guards holding them down.
Harland did not turn when he spoke. His voice was low, urbane… and lethal.
"Gentlemen," he began softly, "allow me to understand this correctly."
He pivoted at last, slow and deliberate, his polished shoes clicking on the stone floor. His gaze swept over the kneeling men with the same disdain one might afford gutter rats.
"You are telling me," he said, "that you lost your tickets… in a gamble."
The terrified pair nodded quickly, their shoulders quivering.
Harland's expression did not change. It remained serenely calm which somehow made the moment more terrifying.
"And these tickets," he continued, strolling leisurely toward a mahogany table adorned with crystal decanters and expensive cigars, "were then obtained by… an Italian fellow and a blond American."
He reached the table and picked up a gleaming revolver as he tested its weight.
"And because of this, because of your indulgence in drink and chance you failed to board my rival's ship… and thus failed in the task I gave you."
The two men bowed even lower, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.
Harland exhaled once, slowly… and then the mask cracked.
With a sharp, vicious motion, he brought the butt of the revolver down across one man's face.
Bang!
A sickening crack echoed in the room.
"You fools!" Harland hissed.
The guards tightened their grip, forcing the men upright again as Harland straightened his jacket, restoring his composure with a few steady breaths.
After a moment, his tone returned to its earlier cold civility.
"Very well," he murmured, wiping a fleck of blood from his sleeve. "Tell me, are Bjorn and Olaus aboard?"
The unstruck man gulped and nodded quickly. "Y-yes, sir. Both of them, sir."
A smile, small and satisfied curved across Harland's lips.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
He leveled the revolver at the pair without ceremony.
"Then I no longer require your services."
Two sharp cracks split the morning calm.
The bodies collapsed in a heap, lifeless.
Harland produced a white handkerchief, wiping the barrel with elegant precision. He handed the revolver to a waiting guard and adjusted his cuffs.
"At least," he said with quiet satisfaction, "our monster is aboard."
A faint gleam of triumph lit his eyes. "They may now begin their… work."
______
Aboard the RMS Titanic
The air in the third-class cabin was warm and close, filled with the mingled scents of salt, worn leather, and the faint aroma of stewed potatoes drifting from the mess. A single oil lamp swung overhead as the ship gently rolled, casting shifting shadows across the cramped room.
Jack Dawson sat on the lower bunk, lacing his boots with quick, sure fingers. Fabrizio, humming a jaunty Italian tune, adjusted his suspenders in the small mirror bolted to the wall.
Across from them, seated quietly on their respective bunks, were Bjorn and Olaus, two broad-shouldered, pale-eyed men whose presence felt inexplicably heavier than the cramped cabin itself. They had barely spoken since boarding, yet their silence carried weight.
Jack grinned, slapping his knee.
"Well, gentlemen, there's a fine little gathering below deck tonight. Music, dancing, good company, just the thing to make you forget we're all packed like sardines."
Fabrizio chimed in, wagging a playful finger. "Ah, yes! A proper third-class celebration. You two should come, eh? Plenty of pretty girls. Much wine. Much laughter."
Bjorn exchanged a brief glance with Olaus, unreadable.
"We shall follow shortly," Bjorn said, his accent faint but distinct. "Go on ahead."
Jack shrugged, cheerful as ever. "Suit yourselves. If you change your minds, just follow the sound of stomping feet."
Fabrizio gave a friendly wave. "Don't take too long!"
The door shut behind them, their light footsteps fading down the corridor.
Silence settled.
Then Bjorn's expression shifted, cold. He turned to Olaus.
"Did the Lycans agree?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only the walls could bear witness.
Olaus nodded once. "They have. Their leader consents to cooperation… provided we locate the man called Morbius."
Bjorn's jaw tightened in grim satisfaction.
"Good," he murmured, rising to his feet with a fluid, predatory grace that did not belong to an ordinary man. "Then our purpose aboard this ship remains clear."
He reached for his coat, shoulders broadening beneath the fabric as if readying for a hunt.
"We should go."
Olaus stood as well, his eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light, far too sharp, too knowing.
The two men stepped out into the corridor… and the door closed gently behind them.
_____
A soft swell of conversation rolled through the First-Class Dining Saloon as the stewards cleared the previous course. Crystal glasses chimed; silverware clicked delicately. Michael had just finished offering a polite answer to one of Colonel Gracie's inquiries when the great double doors opened once more.
A small entourage entered.
Their presence did not cause commotion, but it did cause a ripple, the sort of subtle shift in atmosphere that only the very observant noticed. A few heads turned. The group walked with quiet authority, their steps measured, purposeful, their attire impeccably tailored yet strikingly modern in a way that still fit the era's eye.
Leading them was Nathaniel tall, composed, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that lent him an air of dignified scholar. Behind him walked Hester, her black gown severe yet elegant, as though she had stepped out of a funeral parlor and into a ballroom without ever being out of place. Beside her moved Dmitri, with the poise of a man accustomed to diplomatic halls and private councils. And at his other side was Varga, polite but unreadable, while Semira glided like a shadow dressed in aristocratic satin and on her side is Kraven.
They were clearly not ordinary passengers.
Nathaniel's gaze swept briefly across the saloon until it found its mark.
Michael.
A faint, warm recognition touched Nathaniel's features.
He approached the table with his group following in a respectful formation. As he drew near, several diners glanced up in curiosity Rose, Molly Brown, Madame Aubert, even Cal, though his expression hinted more at irritation than polite interest.
Nathaniel reached Michael's chair, placed one gloved hand lightly upon his shoulder, and bowed his head in a courteous greeting to the table.
"Pardon the intrusion," he said in a smooth, well-bred American tone. "Dr. Morbius."
Michael looked up "Professor."
Nathaniel gave a subtle gesture toward the open space beside them, a silent request for a word.
Then, as etiquette required, he acknowledged the others with a gentle nod.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Rose returned the nod politely. Ruth smiled. Thomas Andrews offered a courteous incline of his head. Cal barely dipped his chin.
Michael rose from his seat at once, clearly recognizing the importance behind Nathaniel's interruption.
"If you will excuse me," he said to Rose and the rest of the table, offering a small bow of apology. "There is a matter I must attend to."
"Of course, Doctor," Andrews replied, ever gracious.
Rose smiled kindly. "We shall await your return."
Cal muttered something under his breath, likely displeasure at the disruption, but he masked it with a carefully neutral expression.
Michael stepped away from the table and followed Nathaniel and his entourage toward a quieter corner of the saloon.
The moment Michael was out of earshot, the remaining diners exchanged looks curious, intrigued, even mildly unsettled.
Colonel Gracie cleared his throat.
"Well now… that was certainly unexpected."
Molly Brown leaned forward with delighted interest. "Whoever they are, they walk like folks who own the place."
Ismay adjusted his waistcoat, frowning faintly. "I cannot recall their names from the passenger list."
"They are not the usual sort," Madame Aubert murmured. "There is something… distinguished about them. Old-world, almost."
Rose watched carefully, sensing that Michael's companions were more than they appeared.
Then the Countess of Rothes, who had observed the group with a more discerning eye, lifted her glass and spoke for all to hear:
"The lady in black, the one with the severe dress is Hester Frump. She owns the Rising Frump Mortuaries, a very profitable chain of funeral establishments. Quite an influential figure in certain American social circles."
Several eyebrows rose.
Molly Brown laughed softly. "Well, I reckon she'd be the person to know if you ever needed putting in the ground with style."
A few chuckles circled the table.
"And the gentleman who addressed Doctor Morbius," the Countess continued, "is Nathaniel Faulkner, if I recognized him correctly. He is the current principal of an academy, Nevermore Academy, quite the prestigious institution in the United States. Many aristocratic families send their children there."
"I have heard of Nevermore," Andrews said thoughtfully. "A rather… specialized academy, is it not?"
"So they say," the Countess replied.
Ismay, sipping his wine, added, "The taller gentleman beside the mortuary owner, the one with the diplomatic posture. I believe I have met him previously. Dmitri Volkov, yes. Very prominent on the Eastern European social circuit. Holds considerable influence in private councils regarding trade and… other discreet matters."
Cal finally spoke, though begrudgingly. "And the others?"
The Countess studied them again, eyes narrowing shrewdly.
"The woman at the rear, the one in the elegant dark gown that must be Semira Osten, a wealthy patroness of several museums. Very private. Very well connected."
"And the man with her," The Countess added, "I cannot place him, but he carries himself like someone accustomed to giving orders, not receiving them."
Rose sat back in her chair, fascinated. "So… Dr. Morbius surrounds himself with quite interesting acquaintances."
Molly Brown chuckled. "Well, honey, he is interesting himself."
Ismay swirled his wine thoughtfully.
"I daresay," he murmured "Dr. Morbius keeps far more distinguished company than we initially assumed."
_______
Nathaniel guided Michael toward a smaller round table set just a short distance from Rose's party, close enough for polite acknowledgment, yet far enough to conduct a private discussion without prying ears. The waiters, trained to read subtle social cues, moved with swift discretion, pulling out chairs and adjusting placements as if expecting their arrival all along.
The group settled gracefully.
Nathaniel took the seat at Michael's right. Hester positioned herself with solemn poise. Dmitri and Varga sat opposite, their manner calm yet sharp. Semira took her place like a queen without needing a throne. And beside her, the last chair was filled by a refined gentleman with golden hair swept neatly back, Carlisle, warm-eyed and impossibly calm. At Carlisle's side lounged another man: dark, lean, dangerously self-assured, Kraven, dressed in dark finery that did little to civilize the arrogant aura about him.
Once all were seated, Nathaniel folded his hands and made the introductions with a measured smile.
"Dr. Morbius," he began with refined clarity, "I would ask that you meet my compatriots, as each has desired your acquaintance."
He gestured first to the diplomat-like man. "Dmitri Volkov — a man of considerable influence on the Eastern councils."
Dmitri inclined his head lightly.
"A pleasure, Doctor."
Next, Nathaniel indicated the quiet, observant figure beside him. "Varga Danesti — a gentleman of old lineage and firm prudence."
Varga offered a courteous nod.
Then Nathaniel motioned toward the elegant woman whose very presence bent the candlelight. "Semira Osten — a patroness of the arts and protector of cultural estates."
Semira's lips curved faintly.
"An honor, Doctor Morbius."
"And here," Nathaniel continued, placing a hand gently upon the shoulder of the blond gentleman, "stands Carlisle Cullen, a physician of remarkable compassion."
Carlisle inclined his head, his voice thoughtful. "I have long wished to meet you, Doctor."
"And lastly—" Nathaniel's tone shifted subtly as he gestured to the man lounging beside Carlisle, "—Kraven. He has joined us for… broader interests in tonight's discussion."
Kraven's eyes, sharp and predatory, pinned Michael briefly. "A pleasure"
Before Michael could respond, a steward approached with perfect timing.
"Your wine, madams and sirs."
Crystal glasses were set before each guest, rich red liquid swirling with a thick glimmer as it caught the golden light. All except Nathaniel and Hester, who received a different bottle entirely, one of pale gold, bubbly, unmistakably champagne.
Michael lifted his glass absently.
And froze.
Something in the scent faint, metallic, unmistakable, tugged at a deep, primal recognition in his altered cells.
Across the table, Dmitri inhaled deeply through his nose with appreciation.
"Aah…" he murmured with pleasure. "What an exquisite smell."
Kraven took his own glass, swirling the red liquid slowly. His voice came low, deep, probing.
"You smell… unique, Doctor," he remarked casually. "Quite unlike any ordinary man."
Michael stiffened a fraction, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.
Nathaniel merely smiled.
"Yes," he said, directing his words to the table, "Dr. Morbius possesses talents beyond the ordinary."
He tapped a fingertip lightly against his own champagne flute.
"In fact, gentlemen… and lady… the very drink you now enjoy, the one you praise so readily is of his creation."
Michael blinked.
"My creation?" he echoed, startled. "What do you—"
Nathaniel nodded toward the crimson liquid in Michael's own hand.
"The synthetic blood, Doctor," he said with soft emphasis. "The formula that has already begun to change the impossible into the practical."
The table hummed with subtle approval a symphony of impressed murmurs, interested stares… and a few hungry smiles.
Michael looked down at his glass.
The rich, red, viscous "wine."
And realization struck him like a plunge into icy water.
He was holding blood.