Southampton, England, April 10, 1912
The gleaming white superstructure of the Titanic rose like a mountain beyond the rail, its four buff-colored funnels towering against the pale spring sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewmen scurried across the decks, dwarfed by the colossal scale of the ship that promised both glory and doom.
It was almost noon on sailing day. A crowd of hundreds gathered along the pier, a restless sea of faces buzzing with excitement. Horse-drawn carriages, motorcars, and lorries crawled through the dense throng, their horns and wheels drowned beneath the chorus of laughter, farewells, and gull cries. People embraced in tearful goodbyes, waved handkerchiefs from below, and shouted blessings to loved ones leaning over the shining rails above.
The crew shouted commands while the gulls circled overhead, their cries lost in the din. The scent of salt and coal lingered thick in the mist.
"All third-class passengers with a forward berth, this way, please!" a porter called out, waving his clipboard.
Clip.. Clop... Clip... Clop
A horse-drawn wagon rolled to a halt near the edge of the pier as the driver turned slightly in his seat.
"We're here, sir."
Morbius didn't answer right away. He sat still, eyes fixed forward. His fingers rested tightly around the leather case on his lap, a case that contained the only hope he had left. Beside it was a small ventilation box with a lone, twitchy lab rat sat locked and still. Morbius exhaled slowly, his breath shaky. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and faint tremors rippled beneath his coat sleeve.
Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulled out some folded bills and handed them to the driver.
"Keep the change," he muttered without looking. "You might be the last to get anything from me."
He stepped down from the wagon, boots meeting the damp planks of the dock. The cold sea air cut into his lungs as he looked up. The Titanic loomed before him like a floating citadel, immense, immaculate, and almost defiant. The name itself shimmered in gold letters across her bow, a declaration of mankind's arrogance and ambition.
Michael adjusted his collar and began walking toward the line of passengers with the quiet determination of a man heading into battle. His breathing came unevenly, and his hand occasionally brushed the small injector clipped to his belt, the only thing that calmed his convulsions when they flared.
Dockworkers shouted over the churning water, hauling crates and luggage. Steam hissed from valves, and the ground trembled faintly under the ship's heartbeat. Morbius barely noticed all of this as his eyes were fixed on the boarding ramp.
From behind, the crowd stirred. A white Renault, followed by a silver-gray Daimler-Benz, pushed through the throng with practiced arrogance. People turned to stare as the elegant cars came to a stop near the gangway. The Renault's door opened, and a young woman stepped out, draped in a white and lavender gown, her wide-brimmed hat crowned with a sweep of purple feathers. She carried herself with grace, though her eyes betrayed little warmth.
"I don't see what all the fuss is about," she said coolly. "It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauretania."
On the other side, her valet opened the door for Caledon Hockley, a tall, well-groomed man in his early thirties, his posture radiating wealth and entitlement.
"You can be blasé about some things, Rose," Cal replied smoothly, "but not about Titanic. She's over a hundred feet longer than the Mauretania, and far more luxurious. Squash courts, a Parisian café... even Turkish baths."
He turned and offered his hand to Ruth DeWitt Bukater, Rose's mother, who descended carefully from the car. Her sharp eyes flicked from the ship to Cal, her expression one of approval mixed with calculation.
"Your daughter is much too hard to impress, Ruth," Cal said.
Ruth chuckled softly, her eyes lifting toward the ship. "So this is the ship they say is unsinkable."
"It is unsinkable," Cal said confidently. "God Himself couldn't sink this ship."
A White Star Line porter hurried toward them, breathless. "Sir!"
"What?" Cal asked.
"Pardon good sir! You'll need to check your baggage through the main terminal. It's that way, sir."
Without hesitation, Cal slipped him a fiver. The porter's eyes dilate."I put my faith in you, good sir. Now kindly see my man." As he indicate his man.
"Oh, yes sir. It's my pleasure, sir. If I can do anything at all… " the porter said but was then grab by Cal's servant.
Cal breezes on, leaving the minions to scramble. He quickly checks his pocket watch. "We'd better hurry. This way, ladies."
They move into the crowd and followed him toward the first-class gangway, while Trudy Bolt, Rose's maid, struggled behind with a mountain of delicate luggage.
"My coat?" Rose asked softly.
"I have it, miss," Trudy replied, handing it over.
"Thank you"
As they moved through the bustling dock, second-class travelers brushed past, porters shouted, and carts rattled by. The air smelled of coal, perfume, and damp wood. Up above, the wealthier passengers crossed an elevated bridge to avoid the press of the common crowd.
Nearby, a line of steerage passengers waited behind movable barriers, queued for inspection. A health officer checked their hair for lice, his gloved hands methodical and impersonal.
"Honestly, Cal," Ruth sighed, "if you weren't always booking things at the last minute, we could've gone through the terminal instead of trudging along the dock like immigrants."
"All part of my charm, Ruth," Cal replied with a smirk. "At any rate, it was my darling fiancée's beauty rituals that made us late."
"You told me to change," Rose answered flatly.
"I couldn't let you wear black on sailing day, sweetpea. It's bad luck."
"I felt like black," she said under her breath.
Cal guided them aside as a wagon rolled past, stacked high with crates labeled Nevermore Marmalade.
"Here I've pulled every string to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites and you act as though you're going to your execution."
Rose said nothing. Her gaze lifted to the ship towering above them, black, severe, and beautiful in its enormity.
As they neared the first-class entrance, Rose's eyes caught sight of a man in a white coat standing near the boarding ramp. He looked different from the others—not a passenger, not quite a crewman. There was something in his expression that carried an unshakable dread.
At the top of the ramp, a steward stepped forward, glancing at him.
"Welcome aboard, Doctor."
Morbius nodded faintly and stepped onto the gangway. For a brief moment, he paused not from awe, but from instinct. His sharp eyes swept across the ship's frame, tracing every bolt, cable, and rivet. Something about the great vessel felt... final.
Before turning away, he glanced back once more. His gaze met Rose's. For a fleeting second, their eyes locked... hers curious, his distant. Then he looked away and disappeared into the crowd boarding the ship.
______
Across the bustling port, away from the cheers and camera flashes, inside a dim, smoke-filled pub, three men sat in the shadow of a corner booth.
The place smelled of salt, ale, and old wood. A gramophone croaked out a faint tune over the chatter of dockworkers spending their last wages before setting sail.
"Are you sure he's boarding that ship, Sabas?" one of them asked, his voice low but edged with disbelief.
Sabas, a sharp-featured man in a weathered leather coat, looked up from his glass. His eyes were gray, ancient almost, and heavy with something older than a lifetime.
"Do you think I'd joke about something like this?" he said, setting his drink down. "Lucian's been tracking the descendants of the third son of Alexander Corvinus for decades. And this one—" he paused, glancing toward the window where the ship's smokestacks loomed like dark pillars against the sky, "—this one's different. The Corvinus blood in him… isn't tainted. Not by vampire, nor by lycan."
The third man, a broad-shouldered figure with dark skin and eyes like obsidian, pushed back his chair and stood. "Then we should leave now, let's not make our target wait for us."
Sabas nodded, finishing his drink in one long swallow.
The three of them left the pub, their boots striking the cobblestones in unison. Outside, the air was cold and sharp, carrying the distant sound of the ship's horn.
As they passed the open door, a cheer erupted from inside. Two men, one with sun-bleached hair and a roguish grin, the other with a cap and an Italian lilt were laughing, waving a pair of second-class tickets in triumph.
"To America!" the blonde shouted, raising his ticket like a trophy.
"To the future!" his friend replied, and the pub roared in agreement.
The three strangers glanced at them briefly and shrug
Outside, the Titanic let out another long, thunderous call. The sound rolled over the city, echoing through every street and every life about to change forever.