The scream tore me from a deep, dreamless sleep. It was raw, terrified, and dangerously close, the kind of sound that carved straight into the spine and refused to let go.
For half a second, I didn't know where I was. The ceiling above me was too white, the air too cold, the distant hum of the ship's engines vibrating faintly through the mattress like a heartbeat beneath metal ribs. Then the scream came again—muffled this time, strangled at the end—as if a hand had clamped over the source.
My body moved before my mind fully woke up. I flung the blanket aside, feet hitting the carpeted floor, and yanked the door open. The hallway outside was dimly lit by soft amber lights that did nothing to warm the sterile silence. I ran, barefoot, the cold air biting at my skin as I followed the echoing remnants of the shriek.
The corridors of the Velaris twisted and branched like veins, all identical polished walls and framed photos of smiling tourists who had no idea what people like me saw in the shadows of the world. I navigated on instinct, following the faint tremor of panicked voices and hurried footsteps, until I turned a corner and nearly collided with a wall of bodies.
A crowd had gathered at the far end of the corridor, clustered like a living barricade in front of Room 512. Guests stood frozen in their nightclothes, slippers half-on, faces ghostly pale under the yellow lights. Some were whispering, some praying under their breath, and some were openly weeping, clutching each other as if the ship itself had begun to sink.
The atmosphere was heavy. Suffocating. Fear had a smell on ships like this—stale air, sweat, and the faint chemical tang of cleaning agents that suddenly seemed inadequate.
I pushed my way through the crowd, my detective instincts taking over like something cold settling over my thoughts.
"What happened here?" I demanded, my voice slicing through the low murmur.
A trembling guest near the door turned to me, his eyes too wide, pupils blown with shock. His lips quivered as he forced himself to speak.
"Someone..." he whispered hoarsely. "Someone died in this room."
For a heartbeat, everything fell silent—the crowd, the distant music from the upper deck, even the thrum of the engines seemed to fade. In that suspended moment, all I could hear was my own pulse roaring in my ears and the faint creak of the ship's frame.
Room 512.
The brass numbers on the door glinted dully under the flickering corridor light, like a row of teeth in a mocking smile.
And as I stared at that door, the events that had led me here—the invitation, the island, the murder that wasn't supposed to happen—came rushing back in a cold, relentless wave.