꧁🌸🩰 You Do Your Way Now Let Me Do Mine🩰🌸꧂

✧ Date: April 11, 1912

✧ Clock Time: 7:00 AM – 2:00 PM

✧ Slang/Terminology: Palooka (A clumsy, oafish, or easily defeated person.) Flummoxed (Utterly bewildered, confused, or perplexed.) High-flier (A person of high social status, wealth, or ambition.) Buck-o (A cheeky or headstrong young man.) Grover (An elite butler or top-tier domestic servant.) The Gutter (How the upper classes describe the lower-deck accommodations.)

[7:00 AM — Third-Class Sector, Cabin G-24]

The morning did not arrive with the gentle, amber glow of a high-society sun rising over the horizon. Instead, it fractured into (Y/N)’s consciousness like the sharp splintering of green glass.

Her eyelids felt as though they had been stitched shut with heavy linen thread, and her tongue was dry, coated in a thick, metallic bitterness that made her throat swell with an instantaneous wave of nausea. The ceiling—a low-hanging grid of riveted steel beams painted a stark, utilitarian white—was moving. It wasn't a violent shake, but a slow, sickening, rhythmic tilt that immediately sent a localized earthquake through her equilibrium.

Where... where am I?

She shifted her head, a soft groan catching in her chest as her brain scrambled to piece together the fractured geometry of her broken memories. The last definitive image her mind possessed was the deep velvet sanctuary of the First-Class library. She remembered the green emerald lamps. She remembered the terrifying, breathless proximity of the masked man—the strange, elegant creature whose eyes had burned with an almost ethereal intensity behind a shield of black silk. Then, the illusion had shattered. She remembered the harsh, booming shouts of the night watchmen, the blinding sweep of their electric torches, and the sheer, unadulterated panic that had driven her to run.

She remembered descending into the dark auxiliary stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She remembered colliding with a solid wall of warmth—people. Shadows in the narrow crew corridor. The violent, acidic lurch of her stomach... and then nothing. Just a vast, cold expanse of absolute blackness.

Before she could even begin to contemplate how her limp, unconscious body had miraculously migrated from the upper decks back down into the depths of the ship, a piercing, high-pitched noise shattered the silence of the room.

"WAKE UP! Wake up, everyone! If we miss the first sitting for the Third-Class galley, we’ll be stuck eating the leftover porridge and cold mutton! Wake up!"

Maeve’s loud, boisterous voice cut through the small cabin like a rusty saw. She was already on her feet, her red hair a wild, chaotic cloud around her freckled shoulders as she vigorously shook a metal wash-basin to maximize the noise.

"Ugh... too loud. Zu laut..." a small, miserable whine echoed from the lower bunk opposite (Y/N).

Elsa, her porcelain face buried deep into the thin mattress, clutched her worn porcelain doll to her chest like a shield against the morning light. She spoke in her broken, hesitant English, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she rubbed them with the back of her small fist, looking for all the world like an overgrown baby. "It is... too bright, Maeve. The sun is a monster today..."

With her blonde hair standing up in a spectacular, birds-nest display of pure bed-head, Elsa slowly, begrudgingly dragged her small frame out of the sheets. She didn't even look at the wash-basin. Instead, she wandered across the small floor space like a heat-seeking missile, her small fingers immediately latching onto the silk sleeve of Madame Mei Lin’s morning robe. She buried her face directly into the older woman's side, becoming instantly, hopelessly clinging.

Madame Mei Lin did not flinch. She was already fully dressed in a crisp, high-collared dark tunic, her silver-streaked hair swept back into a flawless, unyielding bun that defied the very movement of the Atlantic Ocean. In her elegant, steady hand, she held a steaming porcelain cup filled to the brim with a dark, aromatic blend of warm tea and bitter traditional herbs.

"Maeve," Madame Mei Lin’s voice rang out—not loud, but possessing the sharp, unbendable weight of a velvet gavel. She didn't look up as she began to rhythmically run a fine-toothed horn comb through Elsa’s tangled blonde locks, her touch firm but practiced. "A lady does not bellow like a livestock merchant in the marketplace before the sun has even properly cleared the deck. Your manners are showing their seams, child. If you cannot announce breakfast with the proper etiquette, you will find yourself learning how to clean the oil lanterns with the stewards."

Maeve instantly went quiet, her mouth snapping shut as she dropped the wash-basin with a sheepish, red-faced mutter.

From the top bunk, a sudden, violent rustle of bedsheets heralded a different kind of rebellion. Bridget’s face emerged from her blankets, her expression twisted into a look of absolute, unmitigated hatred.

"Shut your trap, Maeve, or I swear to the saints I’ll strangle you with your own stockings!" Bridget hissed, her sharp Irish tongue practically dripping with venom. Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed her heavy, goose-feather pillow and hurled it directly across the cabin with full force. It struck Maeve square in the shoulder, sending the red-haired girl stumbling backward against the wash-stand. "Some of us were up half the bloody night dealing with... with things! I need my beauty sleep, you absolute palooka!"

Beside Bridget, tucked deep into the corner of the berth, Mina remained completely dead to the world, her mouth slightly open as she let out a low, rhythmic snore that ignored the entire chaotic display.

(Y/N) swallowed hard, the movement causing a sharp spike of pain behind her temples. She needed to find her book. The Gray’s Anatomy text. If Madame Mei Lin found out she had taken it out of the room—or worse, if she discovered it was missing entirely—there would be an interrogation that no amount of clever vocabulary could save her from.

With a trembling breath, (Y/N) shifted her weight, intending to swing her legs over the wooden edge of the bunk. But her nervous system flatly refused to cooperate. The lingering effects of the severe panic attack, combined with the toxic, draining toll of the seasickness, had turned her muscles into heavy, unresponsive lead. The room gave a sudden, sharp lurch as the Titanic cut through a cresting wave.

Her balance vanished. (Y/N) slipped right out of the berth, her body falling straight toward the hardwood floor with a massive, echoing THUD that shook the small wash-stand.

"Oh, good heavens!" Maeve shrieked, dropping her morning rag.

"Doctor!" Elsa cried, her grip tightening on Madame Mei Lin’s waist as she stared down with wide, startled eyes.

But from the top bunk, Bridget let out a sharp, mocking snort, a cruel smirk instantly spreading across her freckled face as she looked down at (Y/N)’s srawled form. "Well, look at that. The grand scholar can calculate the stars but can't even manage to stand on her own two pins. Beautiful drop, that was."

(Y/N) ignored her, her cheek pressed against the cool wood of the floor as her hands frantically swept the narrow space under her bed. Where is it? Where is the book? It wasn't there. The empty space beneath her mattress offered nothing but dust and the cold iron frame.

Madame Mei Lin slowly lowered her teacup, her dark, piercing eyes locking onto (Y/N) with a calculation that was far more terrifying than any watchman’s lantern. She patted Elsa’s head gently, her expression softening for a fraction of a second as she spoke to the clinging blonde girl in a low, soothing tone, using a soft Cantonese endearment. "Siu-mui, go with Maeve and Bridget to the galley. Take the doll."

"But Madame—" Elsa whined, her lower lip trembling like a toddler's as she tightened her arms around the older woman.

Madame Mei Lin reached down, softly kissing Elsa’s forehead before patting her behind with a gentle but firm finality. "Go. The fresh air on the lower deck will wash the sleep from your eyes. And bring back a fresh pot of hot water from the galley stove, along with some dried fruit and unbuttered bread. Move along."

Bridget practically scrambled out of her bunk, her eyes darting nervously toward the corner of the room where her own traveling bag sat. The frantic, sudden energy with which Bridget dragged a sleepy, profoundly flummoxed Mina out of bed was suspicious enough to catch anyone's attention. Bridget didn't even wait for her boots to be properly laced; she grabbed Mina by the sleeve, shoved Maeve toward the door, and practically fled the cabin as if the devil himself were chasing them.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving the cabin engulfed in a sudden, suffocating silence.

Madame Mei Lin did not move from her stool. She simply set her porcelain cup down on the small table and reached into the deep, dark folds of her heavy traveling trunk. When her hand emerged, she wasn't holding herbs or tea leaves.

She was holding the massive, leather-bound volume of Gray’s Anatomy.

(Y/N)’s breath hitched in her throat. She remained on the floor, her heart stopping entirely as the older woman placed the heavy book squarely on the small table between them.

"You are a very poor liar, (Y/N)," Madame Mei Lin said, her voice dropping into an overprotective, steel-edged tone of pure, unadulterated interrogation. "And your friends are even worse. Did you truly believe that Bridget and Tommy Ryan could drag your limp, unconscious body through that doorway at one in the morning without my knowledge?"

A sudden, vivid memory flashed through (Y/N)’s mind—a memory of the previous night that her subconscious had tried to bury. She remembered the door to G-24 bursting open in a frantic whisper. She remembered Tommy Ryan’s face slick with sweat, his breath smelling faintly of smuggled oranges, while Bridget held her legs, both of them desperately trying to concoct an absurd story about finding her "fainting from the sea air near the steerage latrines." Madame Mei Lin had stood over them like an ancient, vengeful deity, her eyes immediately spotting the stolen fruit spilling from Tommy’s pockets—a detail that had been more than enough motivation to make Bridget shut her mouth and hide the anatomy book under her own blankets until morning.

"Madame, I..." (Y/N) started, her voice raspy and weak as she tried to pull herself up against the edge of the lower berth.

"Silence," Madame Mei Lin commanded, her hand flying to her waist where her heavy, silk-ribbed folding fan hung. Crack! She snapped the fan open with a sound like a pistol shot, her gaze drilling into (Y/N)’s soul. "You went to the upper decks. You crossed the barriers into the First-Class sectors. Do you have any understanding of what they do to colored women found wandering among the high-fliers at midnight? They do not ask for your credentials. They do not care about your desire to study medicine. They throw you into the ship’s brig and leave you to be processed as a thief at the docks in New York."

"I was only trying to read," (Y/N) protested, her inner child suddenly flaring up through her exhaustion, her jaw tightening with a stubborn, defensive pride. "The light down here is too dim, and the books they give us are nothing but garbage. I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't steal anything."

"You risked your life for paper and ink," Madame Mei Lin countered, her tone a fierce mix of tough love and deep-seated fear for the girl’s safety. "And you return to this room smelling of sickness and fear, with your mind completely out of it. You will not hear any more of my lectures today because your punishment has already been decided."

Madame Mei Lin reached for a secondary jar on her shelf, pouring a thick, dark, viscous liquid into a small tin cup. The scent that immediately rose from the brew was wretched—sharp, sulfurous, and smelling of boiled roots and ancient bitterness.

"Drink it," the older woman ordered, thrusting the cup toward (Y/N)’s face. "Every drop. It will settle the poison in your stomach, or it will force the rest of it out."

(Y/N) pinched her nose, her eyes watering as she lifted the tin to her lips. The moment the liquid hit her tongue, her entire body shuddered in violent revolt. It tasted like liquefied dirt and old iron. She gagged, her chest heaving as she desperately tried to force the vile liquid down her throat, her hand flying to her mouth as she reached for a small, dry crust of bread from the table to scrub the horrific taste from her palate.

"And when you are finished wiping your tongue," Madame Mei Lin said, setting a heavy stone ink-pot and a long, slender bamboo brush on the table alongside a stack of coarse gray parchment paper, "you will sit at this desk. You will write out the characters for Míngbái—to understand. One hundred times. With a steady hand. If the ink runs, you will begin again."

(Y/N) stared at the brush, then crossed her arms over her chest, her lips lifting in a sarcastic, mutinous pout. "Madame, this is ridiculous. I don't even know how to write, say, or speak that language. I am an American. My calculus doesn't require Chinese calligraphy."

Smack!

The silk-ribbed fan came down sharply against the back of (Y/N)’s knuckles. It wasn't enough to break the skin, but it stung with the precise, humiliating bite of a schoolmistress’s ruler.

"Then you will learn today," Madame Mei Lin spoke in sharp, rapid-fire Cantonese, her words a torrent of disciplinary authority that needed no translation to be understood. "Your mind is too busy running toward things that do not belong to you. Sit. Write."

By the time the heavy wooden door opened again and the girls returned from the galley, (Y/N) was sitting miserably at the tiny desk, her fingers stained with fresh black ink, her hair still slightly wild as she traced the intricate, confusing strokes of the character. Every time her hand shook from the lingering vibration of the Titanic’s massive engines, Madame Mei Lin would click her tongue in deep annoyance, forcing her to crumble the parchment and begin anew.

Bridget stepped into the room first, carrying a tray of dry biscuits. The moment her eyes fell upon (Y/N)’s ink-stained fingers and her frustrated, sweating face, a sharp, delighted laugh barked from her throat.

"Look at her! The grand doctor has been turned into a schoolgirl!" Bridget laughed, nudging Mina with her elbow. "What's that you're drawing there, (Y/N)? Looks like a bunch of dead spiders on a page!"

Mina giggled behind her hand, her eyes wide with a malicious curiosity as she leaned over the desk to peer at the ink-pots. "Careful, Bridget, don't upset her. She might try to calculate the trajectory of that ink right into your face."

(Y/N) felt the heat of pure embarrassment crawling up her neck, her jaw clenching as she kept her eyes locked on the paper, her fingers gripping the bamboo brush so tightly the wood creaked.

"Quiet," Madame Mei Lin snapped, her dark eyes flashing toward the door as she silenced the room with a single look. "If your mouths are working this hard, your hands can be working just as hard on the laundry tubs on the lower deck."

But before Bridget could offer another sarcastic retort, the entire atmosphere of the cabin shifted in a single, terrifying instant.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It wasn't the chaotic, frantic banging of Tommy Ryan or the heavy, clumsy fist of a Third-Class steward. It was a soft, measured, yet incredibly stern knock—the kind of sound that belonged to a grand mahogany door in a London estate.

The laughter in the room died instantly. Bridget froze, her hand hovering over the biscuit tray, her eyes darting toward Madame Mei Lin. The older woman’s face went completely stone-cold, her expression hardening into a mask of pure, unyielding vigilance as she stood up from her stool, her fan closing with a slow, deliberate click.

"Stay behind me," Madame Mei Lin whispered, her voice losing every trace of its previous disciplinary heat, replaced by a cold, protective instinct that made the hairs on (Y/N)’s arms stand up.

Maeve crept forward, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the brass handle and slowly pulled the heavy wooden door open.

Standing in the narrow, dim corridor of G-Deck—a place characterized by the smell of damp wool, coal smoke, and crowded humanity—were two figures who looked as though they had been entirely misplaced by God himself.

The first man was a tall, immaculate gentleman dressed in a flawless, midnight-blue woolen coat with silver buttons, his white gloves pristine, his posture so perfectly rigid he looked like an oil painting. He was a Grover—a high-society butler of the highest order, his face a mask of supreme, professional detachment. Beside him stood a massive, broad-shouldered White Star Line security guard, his dark blue uniform pressed to a razor edge, his leather holster gleaming under the dim electric bulbs of the ceiling.

The security guard looked down his nose at the crowded cabin, his expression filled with an open, undisguised disdain for the lower-deck accommodations—the place his peers frequently referred to as the gutter.

"We are seeking the young woman known as (Y/N) (L/N)," the butler spoke, his voice soft, aristocratic, yet carrying a piercing clarity that echoed right through the metal hallway.

The silence that followed was absolute.

[7:00 AM — First-Class Sector, The Palatial Suite]

While the lower decks were freezing under the weight of routine and discipline, the upper levels of B-Deck were experiencing a very different kind of chaos.

Bill Bray walked through the double mahogany doors of the Palatial Suite’s master bedroom, his massive frame moving with a slow, deliberate caution. He had spent the last four hours conducting a highly dangerous, incredibly delicate operation in the ship's administrative offices—a feat that had required a substantial, gold-backed bribe delivered into the palm of a sympathetic First-Class chief steward. That steward, in turn, had utilized his secret personal connections with a sympathetic Third-Class deck steward to locate and sneak a brief, forbidden glance at the highly guarded Third-Class passenger ledger.

Bill had the paper in his pocket. He knew exactly where Cabin G-24 was.

But as he stepped into the lavishly appointed bedroom, the sight that met his eyes made the towering bodyguard halt in his tracks, a low, rumbling chuckle rising from his chest.

Michael was fast asleep. But he hadn't managed to make it into the massive, silk-sheeted bed.

The young performer was sprawled across the thick Persian rug at the foot of the mattress in the most absurd, comically tangled position imaginable. His long, black velvet traveling robe was twisted completely around his legs like a cocoon. One of his arms was thrown over his face to shield his eyes from the morning sun, while his other hand was still loosely curled around a half-chewed graphite pencil.

The floor around him was an absolute battlefield of creative madness.

Dozens of sheets of expensive, heavy vellum stationery were scattered across the carpet like fallen snow. Some were crumpled into tight balls; others were covered in frantic, elegant script that had been crossed out so many times the paper was nearly black with ink. Michael had spent the entire night awake, refusing to close his eyes, driven by a stubborn, childlike intensity that Bill knew all too well.

A fond, weary smile touched Bill's lips as he looked down at the scene, a specific memory flashing through his mind. He remembered Michael as a little boy—a tiny, fiercely stubborn buck-o who would throw the most magnificent, quiet tantrums when bedtime was announced during their early performance tours. The boy would clamp his jaw shut, hide beneath his writing desk with a stack of children's storybooks, and insist with absolute gravity that he "did not get tired" and that "the stars were still awake, so he had to be awake too."

He hadn't changed a bit.

Bill walked over, his heavy boot nudging a discarded sheet of paper near the edge of the nightstand. He leaned down, picking up a beautifully bound, pristine new edition of Percy Bysshe Shelley's poetry—the replacement book Michael had demanded they procure from the ship's first-class gift salon the moment the shops opened at dawn.

Tucked inside the volume was a small, delicate watercolor illustration Michael had torn from an expensive botanical text from the ship's private collection. He had spent an hour analyzing the drawing, holding it up to the light while questioning Bill with an intense, naive earnestness: "Bill, look at this. Do you think they have this specific white rose in the Verandah Café's conservatory? Can we just go down there and pick one from the bushes? It has to be perfect, Bill. It has to look like the moon." Bill had simply raised a heavy eyebrow, dryly reminding him that they were on a steamship in the middle of the freezing North Atlantic, not walking through a meadow or an open-air flower shop in Gary, Indiana.

Now, Michael let out a soft, breathy snore, his slender shoulders shifting slightly against the rug as the morning light caught the dark, messy curls of his hair.

"Wake up, Mike," Bill said, his deep voice a low rumble as he carefully tapped the toe of his boot against Michael's hip. "Get up off the floor before your brothers come in here and see you looking like a fallen stoker."

Michael stirred, his long eyelashes fluttering open as he let out a dramatic, drawn-out yawn, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a sleepy child. He sat up quickly, his blanket of velvet robe falling away as his eyes immediately locked onto Bill’s face with a sudden, electric intensity.

"Bill! Did you find her? Did you get the ledger?" Michael asked, his voice instantly clear, devoid of any sleep-haze as he scrambled to his knees on the rug.

Bill let out a weary grunt, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. "I got it. Cabin G-24. Deep down in the lower levels. It wasn't cheap, Michael, and if your father sees the ledger discrepancies—"

"Thank you, Bill! Oh, thank you!" Michael cried, a brilliant, childlike smile illuminating his face as he snatched the paper from the bodyguard's hand. He immediately reached for the beautifully wrapped poetry book on the desk, his fingers smoothing down a neat, perfect satin bow he had spent thirty minutes tying. Beside it lay a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with expensive wax, containing the poetic, deeply reverent masked letter he had written and rewritten until his fingers were bruised.

"I already sent the Grover down with the security escort," Bill said, his tone turning serious, warning. "They’re delivering it directly to her door now. But Michael... you need to understand something. By sending a first-class butler and a line guard down into the steerage cabins, you are drawing a massive amount of attention to that girl. A minority colored woman down there... people are going to talk. The stewards are going to watch her. You might think this is a fairytale, but out there in the real world, this kind of attention can be a very dangerous thing."

Michael’s smile faltered slightly, his large eyes shifting to the silver ocean outside the window. He held his hands together, his voice dropping to a soft, determined whisper. "I know, Bill. I know what the world is like. But I have to show her that she matters. I have to show her that her voice was heard."

[8:15 AM — Third-Class Sector, Corridor Outside G-24]

Back in the dim, cramped corridor of G-Deck, the tension had reached a boiling point.

(Y/N) stood up from her desk, her legs still slightly shaky from the lingering effects of the seasickness and the horrific taste of Madame Mei Lin’s herbal remedy. She walked slowly toward the open doorway, her posture straight, her chin lifted with a quiet, defensive dignity that she had learned to cultivate whenever she was forced to face the authority figures of the white-dominated world.

Behind her, Bridget, Mina, and Maeve were huddled together in a tight knot of pure, anxious nerves. Madame Mei Lin stood like an iron sentinel at (Y/N)’s shoulder, her face a completely unreadable, stone-cold mask of absolute vigilance.

The immaculate First-Class butler did not step across the threshold into the small cabin. To do so would be to defile his polished leather boots with the dust of the lower decks. Instead, he maintained his perfect, aristocratic distance, his cold blue eyes scanning (Y/N)’s ink-stained fingers and her simple cotton shift with a professional neutrality that felt like a slap.

In the hallway outside, the doors to neighboring cabins were clicking open one by one. Heads were popping out into the narrow space—Irish laborers, Swedish families, and English immigrants all crowding the corridor, their voices rising in a sudden, intense wave of low, frantic whispering.

"What's a First-Class Grover doing down here?" "Look at her... the colored girl. Did she steal something from the upper suites?" "I knew she didn't belong here... always carrying those massive books around like she's a proper lady..."

The whispers cut through the air like small knives, drawing an immense, unwanted amount of attention to (Y/N)’s presence on the ship. The heavy security guard noticed the gathering crowd and turned his head, his sharp, menacing gaze sweeping across the corridor with a cold, unyielding authority that instantly caused the onlookers to fall silent, their heads ducking back into their rooms but their ears remaining pressed firmly against the wood.

The butler bowed his head by a fraction of an inch—a gesture of respect so subtle it was almost invisible.

"Miss (L/N)," the butler spoke, his voice carrying the distinct, polished weight of high society. "I have been instructed by a gentleman of the upper decks to deliver this item directly into your personal safekeeping. There is no requirement for a response."

With a fluid, practiced movement, the butler extended his white-gloved hands.

Resting within his palms was a magnificent sight that made every girl in the cabin gasp. It was a pristine, heavy calfskin volume of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry—the exact same book (Y/N) had longed to read in the library, but this copy was brand new, its edges gleaming with fresh, brilliant gold leaf that caught the dim corridor light like a small treasury. The book was wrapped in a beautiful, thick satin ribbon tied into a perfect, symmetrical bow.

Resting on top of the leather binding was a heavy, cream-colored envelope made of the finest high-society vellum paper, sealed with a dollop of deep crimson wax. And beside the envelope lay a single, perfectly preserved white rose, its petals so flawless and white they looked as though they had been carved from the purest winter snow.

(Y/N)’s hands trembled as she reached out, her ink-stained fingers carefully taking the heavy weight of the gifts from the butler's white gloves. The scent of the rose immediately filled her senses—sweet, fresh, and carrying the crisp, clean aroma of a world far above the coal smoke of Steerage.

"Good day, Miss," the butler said simply.

Without another word, the immaculate gentleman turned on his heel, his midnight-blue coat billowing slightly as he and the massive security guard began their rapid, hurried ascent back toward the upper decks, clearly eager to escape the suffocating air of the lower cabins as quickly as possible.

The heavy wooden door of G-24 clicked shut, and the room instantly erupted into an absolute frenzy of sound.

"OH MY GOD!" Maeve shrieked, her hands flying to her cheeks as she practically leaped across the floor, her eyes wide with a frantic, delirious excitement. "A secret admirer! (Y/N), you have a secret admirer from First Class! Look at that ribbon! Look at that rose! It’s like something out of a penny-dreadful novel!"

Elsa abandoned Madame Mei Lin’s side entirely, dropping her doll onto the bunk as she danced around (Y/N)’s skirt, her small face illuminated with a pure, childhood wonder. "Doctor! Doctor has a prince! A beautiful white rose! Who is it? Is he a lord?"

"Stop it! Both of you, shut your traps!" (Y/N) cried, her face burning with a deep, violent blush as she immediately went on the defensive, clutching the heavy book against her ribs as if trying to hide the gold leaf from their prying eyes. "I don't have a prince! I don't know anyone from First Class! I’ve never met a lord in my entire life! This... this must be a mistake. A delivery error."

From the upper bunk, Bridget let out a loud, mocking scoff, though her sharp eyes were narrowed into a look of absolute, deep-seated disbelief and toxic jealousy. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wooden frame as she stared down at the pristine calfskin book.

"A mistake? Don't make me laugh," Bridget sneered, her voice dripping with a bitter, defensive malice. "First-Class grovers don't make mistakes with room numbers, (Y/N). They probably just want a new servant for their suites. Or maybe one of those rich toffs wants a bit of amusement—a bit of dark entertainment to pass the time on the ocean. You truly think some wealthy aristocrat looks at a colored girl from the gutter and sees a lady? It’s a joke. A cruel joke."

Mina nodded in fierce agreement, her lip curling in a nasty smirk. "Exactly. Probably some young drunkard who thinks it's funny to play tricks on the steerage passengers. Don't go filling your head with grand ideas, scholar."

"That is enough!"

Madame Mei Lin’s voice boomed through the small cabin like a clap of thunder, instantly silencing both Bridget and Mina. The older woman stepped forward, her hand moving with a lightning-fast, commanding precision as she snatched the heavy, cream-colored envelope straight out of Maeve’s reaching fingers and placed it firmly back into (Y/N)’s hand.

"You are all behaving like brainless children in a common alleyway," Madame Mei Lin said, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, protective fury as she stared down the mean girls. "What happens in this room is none of your concern. If I hear another word of this gossip outside this door, I will ensure that your breakfast privileges are revoked for the remainder of the voyage. Get your shawls and go out to the deck. Now."

Bridget let out a sharp, angry huff, but she didn't dare defy the older woman's iron authority. She grabbed her woolen wrap, shoved past Maeve, and slammed the cabin door behind her, Mina trailing close behind like a faithful shadow. Maeve and Elsa lingered for a second, their eyes still wide with lingering excitement, but a sharp, warning look from Madame Mei Lin sent them scurrying out into the corridor as well, leaving the room silent once more.

Madame Mei Lin turned her gaze back to (Y/N). The stern, disciplinary anger was gone, replaced entirely by a profound, skeptical gravity that made the older woman’s shoulders look incredibly heavy. She looked at the expensive calfskin binding, the pristine white rose, and then at the crimson wax seal on the envelope.

"A book like that would cost an arm and a leg for a woman of my standing to buy in London," Madame Mei Lin spoke softly, her voice carrying a deep, unyielding curiosity. "And first-class servants do not descend into G-Deck for a drunken joke, (Y/N). They value their positions too highly."

She walked over, her long fingers gently touching the single letter printed on the wax seal—a clean, elegant, capital "M."

"Now," Madame Mei Lin said, her dark eyes locking onto (Y/N)’s pale, anxious face with an absolute, unbendable focus. "Tell me the truth. What really happened to you in that library last night? And who is this mysterious Mr. M?"

[9:30 AM — Third-Class Sector, Cabin G-24]

(Y/N) swallowed the lump of anxiety rising in her throat, her thumb gently tracing the smooth, cool edge of the crimson wax seal. The scent of the white rose was a sweet, persistent weight in the small cabin, a fragment of high society that refused to be ignored.

"I told you the truth, Madame," (Y/N) whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she sat back down at the narrow wooden desk, her ink-stained fingers resting against the heavy vellum of the envelope. "I was only trying to find a quiet place to read. The library was empty... or at least, I thought it was. But then he was just... there."

"The man in the mask," Madame Mei Lin stated, her voice flat, her arms crossed over her chest as she stood over the girl like an ancient judge. "The one Bridget and Tommy mentioned when they brought you in."

"Yes," (Y/N) said, her eyes drifting down to the paper as the memory vividy recreated itself behind her eyelids. "He didn't speak like the other toffs, Madame. He wasn't loud or arrogant. He was... soft. Gentle. He wore a mask of black silk that covered his face, but his eyes... they looked so lonely. We talked about the human brain. We talked about how the nerves send signals to the heart, how the body can't lie even when the mouth tries to."

She let out a small, breathy sigh, her fingers tightening around the envelope. "He tried to give me his book—a volume of poetry. But then the guards shouted from the upper balcony, and I panicked. I ran because I knew what would happen if they caught me up there. I dropped my anatomy text, and I must have dropped his book too when I fell into Tommy's arms."

Madame Mei Lin remained silent for a long moment, her sharp gaze scanning (Y/N)’s face for any sign of deception. Slowly, the older woman reached down, her long finger tapping the crimson wax seal.

"Open it," Madame Mei Lin commanded softly. "Let us see what your mysterious gentleman has to say for himself."

With trembling fingers, (Y/N) carefully slipped her thumb beneath the thick paper flap, breaking the wax seal with a sharp, clean crack. She pulled out a single sheet of heavy, gold-rimmed vellum. The handwriting inside was magnificent—fluid, elegant, yet possessing a frantic, energetic rhythm that seemed to dance across the page in a flurry of sweeping loops and sharp, precise strokes.

She began to read the words aloud, her voice a low, hesitant whisper in the quiet room:

To the Lady of the Library, The stars over the Atlantic are bright tonight, but they lack the sharp, beautiful clarity of the logic you shared with me under the green lamps. You told me that the nerves do not lie—that the human heart and the human brain are bound by a calculus that cannot be altered by the rules of men. You ran before the song could finish. You left your sanctuary in the dark, and in your haste, you left behind the words we shared. I could not allow the cold wind of this ocean to blow away the memory of the only intelligent, truly sweet voice I have heard since this vessel left the shores of France. Please accept this volume in place of the one that was lost in the shadows. It is my hope that these words will offer you the light that the lower decks deny you. You spoke of charity and pity, and you told me that a colored woman in Steerage has no right to touch what belongs to First Class. I write this to tell you that those words are a lie told by a cruel world. True intellect and true beauty do not possess a class, nor do they bow to the boundaries of a ship's deck. I promised you I would find a way to see you again. I am a man of my word, no matter what it takes. Yours in the silence, M.

The reading of the letter left a heavy, vibrating silence in the small cabin. (Y/N)’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes staring at the single, bold initial at the bottom of the page. The words were a direct challenge to the reality of her existence—a poetic, high-society declaration that completely ignored the dangerous social boundaries of the year 1912.

Madame Mei Lin let out a low, slow breath, her expression turning into a complex mixture of profound skepticism and maternal dread. She reached down, taking the letter from (Y/N)’s fingers and analyzing the quality of the ink.

"He is a romantic," Madame Mei Lin said, her tone sharp, warning. "A wealthy, dangerous romantic who plays with words the way a child plays with fire. He speaks of true beauty and true intellect as if the men who built this ship wouldn't throw you into the sea for simply standing on their promenade deck."

"He meant what he wrote, Madame," (Y/N) said, her voice rising with a rare, sudden heat as she stood up from the desk, her protective instinct flaring. "I felt it when he spoke to me. He isn't playing a game."

"It does not matter what he means," Madame Mei Lin countered, her voice dropping into a cold, unyielding register. "What matters is what his world will do to you if you allow yourself to be drawn into his light. You are a colored woman in Third Class, (Y/N). You are traveling to America to find a life where you can study, where you can be free from the definitions of your skin. If you allow this 'Mr. M' to turn you into a first-class scandal, your journey will end before the ship even reaches the harbor."

She thrust the letter back into (Y/N)’s chest, her dark eyes flashing with an overprotective, unbendable authority.

"Hide the book. Hide the letter. And if that butler returns to this door, you will tell him that the lady of this cabin does not accept charity from strangers. Do you understand me?"

(Y/N) looked down at the gold leaf of the poetry volume, her jaw clenching in a silent, stubborn rebellion. She didn't answer. Her fingers simply tightened around the smooth leather binding, her heart calculating a very different kind of path through the dark.

[10:15 AM — First-Class Promenade Deck]

The late morning sun finally broke through the heavy grey mists of the North Atlantic, turning the expansive wood-planked surface of the First-Class promenade into a blinding sheet of brilliant white light. Wealthy aristocrats, wrapped in heavy furs and expensive woolen coats, strolled lazily along the brass railings, their polite, empty laughter drifting over the sound of the churning sea below.

Michael stood apart from them.

He was leaning heavily against the polished teak rail near the forward section of B-Deck, his long black velvet robe replaced by a sharp, tailored grey traveling suit that made his slender frame look tall and elegant against the horizon. His dark fedora was pulled low over his brow, his large sunglasses shielding his eyes from both the glare of the water and the curious, lingering stares of the other passengers.

Beside him, Bill Bray stood like a massive, unyielding wall of muscle, his arms crossed over his chest as his sharp eyes scanned the crowd, maintaining their permanent, disciplined perimeter.

"The Grover returned a half-hour ago, Michael," Bill said softly, his deep voice barely carrying over the rushing sound of the wind against the ship’s hull. "The package was delivered directly into her hands. No complications with the line guards."

Michael didn't move. He kept his gaze locked on the silver path the sun was cutting across the black ocean, his fingers tracing a light, rhythmic pattern against the brass railing. A small, brilliant smile broke through his expression, the heavy melancholy that usually defined his mornings completely vanished.

"Did she look well, Bill?" Michael asked, his voice soft, high, and filled with a breathless, anxious intensity. "Did the butler say anything about how she received it?"

Bill let out a dry, amused sigh, shaking his head at the young performer's absolute, unyielding focus. "Michael, he’s a first-class butler. He doesn't stay to chat with the steerage passengers about their health. He handed over the book, he took his leave, and he came back up the stairs. But he did say one thing."

Michael turned his head quickly, his large eyes wide behind the dark glass of his sunglasses. "What? What did he say?"

"He said she was sitting at her desk, studying," Bill said, a small, knowing smile touching his own lips as he looked at the boy. "Her fingers were covered in fresh black ink. Looks like your lady of logic doesn't stop working just because the sun comes up."

Michael let out a soft, delighted chuckle, his shoulders relaxing as he turned back to look at the sea. The image of (Y/N) sitting in her small, crowded cabin, her sharp mind defying the limitations of her deck, filled him with a deep, emotional warmth that he hadn't felt in years.

"She’s going to be a doctor, Bill," Michael whispered, his voice ringing with a fierce, absolute pride. "A real doctor. And I’m going to see her again. I don't care how many barriers they put between the decks. I’m going to find a way."

Bill Bray looked out at the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Atlantic, his expression turning serious as the weight of the world settled back into his thoughts. "Just be careful, Michael. The higher you fly, the harder the fall if the wind changes."

But Michael wasn't listening to the warning. His mind was already calculating the distance between First Class and the deep, silent world of Steerage, his heart beating to the rhythm of a song that had only just begun.

[12:00 PM — First-Class Verandah Restaurant/Cafe]

A sudden, sharp pinch to the meat of his thigh jolted Michael straight out of the heavy, suffocating fog of his own mind.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," a voice hissed.

Michael blinked rapidly, his vision clearing to reveal the gleaming, sunlit expanse of the First-Class Verandah Restaurant. The opulence of the room was almost blinding—white-paneled trellises covered in climbing ivy, the crisp clink of fine bone china, and the soft, synchronized glide of white-gloved waiters carrying silver platters of poached eggs and kippered herrings.

"Look at him," Marlon snickered from across the table, leaning over his plate of bacon. "Our esteemed Maestro of Melody is drooling all over the linen. Did the sea air make you soft, Mike?"

Michael rubbed his eyes nervously, a cold sweat pricking at his hairline. His heart was still hammering against his ribs from the memory of the previous night in the library (The hidden door, the cryptic files, the weight of the secrets he, Bill, Jackie, and Marlon had uncovered.) He risked a side glance. Bill Bray was staring fixedly into his black coffee, his knuckles white against the porcelain cup, while Jackie and Marlon suddenly looked very interested in their silverware, their shoulders stiff with a mutual, unspoken terror.

"Michael, dear," Katherine whispered, her voice laced with maternal anxiety as she leaned closer from his left. Beside her, Elizabeth Taylor lowered her teacup, her famous violet eyes searching his pale face with deep concern. "Did you not sleep a wink last night? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I... I'm fine, Mother," Michael stammered, his voice pitching slightly higher in his panic. He forced a weak, boyish smile, trying to smooth down his rumpled waistcoat. "I just... I stayed up far too long reading that new compilation of European classical arrangements. The sheet music was so intricate, I lost track of the hours. My eyes are just tired from the dim lamplight."

It was a believable lie. Everyone at the table knew Michael could get hopelessly lost in music for hours. Katherine sighed with relief, but before she could speak, a heavy, authoritative hand clapped down firmly on Michael's shoulder.

Joseph sat forward, his expression carved from granite. "Then you need to straighten up and take some pride in your appearance, boy," Joe growled in a low, dangerous rumble that made Michael’s stomach drop. "You are in public. The press might not be on this ship, but the wealthiest eyes in the world are. Act like you belong here. Furthermore, we have exceptional guests joining us for breakfast and the midday tour of the vessel. Try to show some life."

Michael didn't care. He picked up his fork and began listlessly pushing a piece of smoked salmon around his plate, his mind drifting back to the mysterious girl from the Third Class—the one whose medical textbook he had returned.

Suddenly, the ambient chatter of the restaurant died down to a sharp, collective intake of breath.

The double doors of the Verandah Restaurant swung open with a theatrical flourish, and into the room walked Elvis Presley, beside his pristine, porcelain-skinned wife, Priscilla. They moved with the unshakeable, magnetic grace of absolute royalty. Elvis wore a perfectly tailored dark wool suit, his jet-black hair immaculate, an aura of immense wealth, power, and masculine beauty radiating from him. The aristocrats at the surrounding tables stopped chewing, their forks suspended mid-air, as appreciative whispers rippled through the room.

"My word, it's the Sovereign of Memphis..."

"Look at her gown... sheer perfection..."

But the real shockwave followed just a step behind them. Emerging into the light was a poised, slightly moody Lisa Marie Presley.

At the sight of her, several young gentlemen at neighboring tables nearly spilled their tea. She was the sole heiress to the vast Presley fortune—a girl whose face the world had only glimpsed in rare, protected childhood photographs. Now, she stood before them as a young woman of striking, haughty beauty, her dark eyes sharp, her posture radiating an aloof, untouchable power.

Beside Joseph sat Thomas Andrews, the Chief Designer of the ship, and J. Bruce Ismay, the Managing Director of the White Star Line. Both men immediately stood up to greet the newcomers.

"Ah, Mr. Presley!" Ismay beamed, puffing out his chest with corporate pride. "You arrive just as we are discussing the sheer majesty of our vessel. Titanic—derived from the Titans of Greek mythology, quite literally meaning 'Gigantic.' She is not merely a ship, sir. She is an unsinkable fortress of steel, designed to cross the Atlantic at speeds that will leave the old world in the dust!"

Michael didn't look up. He kept his eyes glued to his plate, his fork turning the salmon over and over.

"Michael," Elizabeth Taylor whispered sharply under her breath, giving his elbow a firm nudge. "The Presleys are here. And your father is looking right at you."

The mention of Joseph made Michael snap to attention. He raised his head in a sudden panic, his eyes darting across the table and locking directly onto Lisa Marie’s gaze.

For a second, the sheer, aristocratic beauty of her face caught him off guard, and a soft, betraying blush crept up his throat. But Lisa Marie did not smile. She gave him a freezing, entirely emotionless stare, her eyes tracking the slight unevenness of his heavy facial powder.

With a look of supreme boredom, she rolled her eyes, snapped open an ornate silk fan, and covered her mouth, turning her head away. Michael felt the sting of the rejection instantly; he nervously averted his gaze, his chest tightening as Elvis and Joseph exchanged boisterous, proud greetings, while Katherine and Priscilla began politely discussing Paris fashions and their children's tutors.

"Introduce yourselves, boys," Joseph commanded, his eyes boring into Michael when the young man remained silent.

To break the suffocating, awkward quiet, Lisa Marie lowered her fan, her voice carrying a bold, slightly mocking edge. "Well, Mr. Joseph... your boy Michael certainly looks different from when we were children. He’s much quieter now. And... lighter."

Michael swallowed the lump of bile in his throat. "It's... it's nice to see you again, Lisa," he murmured, forcing a polite nod. "You look very beautiful. Quite a change from our first meeting."

Beneath the polite veneer, a dark, unpleasant memory flashed through Michael’s mind. They had met briefly as children at a private estate in the south—a meeting dictated by the rigid, cruel social and racial hierarchies of the early 20th century. Michael remembered his skin being much darker then, his youth marked by the harsh reality of segregation. He remembered the wealthy white children giggling behind their hands, and he remembered Lisa Marie, a spoiled child of immense privilege, pointing at his darker skin and calling him "peculiar," using ignorant, xenophobic playground slurs to mock his heritage and his family's rapid rise from poverty.

Flashback: A Childhood Meeting (1898)

They had met in a manicured garden in New York during a high-society gala. Michael had been a darker-skinned, wildly talented boy, already labeled an "eccentric prodigy," while Lisa was the darling child of Southern aristocracy. She had refused to shake his hand, hiding behind her father's coat.

"Why is his skin so dark and dusty?" she had whispered loudly to her nurse, pointing a childish finger. "And why does he look so peculiar, like a strange street-sweeper dressed in silk? He is weird. I do not wish to play with him."

The memory alone of that childhood rejection, rooted in the ignorant, xenophobic classism of the era, still burned.

But the waiters were walking towards the table ready to take their orders it brought back to the harsh reality of the lunch table, as Michael's hand trembled. Beneath the white linen tablecloth, he reached out and desperately squished Elizabeth Taylor’s hand. She squeezed back with fierce, protective loyalty. Michael looked across at Bill Bray, his eyes filled with a quiet, pleading misery. They both knew this day was going to be an agonizingly long ordeal.

[12:30 PM — Third-Class Sector, Promenade Deck]

Meanwhile, back down on the lower decks, the atmosphere was entirely different……

After hours of being forced to scrub the floor of their small cabin and complete a stack of tedious reading assignments as punishment for her late-night disappearance, Madame Mei Lin had finally shown a shred of mercy.

"You may go to the deck for fresh air," the older woman had said, her eyes narrowing. "But you do not go alone. Maeve, Elsa—you will keep her in your sight."

"Oh, thank goodness!" Maeve cheered, practically dragging (Y/N) out of the humid companionway and up the iron stairs, with Elsa following close behind, a gentle smile on her face.

As they stepped out onto the open Third-Class Poop Deck, the crisp, biting Atlantic air hit the (Y/N)‘s face, a welcome relief from the stuffy lower decks. The deck was alive with energy—passengers from a dozen different countries were basking in the mid-morning sun, children were playing tag around the cargo hatches, and a group of men were leaning against the railing, smoking pipes and watching the endless blue horizon.

Walking ahead of them, Bridget and Mina turned around, their noses turned up in synchronized disgust. "Honestly," Bridget sneered, adjusting her cheap shawl. "I don't even know why we have to walk on the same side of the deck as her. Imagine getting caught by the Master-at-Arms on your very first night. It's embarrassing to be seen with someone so reckless."

"Ignore them," Maeve muttered, giving the Reader's arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Look! Over there!" Elsa pointed, her broken English melodic as she spotted some familiar faces near the stern.

Tommy Ryan and Fabrizio were leaning against a winch, laughing with the Italian family they had shared dinner with the previous night. When they saw the girls approaching, Tommy’s face softened significantly. He stepped away from the crowd, approaching (Y/N) with careful, discreet steps so as not to draw the attention of any crew members.

"You alright, lass?" Tommy asked in a low voice, his eyes scanning her face for any signs of distress. "No trouble from the officers after last night?"

(Y/N) smiled gratefully, keeping her voice down. "I'm okay, Tommy. Thank you... for helping me back there. And for not telling the whole deck what happened. I really appreciate you keeping my business to yourself."

"Ah, think nothing of it," Tommy said with a wink. "We working folk have to stick together. The grand gents who built this floating palace—the Andrews and the Ismays—they like to pretend they mapped out the whole world, ranking society from the top deck down to the boiler rooms. They think money makes them a better class of human."

(Y/N)’s blood boiled at the thought, her jaw tightening. "Nobody is better than anybody else, Tommy," she said fiercely, her voice rising with a quiet, dangerous passion. "I don't care how much gold they have in their pockets or what deck they sleep on. We all breathe the same air, and we all bleed the same blood. I'm going to get my education, and I'm going to work every single day of my life to change this broken system."

Tommy looked at her, utterly shocked by her intensity, while Fabrizio let out an appreciative whistle.

But the moment of empowerment was short-lived.

"Oh, listen to the grand philosopher!" Bridget’s voice shrilled from right behind them. She stepped forward, a nasty, triumphant smirk plastered across her face. She had noticed the crowd gathered around (Y/N) and couldn't stand the attention the girl was receiving. "You talk a mighty big game for someone who's secretly hoarding favors from the aristocracy!"

(Y/N) turned around, her eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about, Bridget?"

"Don't play innocent!" Bridget barked, pointing an accusing finger. "Everyone knows! Word's gone round the whole steerage deck that you received a private letter carried down by a ship's official from First Class!"

"A letter?!" Maeve gasped, her hot-headed excitement completely blinding her to the trap Bridget was setting. She grabbed onto (Y/N)’s shoulders, shaking her with pure joy. "Oh my stars! A secret admirer! A Prince Charming from the upper decks! You would never think that a handsome lord would traveled all the way down into the depths of the boat just to personally deliver a token to our room?!"

"Yes!" Elsa chimed in, nodding happily in her limited English. "The beautiful book! And the lovely white flower! A grand gift!"

The entire deck seemed to go dead silent. Dozens of Third-Class passengers gasped in shock and disbelief, staring at (Y/N) with wide, suspicious eyes.

"I heard that rumor too," one of the young Irish boys nearby muttered, crossing his arms. "Some Master-at-Arms went down to the single women's quarters last night looking for a girl. I didn't think it would be her."

(Y/N) then felt a burning, humiliating blush crawl up her cheeks. She felt trapped, exposed, and deeply uncomfortable. "It is not a romantic interest!" she yelled, stepping directly into Bridget’s face, her eyes flashing with fire. "It is absolutely none of your business what goes on in my life, Bridget! Get your nose out of my affairs and find your own!"

"Remember..." Elsa whispered sadly, tugging at (Y/N)’s sleeve, her face falling as she recalled their chaperone's strict warnings. "Remember what Madame Mei Lin said about causing trouble..."

Bridget and Mina looked at each other and burst into cruel, mocking laughter. "Oh, please," Mina scoffed. "A first-class gentleman? He probably just wanted some cheap entertainment from a steerage girl. You're just a novelty to them."

"That's enough!" Tommy roared, stepping between them, his fist clenching. "Hold your tongue, girl, and show some bloody respect!"

Maeve was practically vibrating with rage, her sleeves rolling up. "Let me at her! I'll throw hands right now—"

"No, Maeve, stop," (Y/N) commanded, putting her arm up to hold her friend back. She drew herself up to her full height, staring down Bridget with cold, absolute disdain. "It’s fine. A real, respectful woman isn't going to stoop to her pathetic level or listen to her desperate lies."

Without waiting for a response, (Y/N) spun on her heel. She quickly gathered her things—her heavy wool shawl, her textbook, and a secret, highly technical response letter she had frantically written during her morning chore break while Madame Mei Lin wasn't looking.

Her heart hammered with a sudden surge of adrenaline as a desperate plan formed in her mind. Going to the First-Class sector during the daytime was suicide, but the Second-Class library was far less guarded. If she could sneak into the Second-Class area, she might find a sympathetic steward or a mail clerk who would be willing to deliver her response to the mysterious 'M.' severely and discreetly.

At first, she hadn't known what to write. The poem he had sent her was so beautiful it had overwhelmed her, making her overthink, terrified that it was a declaration of love from a world she couldn't touch. But reality had brought her back down to earth. She had crafted a clever, intellectually sharp response using complex medical and anatomical terms to mask her vulnerability.

Slipping away from Maeve and Elsa while they were distracted by Tommy and Bridget's ongoing shouting match, (Y/N) darted down a narrow service companionway. She figured she had about fifteen to twenty minutes before anyone noticed she was gone. She ran silently through the white-painted corridors, heading upward toward the Second-Class boundaries.

But as she rounded a sharp corner leading out onto an open promenade deck, the wind caught her shawl—and without a single breath of warning, she collided violently with someone coming from the opposite direction.

Back with Michael, the midday tour had become a living nightmare.

Walking the sun-drenched A-Deck promenade with Joseph, Katherine, the Presleys, and Mr. Andrews, Michael was entirely detached. His mind was a chaotic mess until they passed a group of ship officers speaking in hushed, urgent tones with Captain Smith. Michael's sharp ears caught the words: "...Ice reports incoming... heavy bergs ahead."

The Captain merely chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "Perfectly normal for April, gentlemen. The sea is like glass. We shall see them long before we are near them."

Michael’s brow furrowed. He looked out over the vast, open deck, and then his eyes traveled to the standard rows of wooden lifeboats swinging from the davits. He began counting them. Four... eight... twelve...

"Mr. Andrews," Michael spoke up suddenly, his voice cutting through the polite chatter of the aristocrats.

Everyone stopped. Lisa Marie, who had been heavily lectured by Priscilla just minutes prior about "manners, grace, and a fine woman's duty to show respect to eligible suitors," had been trying to walk close to Michael to make a better impression. However, every time she had stepped closer, Michael had subtly changed his direction or veered to the side—an act that was incredibly rude in Lisa’s eyes, but playfully fair in Michael’s mind. Now, she stared at him with newfound curiosity.

"Yes, Michael?" Thomas Andrews asked warmly.

"There are only twenty lifeboats on this entire vessel," Michael said, his perfectionist, detailed-oriented nature taking over. His eyes were wide, intensely focused. "The capacity of this ship is at least over a thousand people. Twenty boats will only hold about half that number. Why are there so few?"

A collective gasp echoed among the group. Joseph’s face darkened instantly to a dangerous shade of crimson.

Mr. Andrews, however, let out a soft, booming laugh—not out of mockery, but out of genuine admiration for the young man's intellect. To Andrews, this wasn't an insult; it was the question of a remarkably observant, caring soul. "Ah, you have a remarkably keen eye, my boy. A true perfectionist's mind," Andrews chuckled kindly. "Michael, you see the Board of Trade regulations only require us to carry boats for 962 people. I actually designed her to carry forty-eight, but... the company felt the decks would look too cluttered. They wanted our first-class passengers to have a beautiful, unobstructed view of the sea."

Andrews smiled warmly, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder. "But do not worry, young prince. This ship is her own lifeboat. She is built with watertight bulkheads. Even in the worst-case scenario, she cannot sink."

"It is a matter of basic safety, not aesthetics," Michael murmured, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.

"Michael, that is enough!" Joseph snapped violently, stepping forward and shoving himself between Michael and the shipbuilder. Joe treated him like a fragile, misbehaving child right in front of the crew and the Presleys. "Stop asking stupid, embarrassing questions and ruining the afternoon. Keep your mouth shut."

Michael’s fists clenched so hard his fingernails bit into his palms through his gloves. He felt an roaring, white-hot fury ignite in his chest. Across from him, Lisa Marie’s eyes widened; for the first time, she saw him completely serious, his jaw set in anger, and a sudden pang of genuine sympathy shot through her at the cruelty of his father’s words. He looked at his brothers, who looked away in embarrassment. Katherine reached out a trembling hand to comfort her son, but Michael stepped back, his chest heaving.

In order to maintain a perfect public appearance and not scream at his father like a spoiled brat, Michael had to escape. "Excuse me," he choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "I... I need some air. Alone."

He stormed off down the promenade, his heart breaking under the weight of his entire life—the abuse from his father, the suffocating demands of the world, and the agonizing secret of his vitiligo skin condition. In his blind, weeping rage, Michael pulled off his leather gloves, desperately trying to use his hands to cover his face from the bright, mocking sunlight. He could feel the heavy makeup melting, patches of his true, dark skin beginning to show through the white powder.

Bill Bray and a frantic Lisa Marie immediately ran after him, trying to catch up.

Michael turned a sharp corner blindly, his eyes blurred with tears of anger—and slammed directly into none other than (Y/N) herself.

Books, paper, and shawls flew into the air, scattering across the pristine white deck.

It wasn't a romantic, cheesy, slow-motion encounter. It was a disaster.

Michael stumbled back, his hat flying off, his sunglasses clattering to the deck. He looked around in absolute horror. First-Class passengers who were strolling the deck immediately stopped, gasping and whispering loudly as they recognized the famous aristocrat.

"Is that Monsieur Michael?" "Good heavens, look at his face... what is wrong with his skin?" "What is a steerage girl doing up here on the First-Class promenade?!"

Michael looked down at his bare hands, then caught his reflection in a polished glass window. The makeup was smearing, leaving dark, stark patches exposed across his pale face. The absolute pinnacle of his anxiety, humiliation, and aristocratic pride collapsed into a single, defensive explosion of utter rage.

"Watch where you're going!" Michael snarled, his voice cracking hysterically as he looked down at (Y/N). He acted like a spoiled, terrified rich man backed into a corner. "How did someone like you even get up here?! How dare you touch me! You're probably crawling with filth! How dare you breathe the same air as us?!"

In a fit of panicked malice, Michael kicked her hand away as she reached out to gather her things, treating her as if she were a diseased, cursed creature.

(Y/N) froze, completely shocked to her very core. The venom in his voice tore through her defenses. She looked up into his face—and her jaw dropped as she realized this hysterical, cruel man was the very same 'M.' who had written her that beautiful, soulful poem.

"Michael! Oh my god, Michael!" Lisa Marie shrieked, arriving at the scene with Bill Bray. She looked at the Reader with a flash of fierce, jealous disgust. "Are you alright? Did this... this steerage brat attack you?!"

The surrounding aristocrats began to point and laugh, mocking the poor Third-Class girl who had dared to cross into their territory.

(Y/N) felt a suffocating wave of anxiety and humiliation wash over her (A feeling she hadn't experienced in years). Tears pricked the edges of her eyes. But instead of crying, she pushed Bill Bray’s helping hand away, rising to her feet on her own. She looked up at Michael with such a quiet, burning dignity and raw, intellectual fire that Michael immediately felt the sharp, agonizing sting of instant regret. The anger vanished from his eyes, replaced by horror at what he had just done.

Without a word, then (Y/N) grabbed her scattered books and her shawl, spinning around and disappearing rapidly into the gathering crowd before the Master-at-Arms or the ship's security could arrive.

"Michael, let me help you," Lisa Marie pleaded, rushing forward with a silk handkerchief, desperately trying to wipe his face and fix his smudging makeup. Neither she nor anyone else knew the truth about his condition, assuming it was just a strange accident or a reaction.

But Michael couldn't hear her. All he could hear was the mocking laughter of the crowd. All he could see was the her terrified, deeply shocked eyes staring back at him with absolute disappointment.

Bill Bray stood frozen, shaking his head in utter disbelief and shame at Michael’s sudden, cruel act of malice. As Bill looked down at the deck floor, his eyes caught a single, folded piece of paper left behind in the chaos—the secret response letter that (Y/N) had written.

Before anyone else could notice it, Bill quickly bent down, scooped up the letter, and slid it safely into the inside pocket of his coat jacket.

✧ Clock Time: 12:50 AM – 1:30 AM

[12:35 AM — The Aft Companionway / B-Deck Mezzanine]

The transition from the deep velvet sanctuary of the First-Class library to the sterile, echoing steel of the service stairwells was a descent into an industrial purgatory. (Y/N) ran. Her soft slippers slapped against the linoleum treads with a rhythmic, frantic desperation that sounded to her own ears like the hammering of a rivet gun. The Gray’s Anatomy textbook was crushed against her ribs, its rigid cloth binding digging into her skin through the thin cotton of her nightgown and shawl.

Her breath came in ragged, burning gasps. The adrenaline that had fueled her impossible escape through the wrought-iron barrier was beginning to curdle in her bloodstream, turning into a cold, toxic venom. Her vision swam. The white-painted bulkheads, illuminated by the occasional naked bulb of the crew corridors, seemed to warp and tilt at an unnatural angle.

It wasn't just the fear of the guards. It was the ship itself.

The Titanic gave a slow, ponderous roll as it adjusted its heading in the dark Atlantic swells, and (Y/N)’s stomach instantly revolted. The rich British roast beef, the starch-heavy potatoes, and the sour knot of pure terror she had swallowed when that masked man pressed the Shelley volume into her hands combined into a violent, localized storm.

"I can't... I can't breathe," she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she reached the bottom of an auxiliary staircase near the crew galley entrance.

Her spatial awareness—the sharp, mathematical intuition that had allowed her to calculate her way up into the world of the Toffs—completely vanished. The hallway spun. She was blind, suffocating under the weight of her own racing pulse. She stumbled forward, her ballet-trained balance failing as her ankle caught the edge of a raised brass weather-strip.

She braced for the impact of the steel floor, but instead, her shoulder collided with two solid, warm figures turning the corner in the dark.

"Whoa! Watch it, sister!" a sharp, familiar Irish rasp cut through the gloom.

"Hold on—blimey, is that the doctor?"

(Y/N)’s eyes flickered open for a fraction of a second. Through the haze of her failing consciousness, she recognized the freckled, suspicious face of Bridget and the lanky frame of Tommy Ryan. They were carrying a tin bucket and a handful of smuggled oranges from the lower pantry—shady characters caught in their own midnight raid. Gallows-birds recognizing a fellow traveler in the dark.

But (Y/N) couldn't explain. She couldn't even speak. The violent upheaval in her belly reached her throat. With a sickening, desperate lurch, she leaned sideways and threw up onto the pristine linoleum, her body convulsing with a violent shudder as the internal fever broke.

The physical trauma was the final blow to her overextended nervous system. Her knees turned to water. The anatomy book slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud, and (Y/N) collapsed forward into the dark, completely out-cold.

"Bloody hell!" Tommy hissed, his arms automatically catching her under the arms before her head could crack against the steel deck. He reeled back from the smell, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confusion. "Bridget, help me! She’s dead weights! She’s completely passed out!"

Bridget’s usual 'stank eye' vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp panic as she grabbed (Y/N)’s limp legs. "She’s not dead, you idiot, she’s burning up with sweat! Look at her eyes—they’re rolling! It’s the sea-sickness combined with whatever the hell she was doing up here!" Bridget looked up toward the First-Class stairs, her jaw tight. "If the stewards find us down here with a sick girl and a bucket of stolen fruit, they’ll think we poisoned her. We have to get her back to G-24 now!"

"How are we gonna explain this to Madame Mei-Lin?" Tommy groaned as they began to drag (Y/N)’s petite frame down the narrow hallway toward the Steerage bulkheads. "Mama Lin will have our heads if she thinks we let her wander into the upper decks!"

"We don't tell her a single word," Bridget hissed, her voice a sharp whisper against the vibration of the engines. "We tell her she got sick in the middle of the night and we found her in the washroom. Now lift her before the watchman turns the block!"

[12:38 AM — Inside the Library]

Back under the green emerald lamps of the library, the world had shrunk to the space between Michael’s shoulder blades and the hard mahogany shelf.

The massive, iron-hard hands that had pinned him belonged to Bill Bray. The towering bodyguard’s face was a mask of disciplined, furious tension, his large frame completely blocking Michael from the view of the staircase above. Behind him, Jackie and Marlon stood like two statues of pure anxiety, their faces pale under the flickering electric light.

"Michael," Bill rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that was louder than a shout in the silence of the library. "Are you out of your mind?"

Michael blinked, his large, soulful eyes wide with a feral, breathless panic behind his dark silk mask. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, not from fear of Bill, but from the lingering spirit of the woman who had just vanished into the shadows. "Bill... Bill, she was just here," Michael whispered, his voice high and trembling with an intensity that made his brothers exchange a worried, irritated look. "You don't understand. She... she was beautiful. Her eyes... she spoke with such authority..."

"I don't care if she was the Queen of Sheba, Mike," Jackie hissed, stepping forward and grabbing Michael’s velvet sleeve, practically dragging him away from the shelf. "The guards are on the stairs! We have to skiddoo out of here before they see the 'Prince' running around like a thief at midnight!"

"Move, Michael! Now!" Marlon muttered, his eyes darting toward the upper balcony where the beam of a flashlight was already scanning the top shelves. "This isn't a game! Father is going to kill us if this hits the papers!"

Bill Bray didn't say another word. He simply used his massive bulk to shield Michael, pushing him toward the rear exit that led to the Second-Class lounge. But Michael resisted, his leather-gloved hands digging into the edge of a reading desk. He was in a complete daze, his mind trapped in the amber light where (Y/N) had stood.

"Wait... the book," Michael murmured, his eyes sweeping the floor.

There, lying in the shadow of the walnut book-press, was the rare calfskin first edition of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry—the book she had dropped in her terror when the guards shouted. The gold-embossed letters caught the light like a small beacon of stars.

"Michael, leave the damn book!" Marlon snapped, his voice rising in an anxious pitch as the heavy stomp of the watchmen’s boots reached the bottom of the spiral staircase. "They're coming!"

"No!" Michael whispered with a fierce, sudden determination.

Before Bill could stop him, Michael dropped to his knee with the fluid grace of a dancer, his long black velvet traveling robe billowing around him like a shroud. His gloved fingers clamped around the smooth leather of the volume just as a harsh electric flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the exact spot where his head had been a second prior.

"Hey! Who's down there?" Arthur’s voice boomed from the front aisle.

"Go! Go!" Bill growled, grabbing Michael by the collar of his robe and hauling him to his feet with one hand while Jackie and Marlon pushed open the heavy brass-rimmed service door at the back of the room.

They slipped through the narrow opening in the nick of time, the heavy wood door clicking shut behind them just as the guards’ heavy leather boots entered the aisle they had abandoned. They moved like shadows through the dark service corridors, their breath hitched, until they finally crossed the threshold into the private entrance of the Palatial Suite on B-Deck.

[12:55 AM — The Palatial Suite]

The door to the suite clicked shut, and the absolute luxury of the room felt like an insult after the raw terror of the corridors.

Jackie immediately collapsed against the wall, his hands over his face, his tuxedo shirt damp with sweat. "I can't do this," he groaned, his voice shaky with anger. "Michael, you almost ruined everything! One slip-up, one guard recognizing that mask, and Joseph would have had us on the first tender back to France. We're supposed to be royalty on this ship, and you're running around the bookshelves like a stowaway!"

"Look at my shirt!" Marlon complained, tugging at his starched collar, his face flushed. "I'm sweating like a stoker in the boiler rooms! All because you wanted to read some poetry at one in the morning, Mike? That’s clap-trap! Pure nonsense!"

Michael didn't look at them. He stood in the center of the Persian rug, his fedora still low, his hands clutching the Shelley poetry book against his chest as if it were a shield against their words. His silence only infuriated Marlon further.

"Enough," Bill Bray’s voice cut through the room like a cold blade. The towering bodyguard stepped between the brothers, his expression unyielding, built of industrial Bessemer steel. "Jackie, Marlon, go to your rooms. Change out of those clothes. In the morning, you go to the washroom, you behave like nothing happened, and most importantly... you do not say a single word about this tonight to your father or your mother. Do you understand me?"

The brothers looked at Bill, then at Michael's rigid back. Realizing that Bill was the only thing standing between them and Joseph’s wrath, they muttered their agreements and retreated into their respective connecting bedrooms, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in the grand sitting room.

[1:15 AM — The Master Bedroom, Palatial Suite]

It was only Michael and Bill now.

The master bedroom was dark, save for the silver moonlight pouring through the private promenade glass. Michael had removed his fedora and the silk mask, revealing his pale, makeup-stained face and the damp curls clinging to his temples. He was sitting on the edge of the large mahogany bed, his long traveling robe still wrapped around him, his fingers tracing the gold-leaf edges of the poetry book.

Bill stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked less like a bodyguard now and more like a tired, protective father who had watched this boy grow up in the glare of a thousand flashlights.

"You want to tell me what that was really about, Michael?" Bill asked softly, his voice losing its iron edge. "You’ve done some reckless things, but running from the ship's security over a book? That’s not like you."

"I’m sorry, Bill," Michael whispered, his voice cracking as he looked down at the leather volume. He pressed it closer to his chest, his eyes softening as he remembered the fierce, intelligent gaze of the woman under the green lamp. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just... I couldn't sleep. The nightmare was so loud tonight."

Bill let out a long sigh, walking over and sitting in the leather wingback chair across from the bed. He watched the way Michael held the book—not like a piece of property, but like a treasure. "The boys said you were talking about a girl. They thought you were just playing games to distract the guards. Did you really see someone out there?"

"Yes," Michael said, a sudden, brilliant smile breaking through his exhaustion. His eyes lit up with a deep, emotional wonder that Bill hadn't seen since the tour began. "She was... oh, Bill, she was incredible. She’s going to be a doctor. C-Can you believe that? A real doctor! She was sitting there at midnight, studying the nervous system, learning how the brain and the heart send signals to each other. She told me the nerves don't lie. She was so smart, so sweet... and she didn't even care about the Toffs or their rules."

Michael let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the book's cover. "And she was so petite, Bill. She came up right about to my shoulder. I had to look down just a little bit to see her eyes... but when she looked back at me, she looked so tall. She stood so straight, like a dancer."

Bill stared at him, his brow furrowing in a comical, realistic look of disbelief. He leaned forward, rubbing his jaw. "Michael... let me get this straight. You met a girl in the dark, for less than ten minutes, while running from the night watch... and you learned her medical credentials, her height preference, and her philosophy on the human brain?" Bill let out a dry, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "You're fantasizing again, Mike. That sounds like one of those characters from the stories you read to the children."

"It’s not a fantasy!" Michael insisted, his voice rising with a rare, stubborn heat as he stood up from the bed. "It was real, Bill! I felt it. It was like... like the universe put us in that room together because we were the only two people who were lonely enough to understand the silence."

Bill’s smile softened. He was glad to see Michael in a good mood—the heavy, suffocating melancholy that usually hung over the boy during his travels seemed to have lifted, replaced by a youthful, vibrant energy. "Alright, alright. I believe you. So, who is she? Is she one of the socialite girls from the upper suites? One of the Vanderbilt party? Or maybe a wealthy girl from Second Class?"

The room went completely quiet.

The vibrant energy in Michael’s face suddenly froze. The heavy reality of the world outside their suite—the reality of the year 1912, the reality of his father’s rules, and the cruel structure of the ship—came crashing back into his mind like an iceberg breaking through glass.

Michael looked down at his white-gloved hand, then back at Bill. His voice dropped to a quiet, solemn whisper. "She wasn't from First Class, Bill. She... she was from Steerage. She lives down in the lower levels."

Bill’s expression changed instantly. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a deep, cautious gravity. He leaned forward. "Steerage? Michael, how do you know she was from Steerage? If she was in the library at midnight, she could have been anyone."

"Because I saw her skin, Bill," Michael said softly, his voice steady but filled with a deep, protective reverence. "When she reached for the book... the silk mask only showed our eyes, but her hand was bare. She had the most beautiful, rich mahogany skin. She was a colored woman."

Bill Bray stood up slowly, the gravity of the situation settling into his massive shoulders. In the early 1900s, a connection between a high-society "French-African Lord" in First Class and a Third-Class woman of color was more than a scandal; it was a social impossibility that could result in violence from the ship’s authorities.

Bill walked over to the glass promenade doors, looking out at the dark Atlantic before turning back to Michael. "Michael... you know what the world is like out there. If your father finds out you’re looking for a girl from Third Class, he’ll have her removed from the ship at the next port or worse. The guards on this ship... they don't look at people like us kindly, even with our money. A girl from Steerage? They’ll treat her like a thief."

Michael didn't flinch. He walked past Bill, stepping out onto the freezing private promenade deck. The cold wind caught his damp curls, but he didn't care. He looked up at the moon and the stars, the deep silver path cut across the black ocean mirroring the determination growing in his chest. He looked down at the Shelley poetry book in his hands, tracing the smooth leather one last time.

He turned back to Bill, his eyes burning with a fierce, unyielding light.

"I have to give her the book back, Bill," Michael stated, his voice ringing with the authority of a man who had finally found his own voice. "I want to see her again. I promised her I’d find a way."

"Michael, you don't even know her name," Bill said gently, trying to ground him. "How are you going to find her among two thousand people?"

"I remember what she told me," Michael whispered, his gaze drifting back to the dark water. "Someone like me... a colored woman in Steerage... I have no right to touch what belongs to First Class. I don't need your charity, sir, and I certainly do not want your pity." He looked back at Bill, his expression softening into a polite, pleading smile. "She thinks I look down on her. I need her to know that’s not true. Bill... please. You have to help me find her. Just help me find out which cabin she’s in, so I can send the book to her. I want to send a little gift with it... a white rose from the dining saloon, and a small letter."

Bill raised a heavy eyebrow, looking at the young performer with a mixture of disbelief and fatherly affection. "And how exactly do you think I'm going to get access to the Steerage passenger logs without the Purser raising an eyebrow, Michael? You're asking for a miracle."

Michael chuckled softly behind his teeth, the dark curls shifting over his brow as he extended his hand to his loyal guard.

"I promise you, Bill... I will find a way. And I will see her again, no matter what it takes."

✧ Clock Time: 11:30 PM – 12:45 AM

✧ Slang/Terminology: Clap-trap (Nonsense), Toffs (Wealthy aristocrats), Skiddoo (Leave quickly), Gallows-bird(Shady character), Bessemer (Strong/steely, referencing steel mills), Stowaway (Illegal passenger).

[11:30 AM — Cabin G-24]

The darkness inside Cabin G-24 did not bring peace; it brought walls that seemed to shrink with every groan of the steel hull.

(Y/N) lay flat on her back, her eyes wide and tracking the faint, watery moonlight that filtered through the thick glass of the small porthole. The room was heavy with the sounds of sleep. Maeve was currently snoring with the force of a steam locomotive, her unruly brown curls twitching with every raspy intake of air. Across the tiny cabin, Bridget and Mina were dead to the world, though Bridget’s face remained twisted into a bitter frown even in sleep, as if she were dreaming of new ways to cast the stank eye.

But it wasn’t the noise keeping (Y/N) awake. It was her stomach.

The roast beef, the thick brown bread, and the heavy potatoes she had practically inhaled during dinner were now waging war against her body. Combined with the slow, deep pitch of the Titanic as it cut into the open swells of the Atlantic, she felt a distinct, cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. Seasick. A commoner’s affliction, perhaps, but intensified by a nervous system that had been stretched to its absolute limit since she stepped onto the docks of Southampton.

She remembered reading a White Star Line pamphlet back at the boarding office—a boastful piece of literature detailing how the First and Second Class accommodations featured vast, wood-paneled libraries on the upper decks, stocked with the finest classical literature and anatomical references.

The upper decks. A world completely prohibited to her. The iron gates separating Steerage from the Toffs were locked tight at sunset, a legal and social barrier meant to keep the underbelly of the ship from contaminating the pristine hallways of the wealthy. She hadn’t gone out to explore the ship during the day like Maeve and Elsa; she had no map in her mind, only her intuition and the stark memory of the inspectors who looked at her like a thief.

"But if I stay here, I will be sick", she thought, the sour taste of anxiety rising in her throat. "I need air. I need space. I need to read until my brain forgets the movement of the water."

As her hand hovered over the heavy iron latch of the cabin door, a soft, high-pitched voice scratched through the darkness.

"(Y/N)...?"

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She turned her head slowly. In the middle bunk, Elsa was sitting up, her blue eyes wide with childlike terror, her pale fingers clutching her handmade burlap doll so tightly the stitching looked ready to snap. The young Dutch girl was trembling, her chest heaving with the silent panic of someone who believed every creak of the ship’s rivets was the preamble to a watery grave.

"...(Y/N)?" Elsa whispered, her accent thick, her English fractured into a hesitant, childlike fragment. "...Where... where go? Is... water?"

(Y/N) stepped backward, kneeling beside Elsa’s bunk. She reached out, gently rubbing her own forehead with an awkward, self-conscious gesture before soothingly placing a hand over Elsa’s small knuckles.

"Shh," (Y/N) whispered, her voice barely an exhalation. "Go back to sleep, Elsa. I'm just... I'm going to the washroom. My stomach is... it’s not agreeing with the British beef. The laboratory down the corridor. I will be back soon, and I will be entirely safe. I promise." She leaned closer, her eyes darting toward the curtained bunk where Madame Mei-Lin slept. "Most importantly... please do not tell or wake up "Mother." It's good to let Mama Lin sleep. You know how she gets if she thinks we're wandering."

Elsa looked at (Y/N)’s medical books, then at the night shawl. She didn't speak English well—hardly at all—but she understood the language of secrecy. She nodded once, a slow, solemn tilt of her head, and pulled the rag doll over her mouth to seal her promise.

(Y/N) put a finger to her lips as she slipped through the door, closing it until the latch clicked home with a soft snap.

The main corridor of Steerage was a long, white-painted throat of steel, lit only by occasional gas lamps enclosed in heavy glass spheres. She walked with her back pressed against the iron plates, her intuition guiding her toward the center of the ship. When she reached the large framed deck plan near the structural bulkhead, she stopped in a panic. But (Y/N) possessed the sharp, analytical brain of a medical student. She then closed her eyes, utilizing her intuition, spatial awareness, and a bit of mental mathematics to calculate the distance between the structural companionways. Her eyes traced the intricate lines of the blueprint. Through a quick calculation of the companionways and elevator shafts, she mapped a route through the auxiliary crew staircases—places where the stewards rarely patrolled at midnight.

Ten minutes later, she stood before the barrier.

It was a heavy, black wrought-iron gate, its bars ending in sharp, ornamental pikes, separating the Third-Class aft staircase from the Second-Class landing. A massive brass padlock hung from the center chain like a silent threat.

"Damn it!" she hissed under her breath.

(Y/N) looked behind her. The hallway was empty, save for the distant, metallic clang of a fireman’s shovel far below in the boiler rooms.

She was small. Petite. Her frame was slender, a byproduct of missing meals in favor of studying. She looked at her hands—long, delicate fingers, baby-soft skin, and bones that were strangely flexible. She was double-jointed, a trait she had discovered as a child when she used to twist her arms out of the grip of schoolyard bullies who tried to bully-rag her for her dark skin. The rude, prejudicial biases of Bridget and Mina from earlier flashed through her mind. They thought she was nothing. They thought she was clumsy, out of place, an anomaly.

"Let’s see if Bridget’s 'monkey' comments hold any truth to my flexibility," she muttered with a dry, bitter dash of dark comedic relief.

She turned her shoulder sideways, flattening her chest against the iron bars. Her long, double-jointed collarbones shifted with a faint, internal pop as she exhaled every square inch of air from her lungs. Slipping her slender arms through the narrow three-inch gap between the ornamental scrolls, she reached around the back of the gate. Her small, baby-soft fingers (unmarred by heavy labor due to her years of intense academic study) groped for the internal latch mechanism of the emergency override bolt.

Her fingertips scraped against grease and cold iron. She twisted her wrist at an impossible, double-jointed angle, her ballet-trained core holding her entire body perfectly rigid against the metal to prevent a single rattle.

Just a little further... match the angle...

Click.

The internal deadbolt slid back. (Y/N) pulled her arms back through the gap, gasping for air as her lungs re-inflated. "Who knew getting bullied as a girl and having long ballet arms would finally pay off on the grandest ship in the world?" She pushed the gate open just wide enough to slip her small frame through, then pulled it shut behind her, ensuring the lock looked undisturbed from the outside.

"Long arms, small hands, and childhood trauma," she whispered to herself, a small, triumphant smile breaking through her anxiety as she stepped onto the deep, plush green carpet of the upper decks. "A marvelous medical combination."

She was inside the world of the Toffs. The air here instantly changed and even smelled better—of lemon oil, expensive tobacco, and old paper.

[12:00 AM — The Palatial Suite, B-Deck]

While (Y/N) was picking locks in the dark, Michael Jackson was fighting for his life against his own mind.

In the master bedroom of the grand suite, the air-conditioned breeze was cool, but Michael’s silk sheets were drenched in sweat. His head thrashed against the down pillow, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks stood out like wires.

In his dream, the world was exploding in a blinding, terrifying wall of white heat. The roar was deafening—not the sound of the ocean, but the sound of fire, screaming metal, and the smell of burning chemicals. He was on a stage, but the stage was turning into an oven. Hands—thousands of clawing, faceless hands—were reaching through the smoke, ripping at his clothes, tearing at his skin, screaming his name over and over until his ears bled. "Monsieur Michael! Lord Michael! Show us the patches! Show us the monster!" He tried to run, but his legs were trapped in heavy, wet clay. He looked down at his hands, and the skin was melting away, changing from brown to white, peeling back to reveal nothing but empty, hollow bone. "You belong to us!" a booming voice roared from the clouds—a voice that sounded terrifyingly like Joseph's. "You have no face! You have no soul!"

"No!"

Michael sat up with a violent gasp, his eyes flying open as he nearly pitched forward off the edge of the massive mahogany bed. His chest heaved, his hand flying to his throat, feeling the rapid, chaotic hammering of his heart against his ribs. His brow was wet, the dark, damp curls of his Dangerous era hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks.

He sat there for a full minute, trembling in the dark, waiting for the phantom roar of the crowd to fade. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Bill Bray. Michael looked through the open double doors into the grand sitting room. Bill had fallen asleep on the long Louis XIV settee, his massive frame draped in a wool blanket, his arms crossed over his chest.

Michael let out a soft, genuine chuckle. Even the iron guard needs to sleep, he thought, feeling a wave of deep affection for the man who spent every waking hour protecting his shadow.

Michael swung his legs out of bed. He walked to the private promenade door, stepping out into the cold midnight air. The moonlight was a brilliant, silver road cut across the black glass of the Atlantic, mirroring the deep, infinite sky above. It was beautiful, but it was lonely. The walls of the suite felt like a velvet-lined coffin. He knew he couldn't go back to sleep; the nightmare was still hovering at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for him to close his eyes.

Then he remembered his mother whispering to him earlier about the First-Class library connected to the Aft Grand Staircase. She had mentioned it was stocked with rare editions of European poetry and classic literature.

Books don't ask questions, Michael thought. Books don't stare at my skin.

He turned back into the room, determined not to wake Bill. He knew that if he vanished without a trace, it would cause absolute hell and chaos the moment Bill woke up. He grabbed a long, black velvet traveling robe that doubled as a heavy coat, pulling the collar high up around his neck. He reached for his signature dark fedora, shoving it low over his brow. Finally, his eyes fell on a large square of black silk fabric on the vanity. He picked it up, wrapping it loosely around the lower half of his face like a traveler shielding himself from a desert sandstorm.

He picked up a silver fountain pen from the desk and scribbled a quick note on a scrap of White Star stationery:

Bill — Couldn't sleep. Gone to find something to read in the library. Don't worry. I have my disguise. I am safe. — M

He placed the note on the mantle next to his porcelain Peter Pan figurine. Then, he gathered up his long, dark traveling robe (A heavy silk piece that billowed to his ankles) and grabbed his black fedora. To ensure absolute privacy, he took a square of dark silk cloth and wrapped it loosely around the lower half of his face, leaving only his large, expressive eyes visible.

He crept out of his bedroom, tiptoeing past his parents' connecting door with the absolute precision of a thief in the night. Once he cleared the main door of the suite, he stepped into the massive, empty First-Class hallway.

For the first time since he had set foot in England months ago, he was completely alone. No managers. No father. No press.

A sudden, childish impulse took hold of his limbs. Michael broke into a silent, joyous sprint down the corridor. His long coat billowed behind him like the wings of a crow as he ran, leaping over the brass deck seams, his feet executing a flawless, silent mid-air spin before he caught himself against the mahogany paneling near the staircase landing. He giggled behind his silk mask, his chest warming with the pure, unadulterated joy of a boy who had finally escaped the nursery.

The corridor stretched out for what felt like miles, completely deserted and silent. A sudden, playful urge hit him (A burst of youthful energy he hadn't felt since he was a boy running around their old home before the fame took over). Michael checked both ways, grinned behind his silk mask, and began to run down the long, carpeted hallway, his robes trailing behind him like a shadow as he leaped playfully over the intricate floral patterns on the floor.

[12:15 AM — The First-Class Library Saloon]

When (Y/N) stepped through the glass-paneled double doors of the library, her breath caught in her throat.

The library was a breathtaking cathedral of mahogany, gold leaf, and knowledge. Tall, arched book-presses rose two stories high, connected by an elegant wrought-iron spiral staircase that led to the Second-Class reading room above. The only light came from small, green-shaded electric lamps on the writing desks, casting long, emerald shadows across the leather chairs.

(Y/N) was lost. She had accumulated a small mountain of texts on a corner table: a volume on maritime law, a collection of poetry by Lord Byron, and three separate medical journals she had found in the Second-Class repository. She had been shifting books from shelf to shelf, her mind so focused on distracting herself from her nausea that she hadn't noticed the mess she was making.

On the other side of the double-sided mahogany bookcase, Michael was doing the exact same thing. He was looking for something—anything really—to quiet his thoughts. He had pulled down a text on French history, a book of American short stories, and was now reaching for a specific, leather-bound volume of poetry that sat on the middle shelf.

At the exact same index, from the other side of the dark wood divider, (Y/N)’s hand reached into the gap.

Their fingers brushed. (Y/N)’s bare, brown fingers clamped down on the spine of the book (A rare first edition of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s collected works) at the precise moment Michael’s white-gloved hand wrapped around the top edge.

Both of them flinched, their heads snapping up.

In the dim, amber shadow of the bookcase, they stood less than a foot apart. Because of the midnight hour and their respective disguises, they couldn't see each other's full faces. (Y/N) could only see a pair of large, incredibly dark, and soulful eyes staring at her from beneath the brim of a fedora, the lower half of the stranger's face completely hidden by black silk. Michael could see a pair of sharp, brilliant, and fiercely intelligent eyes framed by rich, mahogany skin, her nightgown hidden beneath a simple woolen shawl.

Michael’s breath hitched behind his mask. It’s her, his mind whispered, his chest tightening as he recognized the fierce woman from the waterline—the one who had stared up at the sky with that unforgettable expression of defiance. Up close, without the distance of the decks between them, she looked even more striking. He noticed the small stack of medical textbooks on the nearby table, the heavy titles on anatomy contrasting sharply with the delicate woolen shawl around her shoulders.

(Y/N)’s defenses instantly went white-hot. Her body tensed, her heart slamming against her ribs with the terrifying realization that she had been caught in First Class by a man who looked like an aristocrat—or worse, a wealthy Toff who would have her thrown into the ship’s brig before she could explain herself. She pulled her hand back from the book as if the leather had burned her, her spine straightening into a hostile, cautious posture born of pure survival instinct.

"Forgive me, Monsieur," she said, her voice sharp, cold, and dripping with defensive formality. "I did not mean to trespass on your territory, but I didn't think anyone was here." I will take my leave."

"No....wait," Michael said softly.

The sound of his voice traveled through the quiet library like velvet rubbing against silk. It was a high, gentle, and remarkably melodic cadence, completely devoid of the harsh, arrogant edge (Y/N) had come to expect from the wealthy men on the upper decks. "Don't... don't apologize. You don't have to go. It's my fault. I was... I wasn't looking."

(Y/N) backed up an inch, her eyes narrowing as she looked at his long black robe and the silk mask covering his face. "I am well aware of the rules of this ship, sir. Third-class passengers are not permitted above the lower landings. If you intend to call the Master-at-Arms, do it quickly. I will not be bully-ragged into a scene."

Michael let out a soft, breathless sound behind his mask—a sound that was unmistakably a gentle chuckle. "Why would I call the guards?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "How could I possibly report someone for being in the library... if I can't even see anyone here? As far as I'm concerned, the room is completely empty."

(Y/N) froze, her intellectual authority momentarily derailed by the sheer absurdity of his statement. She stared at him, her mind working through the logic. He’s protecting me?!!....... She had never in her life heard a first-class passenger speak so casually, let alone offer protection to a woman of color under the cover of night. The sheer lack of prejudice in his soft tone was more shocking than if he had pulled a pistol on her.

"You speak very strangely for a man of your station," she murmured, her hand softening on the railing. "The men of your deck usually prefer to shout or call for the police."

"I've had enough of men shouting to last me a lifetime," Michael whispered, his eyes drifting down to the anatomy book on her table. "You're... you're studying the nervous system?"

"I am going to be a doctor," she said, her chin lifting. She braced herself for the inevitable laughter, the sneer she had received from the health inspector.

But it didn't come.

Michael’s eyes lit up with a brilliant, genuine wonder. "A doctor? That's... that's beautiful. To heal people... to know how the heart works, how the nerves send signals to the brain. That’s like... it’s like choreography, isn't it? A perfect design."

(Y/N)’s mouth opened slightly. She looked at him, truly looked at him. "You... you don't think it's an absurdity? A colored woman with a scalpel?"

"I think the world is absurd," Michael said softly, his voice cracking slightly as he thought of his own painted face. "Not you. Never you."

Michael’s eyes shone with deep admiration. "The nerves don't lie," he agreed softly, repeating the phrase in his mind. "They're predictable. Unlike the people on this ship. The Toffs out there... they spend all day talking about nonsense. Just white noise and clap-trap. But here... it’s quiet. You can actually hear yourself think."

(Y/N) literally froze and raised an eyebrow at Michael.

Who is he? She wondered. Why is he hiding his face?

She didn't realize that while they were standing in the shadows of the walnut shelves, the world outside their bubble was beginning to close in.

[12:15 AM — The Corridor Outside the Library]

Down the long, carpeted corridor of Aft B-Deck, two night watchmen were walking with heavy leather boots, their electric flashlights cutting wide beams across the mahogany walls.

"I'm telling you, Arthur, the gate at the Third-Class landing was unbolted from the inside," the older guard muttered, his voice carrying through the quiet air. "We've got a stowaway or some petty thief wandering around the First-Class salons. Keep your eyes peeled for any colored folk or dock-rats out of place."

At the same time, dodging into the shadow of a large decorative palm tree near the Grand Staircase, Bill Bray was moving like a panther in a tuxedo. Beside him were Jackie and Marlon, both of them looking disheveled, their collars unbuttoned as they hurried to keep up with the massive bodyguard.

"If Joseph wakes up and finds out Mike went missing on the first night, he'll have our hides," Jackie hissed, his hand over his forehead. "Bill, are you sure he came this way?"

"The note said the library," Bill rumbled in a low, disciplined whisper. "He’s looking for poetry. Keep your mouths shut and find him before the ship's security does. If the press catches the 'Melancholy Prince' wandering the corridors in a mask at midnight, it'll be on the front page of every paper in New York before we even dock."

[12:30 AM — Inside the Library]

Michael reached up, his gloved fingers gently lifting the rare volume of English poetry from the shelf—the very book they had both reached for. He looked at the gold-embossed cover, then extended his arm, holding the book out toward (Y/N) with a courtly, old-world bow.

"Since we both have an appetite for words tonight... I think you should have it first," he said softly, his voice rich with a gentleman's grace. "A brilliant doctor shouldn't be kept waiting by poetry."

(Y/N) looked at the book, and suddenly, a wave of deep, historical anxiety washed over her. The reality of her skin, the memory of the health inspector digging his fingers into her arm, and the cruel whispers from the dining saloon came crashing back into her mind. Her chest tightened, and she stepped back away from his hand, her breath catching.

"No," she said, her voice rising slightly in a sudden, panicked flutter. "No, I cannot take that from you. Someone like me... a colored woman in Steerage... I have no right to touch what belongs to First Class. I don't need your charity, sir, and I certainly do not want your pity."

The words left her mouth like a volley of small stones, sharp and defensive. The moment they hung in the air, (Y/N)’s heart stopped. She realized what she had just said—and who she had said it to—a little too late. She braced herself for the stranger to turn cold, to realize her lower birth, or to insult her dignity as the others had.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them under the green lamp.

Then, out of the darkness behind the silk mask, a small, incredibly tender chuckle emerged.

"It’s not pity," Michael said, his voice dropping to a level of deep, emotional sincerity that made (Y/N)’s chest ache. He stepped closer, the soft, dim amber light of the reading lamp finally catching his face from a high angle. It illuminated only their eyes, his white-gloved hand, and the heavy velvet of his robe, keeping their full profiles lost in the shadow. "I don't pity you at all. I think you're incredible. Everyone in this world deserves a chance to read the stars, to look at beautiful things. Especially someone who works as hard as you do to heal people."

He boldly pressed the book into her hands, his gloved fingers brushing against her bare knuckles for a fleeting, electric second.

(Y/N) felt a hot, deep flush of crimson creep up her neck and into her cheeks. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth calfskin leather of the book, her eyes locked onto his dark, soulful gaze. The warmth radiating from his presence was intoxicating, completely overwhelming the cold, clinical logic of her textbooks.

"When you're finished with it," Michael added, his tone turning playful and light, as if they were lifelong friends sharing a secret in the schoolyard, "you can just bring it back to me. I'll be waiting right here."

(Y/N) let out a breathy, realistic laugh, though her heart was still hammering. "You speak as if this ship were a common park, sir. You don't even know my name, you don't know where I am staying, and I don't know why someone of your stature should even be seen talking to someone like me."

Michael tilted his head, his curls shifting over his brow. "I'll find a way," he murmured, his voice softening to a whisper. "We seem to have a connection, don't you think? The universe is a very big place, but tonight, we're the only two people in this library."

Before (Y/N) could answer, the heavy double doors at the far end of the library mezzanine creaked open.

"CHECK THE LOWER AISLES, ARTHUR! I SAW A LIGHT MOVING NEAR THE WALNUT SHELVES!"

The harsh, metallic beams of electric flashlights cut through the darkness of the upper tier, reflecting wildly against the glass panels of the bookcases. The heavy stomp of leather boots began to echo down the oak staircase.

Panic struck like a lightning bolt. (Y/N)’s internal survival mechanism took over before her brain could process her emotions. She realized the danger she was in—caught in the dead of night with a wealthy First-Class gentleman, an African-descended woman in the sacred halls of the elite. Without a second thought, she dropped the poetry book onto the floor, snatched her anatomy textbook and her dark shawl, and spun on her heel.

"Wait! No, don't run!" Michael cried out, reaching for her sleeve. "Stay behind me, I can tell them—"

"No!" she hissed, tears of pure terror pricking her eyes. "You don't understand what they'll do to me!"

"Wait! Come back!" Michael cried out in a panicked whisper, reaching his hand out into the empty air. "You forgot your book! When will I see you again?"

But she was already a shadow moving through the dark. She fled down the narrow rear aisle that connected to the Second-Class landing, her soft slippers making no sound against the carpets as she vanished into the labyrinth of the ship’s interior before he could even finish his sentence.

The sound of the footsteps on the stairs grew louder, the flashlights bouncing off the walls just two aisles away. Michael stood in the center of the dark aisle, his heart pounding with a sudden, desperate sense of loss as he stared at the empty space where she had just been standing.

"Miss...?" he whispered into the dark.

Before he could turn to follow her route, a pair of massive, heavy iron hands clapped down onto his shoulders from behind, spinning him around with terrifying velocity.

Michael gasped in horror, his breath catching in his throat as his back was pinned against the hard mahogany bookshelf. He looked up, his eyes wide with a feral, breathless panic as he came face-to-face with the towering figure standing over him in the shadows.

The flashlight beam cut across his face, blinding him as a voice spoke from the darkness.

[To Be Continued in Chapter Four...]

The "Palatial Suite" on B-Deck was not a room; it was a gilded cage designed by men who worshipped mahogany and silk. As the door clicked shut behind the last of the white-gloved stewards, the silence of the room felt heavier than the roar of the crowd outside. Michael stood in the center of the Persian rug, his hands still shoved deep into the pockets of his traveling coat, clutching the porcelain Peter Pan as if it were a talisman against the very air he breathed.

"God, my stomach," Jermaine groaned, collapsing onto a Louis XIV settee. "I can feel the engines in my teeth. Are we moving? I think I’m already dying."

"You’re always dying, Jermaine," Marlon chirped, tossing his hat onto a nearby sideboard and immediately poking at a bowl of fresh fruit. "Look at this place! It’s bigger than the flat in London. Michael, look! We have a private promenade. We can walk outside and not even see the commoners."

Michael didn’t move. He was staring at his reflection in a pier glass mirror. The "Dangerous" era silhouette—the sharp shoulders of his coat, the curls cascading perfectly over his forehead, the dark aviators—it was a masterpiece of deception. Beneath the layers of greasepaint and pancake makeup, his skin felt like it was suffocating.

[Michael's POV]

People think the mask is for them. They think I hide because I’m ashamed. They don’t understand that the mask is the only thing that keeps the 'Toffs' from tearing me apart with their questions. But even here, in this 'unsinkable' palace, I feel the eyes. Except for one person. Mother secretly invited her along because she’s the only one who doesn't look at me like a medical curiosity or a meal ticket. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Taylor. She’s the 'Molly Brown' of our world, I suppose. Though we called her "The Unsinkable Liz". Born to wealth (“New Money”) but with a soul that’s spent time in the trenches. She arrived on the ship in a whirlwind of violet silk and diamonds, swearing at a porter who dropped her hatbox. She’s the only woman who can look at Joseph Jackson and tell him to 'shut his trap' without blinking. She’s been my shield since I was a boy. She knows what it’s like to be a child star, a commodity, a thing. To the rest of this ship, we are the 'Exotic Jacksons'—the French-adopted miracles of industry. To Elizabeth, I’m just Michael. And God, I need that more than I need the air in my lungs.

"Bill," Michael said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

Bill Bray, his loyal bodyguard and the only man who truly saw the person behind the performer, stepped forward. "Yes, Michael?"

"I want to go for a walk. Not the promenade. I want to see the ship."

"Not now, Mike," Bill replied, his voice firm but sympathetic. "The photographers are still haunting the corridors. The 'Gallows-birds' of the press are looking for any slip-up. Besides, your father wants you dressed for dinner by seven. Elizabeth is joining us."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, porcelain Peter Pan. I placed it on the marble mantle, next to the photograph of my sisters and little Randy.

I’m sorry you couldn't come, I thought, tracing Janet’s face with my thumb. It’s too dangerous for us to move all at once. Too many questions. Too many flashes.

"You’re a Jackson and you will stay in the suite, Michael!" Joe’s voice boomed as he entered from the connecting room. He walked in, looking at the room as if he owned the ship. "In this world, you’re whatever I say you are. You stay away from the railings. You stay away from the commoners. "I’ve got the stewards bringing our bags and trunks. We aren't mingling with the rabble tonight. I want you seen, but not heard and touched. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Joseph," Michael murmured, sinking into a chair and looking outside the window in silence. He was surrounded by gold, but he had never felt poorer.

The descent into the belly of the Titanic was like stepping into the throat of a great, humming beast. For (Y/N), the transition from the salt-sprayed air of the docks to the cramped, labyrinthine corridors of Steerage was jarring. The white-painted bulkheads were cold to the touch, vibrating with the distant, rhythmic thrum of the massive reciprocating engines far below.

She followed a steward down a series of steep, narrow companionways. The air here was different—heavier, smelling of fresh paint, pine soap, and the faint, underlying scent of hundreds of bodies pressed into tight quarters.

"Cabin G-24," the steward muttered, barely glancing back at her. He shoved open a heavy teak door and gestured inside before skiddoo-ing off to handle the next influx of passengers.

(Y/N) stepped inside, her valise clutched against her chest. The cabin was tiny, dominated by three sets of bunk beds. It was a far cry from the open-air dormitories of lesser ships, but the four walls felt like they were closing in.

"Oh! Look! She’s finally here!"

A girl, no older than twenty, with a mop of unruly brown curls and a thick Italian lilt, sprang from a lower bunk. This was Maeve—the 'Fabrizio' of their small group. Beside her stood a girl who looked remarkably like she’d stepped off a farm in the Netherlands; Elsa, a quiet, wide-eyed Dutch girl who spoke only fragments of English while holding a rosary and a handmade doll.

"I’m Maeve! And this is Elsa—don't mind her, she’s a bit of a Gallows-bird when she's nervous, thinks the ship’s gonna sink every time a bolt creaks!" Maeve laughed, reaching out to grab (Y/N)’s arm with an easy, unthinking familiarity that made (Y/N) stiffen.

Maeve’s eyes swept over (Y/N)’s skin, her curiosity naked and unabashed. In the early 1900s, a woman of color in the Steerage of a British liner was a rarity, a sight to be studied like a specimen. "Your skin... it’s like the polished mahogany in the Toff’s parlors. Is it true? Are you really a doctor-in-training? We heard the inspector shouting at the gates!"

Before (Y/N) could answer, two shadows fell over the doorway and nearly pushed (Y/N) to the ground as they were walking towards the other open beds without a care in the world. "HEY! That was rude!" Maeve yelled in shock, which caused the two girls to turn around and look up at them, mostly (Y/N) in shock, disbelief, and disgust.

To her left sat a girl who looked no older than seventeen, her hair a messy bird’s nest of blonde curls, struggling to lace a pair of boots that had seen better days. This was Mina, a girl from a mixed heritage background—half-German, half-Romani—who spoke in a fractured English that relied heavily on wild hand gestures. Next to her was Bridget, a sharp-tongued Irish girl with a face full of freckles and a gaze that was currently narrowed in suspicion.

"So," Bridget spoke first, her voice a sharp rasp. "They’re putting colored folk in with us now? Is the ship so full they’ve run out of corners to hide you in?"

(Y/N) felt the familiar prickle of heat at the back of her neck, but she didn't flinch. She placed her valise on the only empty bunk. "The White Star Line accepted my currency just as they did yours, miss. I suggest you take your grievances up with the Purser."

Mina let out a small, muffled giggle at (Y/N)'s remark, which earned her a smack on the arm from Bridget. Elsa, however, simply watched while holding her doll. She looked at (Y/N)’s medical books, then at her straight spine. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Suddenly, the ship’s whistle let out a final, bone-shaking blast.

"Come on!" Maeve chirped, tugging at (Y/N)’s sleeve. "They’re casting off! We have to go to the aft deck and wave goodbye! Everyone’s doing it! We can see the Toffs on the upper decks—maybe they'll throw some coins!"

"No, Maeve, please," (Y/N) said softly, gently uncoupling the girl's fingers. "It’s too crowded!" "I... I think I’ll stay here. I need to unpack my books."

The truth was, (Y/N) could feel the eyes. Even here, among the poor and the hopeful, her skin was a target. The way the mothers pulled their children closer when she passed, the way the men muttered about "the dark omen on the ship"—it was a weight she didn't want to carry onto the deck today.

Maeve’s face fell, a pout forming. "Oh, don't be a stick-in-the-mud! It’s the Titanic! You’ll never see the likes of this again!" She grabbed Elsa’s arm as she looked back at (Y/N) with wide, panicked eyes, as she was too shy to resist, with Maeve dragging her toward the door, glancing back at (Y/N) with a look of mild irritation. "Suit yourself, then."  

The door was left wide open, leaving (Y/N) in the sudden, ringing silence of the cabin. She then looked to see Bridget and Mina give her the "stank eye" before walking out the room and smacking the door shut. (Y/N) then walked over and sat on the edge of the lower bunk, her head in her hands.

"Let them go, piccola."

A hand rested on (Y/N)’s shoulder as she looked up. "I am Madame Mei-Lin, but you can call me Mama Lin." It was Mama Lin, the fourth member of their cabin. She was an older woman of Chinese descent who had spent thirty years in London and spoke English with a rhythmic, steady grace. She was the "mother-figure" of the group, a woman who had seen enough of the world to know when a soul was bruised.

"They are young. They think the world is a party," Mama Lin cooed, brushing a stray lock of hair from (Y/N)’s forehead. She spoke to her with the gentle cadence one would use for a feverish child. "We go outside and play later, when the sun goes down and the Toffs are busy drinking their wine. For now, we rest. You are a doctor, yes? Doctors need their strength."

(Y/N) let out a small, involuntary giggle. Her own mother had passed years ago, and the world had been cold ever since. So it was rare to be nurtured. In the hospital wards where she trained, she had to be iron. She had to be twice as fast and ten times as smart as the men. To be treated like a "sick child" by Mama Lin was both aggravating and profoundly sweet.

"I am not a child, Mama Lin," (Y/N) teased, though she leaned into the woman’s touch.

"On this ship, we are all children of the sea," Mama Lin replied, her eyes turning serious. "And the sea does not care about the color of a person’s skin. Only the weight of their heart."

By seven o'clock, the Third-Class dining saloon was a roar of noise.

(Y/N) walked in, her medical book tucked under her arm. She had changed into a simple but clean dress, her hair pinned back neatly. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the room went silent.

It was a cold, dead silence that started at the nearest table and rippled back to the kitchens. Mothers paused with spoons halfway to their children’s mouths. Men lowered their mugs of ale. The "colored woman" had arrived.

(Y/N) felt the weight of their stares—hostile, suspicious, or merely shocked. She kept her chin up, walking gracefully toward a large, open table. As she pulled out a chair, the three people sitting at the far end immediately stood up, grabbing their plates and moving to another table without a word.

She sat down, the silence stretching uncomfortably. She could hear the whispers now. 

"Is she a servant?"  "Look at her clothes... too fine for a maid." "I heard she’s a Gallows-bird, escaped from a London asylum."

(Y/N) didn't flinch. She opened her textbook—Gray’s Anatomy—and propped it up against a water carafe. When the steward brought her plate, she began to eat. The meal was simple: a hearty vegetable soup, large thin slices of roast beef, thick brown bread, and roasted potatoes. To the shock of those watching, (Y/N) had an appetite like a dockworker. She ate with a focused, multitasking precision—reading a paragraph on the nervous system, then taking a large, unladylike bite of bread.

"(Y/N)! THERE SHE IS! OUR OWN LITTLE DOCTOR!"

The silence was shattered by a high-pitched shriek. Maeve came charging across the dining room, her arms waving wildly. She was dragging Elsa behind her, and an older Italian couple and their three children, who had apparently been "adopted" by Maeve during the afternoon, were following close in their wake was.

"Look! We find her! We find the Doctor!" Maeve shouted, sliding onto the bench next to (Y/N) with enough force to make the table shake.

Mama Lin appeared behind them, tapping her fan against Maeve’s head. "Quiet, you songbird! This is a dining room, not a goat pasture!" She looked around the room, her eyes narrowed at the people who were still staring. She spoke loudly in Cantonese, her voice sharp and mocking, before switching to English. "It is a tragedy, truly. So many people on this ship, and yet so few have seen a beautiful, intelligent woman before. They stare because they are confused by such brilliance."

Across from them, a young Irishman named Tommy Ryan sat down, grinning. He was a Gallows-bird if (Y/N) ever saw one—hat tilted low, eyes mischievous. "Don't mind the sheep, darling. They’re just afraid your brain is bigger than theirs. Pass the bread, would ya? I’m starving enough to eat the hull."

(Y/N) felt the tension in her shoulders melt. As the table filled with this ragtag family of Italians, Irishmen, Dutch, and Mama Lin, the rest of the room began to return to their own business, though the whispers remained.

To everyone's shock, (Y/N) began to eat. And eat. And eat. For a woman of her slight stature, she had a bottomless pit of an appetite—a side effect of a metabolism fueled by nervous energy and years of skipping meals to study. She managed to read her anatomy book while systematically dismantling a large portion of roast beef, two potatoes, and three slices of bread.

"Mother of Mary," Tommy whispered, watching her. "Where do you put it all? Do you have a second stomach in those books?"

(Y/N) blushed, a rare giggle escaping her. "Studying is hungry work, Mr. Ryan."

(Y/N) felt a flush of embarrassment as she realized that she was nearly finished with her large bowl of food while still reading. "I... I have a large appetite when I study," (Y/N) murmured.

While she ate, she caught snippets of the gossip floating from the other tables.

"Did you hear? There’s a Prince on board. A French-African Lord in First Class." "I heard they’re richer than the Astors. Imagine that. A colored family in the Palatial Suite."

(Y/N) snorted softly into her soup. A "colored Prince"? In 1912? It was a fairy tale told by people who wanted to believe the world was changing faster than it actually was. She didn't believe it for a second. Rich people were white, and people like her were invisible. That was the law of the world.

While (Y/N) was fighting for a place at the table, Michael was being presented like a prize stallion.

The First-Class dining saloon was a cathedral of crystal and silver. The Jacksons had their own table, positioned perfectly so that every Toff in the room could catch a glimpse of them without being close enough to touch.

Michael sat rigidly, his "Dangerous" era curls shimmering under the electric lights. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a silver-threaded vest, his hands gloved in thin, white silk. Beside him sat Elizabeth Taylor, radiant in diamonds, chatting animatedly to Katherine to distract from the cold stares of the other aristocrats.

The menu was a daunting list of French delicacies: Consommé Olga, Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce, Filet Mignons Lili.

Michael stared at his plate. He was notoriously picky, his stomach often turning at the rich, heavy sauces of high-society cooking. He poked at a piece of salmon, his anxiety making his throat close up. He could feel the eyes of every young debutante in the room. Some were swooning, whispering about his "exotic" beauty, while one or two actually fainted from the sheer heat of the room and the excitement of seeing the "French Prince" speak.

"Marlon, stop it," Michael whispered as his brother tried to steal a grape from his plate.

"You aren't eating it, Mike! It’s a waste of a good grape," Marlon grinned, his eyes dancing.

Joe Jackson leaned across the table, his voice a low growl. "Eat, Michael. People are watching. Smile at the Vanderbilt girl. She’s been staring at you for ten minutes."

"I’m not hungry, Joseph," Michael said, his voice straining.

Katherine, ever the protector, caught the eye of Bill Bray, who was standing like a statue behind Michael’s chair. With a subtle nod, Katherine signaled the waiter. Within minutes, Michael’s plate of complex French cuisine was whisked away and replaced with a simple plate of roasted chicken and plain rice, prepared by their personal chef in the galley.

"There, baby," Katherine whispered, patting his hand. "Eat your dinner."

Elizabeth Taylor leaned in, her violet eyes sparkling. "Ignore them, Michael. They’re all bored out of their minds. They want you to be a character in their novels. Just be you."

"I don't know who 'me' is anymore, Elizabeth," Michael replied, his voice lost in the swell of the orchestra playing a Strauss waltz.

As the night deepened, the Titanic surged into the open Atlantic. The vibrations in Steerage were more pronounced, a rhythmic thrum that lulled many into a fitful sleep. (Y/N) lay in her bunk, listening to the soft breathing of Elsa, the loud snoring of Maeve, and the distant sound of an accordion being played in the General Room.

She thought about the gossip she’d overheard at dinner. The "French Prince" in First Class. A Black man, rich as Croesus, traveling with a family of titans.

"A gilded ghost," she whispered to herself. She didn't believe the French story for a second. No one got that rich without a struggle, and no Black man in 1912 walked with that much grace without having a few scars. She wondered what he looked like. Did he have the same fire in his eyes that she felt in her heart? Or was he truly just a puppet for the Toffs?

On the upper deck, Michael stood on his private promenade, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. He looked down at the dark water, the foam glowing white against the black sea.

He thought of the woman he’d seen earlier—the one with the medical book and the mahogany skin. She haunted him more than the photographers or the debutantes. She looked like she knew a secret he was dying to learn: how to stand in the storm and not break.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was a poem he had started to write about the stars.

"The sky is a ceiling of diamonds and coal, But the sea is the mirror of a lonely soul..."

He looked at the horizon, where the stars met the water in a line so perfect it looked like a seam in the universe.

"Who are you?" he whispered into the wind, thinking of the girl in the shadows.

Three decks apart. Two worlds divided by gold and steel. But as the Titanic moved further into the deep, the stars above were the only things they both could see. And the stars, unlike the people on the ship, didn't care about the color of the hands that reached for them.

✧ Date: April 10, 1912

✧ Slang/Terminology: Steerage (Third Class), Gallows-bird (A person who looks like they’ll be hanged/shady), Toffs (Rich peple/Socialites), Bully-rag (To intimidate), Skiddoo (To leave quickly).

The air in Southampton was a thick, suffocating soup—a cloying mixture of coal smoke from the towering funnels, the expensive, floral perfumes of the Toffs arriving in their motorcars, and the sharp, briny scent of the English Channel. Standing before the R.M.S. Titanic, (Y/N) felt like an ant staring up at a mountain of cold steel and hot rivets. To the rest of the world, this was the "Ship of Dreams," a miracle of modern engineering. But to her, as she clutched the single valise containing her entire life, it was a floating fortress of uncertainty.

She adjusted the worn leather strap of her bag, her knuckles turning a stark white. Inside, the heavy, comforting weight of her medical textbooks pressed against her side. They were her shield. They were her ticket to a life that didn't involve scrubbing the grime from white marble floors or tending to the spoiled children of the aristocracy. In the Americas, she would be a healer. Here, she was just another body to be counted.

"Back of the line, girl! Don't you try to skiddoo past! Move it!"

A police officer’s heavy wooden baton shoved against her shoulder with enough force to bruise, abruptly forcing her out of the queue. (Y/N) didn't stumble. She planted her heels into the soot-covered cobblestone, her dark eyes flashing with a fire that had been stoked by years of surviving the rigid, suffocating layers of the British class system.

"I have my ticket and my papers, sir," she said, her voice steady and resonant despite the frantic thrum of her heart against her ribs.

The health inspector, a man whose skin looked like parchment and whose mustache was permanently yellowed by cheap tobacco, didn't even deign to glance at her documents. He reached out with a calloused hand, grabbing her chin roughly and forcing her head back. "Open up," he barked, poking at her teeth as if he were inspecting a horse at a common market. He twisted her head from side to side, his breath smelling of stale ale and bile.

"Eyes are clear. No lice. Hands?" He flipped her palms over, sneering at the lack of callouses. "Soft. What are you then? A lady’s maid who stole her mistress's jewelry? Or did some Gallows-bird pay your way for a little... 'entertainment' in the Steerage bunks?"

The men around him, a gaggle of low-level dock workers and petty officials, guffawed. Their side-eyeing glances dripped with the filth of their implications, looking her up and down as if she were a piece of meat rather than a human soul. (Y/N) pulled her arm back with a sharp jerk, her spine straightening until she felt taller than the inspector himself.

"I am a student of medicine, sir. I am going to New York to complete my residency at a teaching hospital," she stated with sharpen intellectual authority.

The laughter stopped, replaced by a deadly, cold silence that felt heavier than the ship's anchor. The inspector’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple, his eyes bulging. To him, her ambition was a personal insult—a breach of the natural order. He lunged forward, his fingers digging into the meat of her arm like iron talons, attempting to bully-rag her into submission.

"Don't you get smart with me, girl. A 'doctor'? People like you don't even belong in the infirmary as a corpse, let alone on this ship!" You're nothing but a—"

CLATTER.

A sudden commotion at the First Class gangway drew everyone's attention to the habor. A stack of designer steamer trunks had toppled from a porter’s trolley, spilling silk ties and silver brushes across the dock. In the center of the chaos stood a tall, slender figure draped in a dark fedora and a long, expertly tailored traveling coat that billowed like a cape.

"Monsieur Michael! Over here! Is it true the Jackson family is moving their entire fortune to the Americas?" "Lord Michael, give us a smile for the London Times!" "Is it a French heiress you're looking for in New York, or is the 'Melancholy Prince' staying single?"

Photographers swarmed, their magnesium flash powder exploding in blinding white puffs that mimicked a battlefield. In the distraction, a senior White Star Line official, terrified of a public scandal while the most famous family in the world was boarding, hissed at the health inspector.

"Let her through, you dim-witted fool! We don't need a bloody riot or a bottleneck scandal while the Jacksons are in eye-shot! Just get her on the boat and out of sight. Consider it her lucky day."

The inspector spat on the ground near (Y/N)'s boots, his eyes promising a future grudge. He shoved her toward the dark, cramped entrance of the Third Class. "Get on the boat before I change my mind and toss you in the harbor. A 'doctor'... Lord help America if they're letting your lot handle a scalpel."

(Y/N) didn't look back. She clutched her valise to her chest and stepped into the humid, echoing maw of the ship. Her heart was heavy with a bitter realization: the "great unknown" wasn't just the three thousand miles of ocean ahead—it was the world's stubborn refusal to see her as human.

Meanwhile, several hundred feet above her, a very different kind of prison was being occupied.

The Jackson family moved like an invading royal court through a sea of exploding flashbulbs and screaming newsboys. "TITANIC SETS SAIL! THE UNSINKABLE ERA BEGINS!" they shouted, waving papers with headlines about the "Melancholy Prince of the Palatial Suite." Jermaine was already complaining about the sway of the ship, his hand over his stomach, while Jackie and Marlon were busy tipping their hats to every socialite in a three-mile radius.

"Look at that one, Mike," Marlon nudged his brother, pointing toward a woman in a massive silk hat. "New York is going to be a playground."

But Michael wasn't looking at the women. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, his pale skin—the result of a condition the papers called "reclusive French ancestry"—glistening under the morning sun. He felt the familiar, suffocating itch of the heavy makeup he’d applied to keep the patches of his vitiligo hidden. He felt like a ghost haunting his own body.

He reached into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold porcelain of a small Peter Pan figurine and the frayed edges of a black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of Latoya, Rebbie, Randy, and Janet. His heart ached. They were back in London, waiting for the "all clear" to join the family once Joe had established their new empire in the States. To Michael, the Titanic didn't feel like a ship; it felt like a giant wall separating him from the people he loved most.

"I want to see the engine rooms," Michael whispered, his voice soft, melodic, and weary. "And the gym... and perhaps the library. I heard they have a first-edition collection. Maybe we could go down, slip away and—"

"You'll do no such thing," Joe Jackson’s voice cut through the air like a whip. He turned, his eyes narrowing to sharp slits as he caught Michael’s hand lingering in his pocket. "What have you got there? That childish toy again? Look at me when I'm speaking. You're a man now, Michael. A Jackson. You are the face of this family's future, not some 'soft' child playing in the nursery. You stay in the suite until dinner. We have appearances to maintain."

Michael flinched, his head bowing. The photographers captured the moment—the "Melancholy Prince" looking down in thought—but they didn't see the way his fingers trembled.

"Joseph, leave the boy be," Katherine intervened, her voice a calm balm over the tension. She stepped close to Michael, her silk gloved hand resting gently on his forearm. She leaned in, her breath smelling of peppermint and lavender as she whispered in his ear. "Don't mind him, Joseph's just anxious about the crossing. Your siblings will be safe, Michael. I’ve packed your books, your poems... even the dolls and toys you like. They're all tucked away in the trunks. No one will see."

Michael looked at his mother, a small, grateful smile ghosting his lips. "I just... I feel like something is shifting, Mother. Like the world is getting bigger and smaller at the same time."

"It's just the sea, baby," she whispered.

As the massive whistles of the Titanic roared, shaking the very bones of everyone on board, Michael looked over the railing. Far below, near the waterline, he caught a glimpse of a woman with skin the color of rich mahogany, looking up at the sky with a look of such fierce determination it took his breath away.

She was a world away from his velvet-lined cabin, yet as the ship began to pull away from the dock, Michael felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the depths of the ship.

One week. They had one week to reach New York.

But as the shoreline of England faded into the mist, the "Ship of Dreams" began its journey toward a destiny that would bridge the gap between the gold-plated ceilings of the First Class and the salt-stained dreams of the Third.

(Y/N) and Michael were on the same path now. And the Atlantic was a very, very big place to be alone.

🍷The Explanations & The Eternal Night Celebrations 🎆

鬼舞辻無惨 (Muzan Kibutsuji) 👑:

Muzan views Christmas as a pathetic display of human sentimentality and finds the concept of Santa "Naughty or Nice" list very insulting because he is the only judge that matters. However, he appreciates the aesthetics of "High Society." He explains it to you as "A day where humans celebrate a savior who doesn't exist." He takes you to a high-end Western hotel 🏨 in Tokyo. He decides to "grace" you with a gifts simply to prove he is more generous than any human. —imported chocolates 🍫 , silk scarves 🧣 , and French perfumes. He demands perfection; if the orchestra🎻 plays a single note out of tune during your dinner, he looks ready to dismantle them but getting a soft suprising kiss 💋 on the cheek from (Y/N) soften the blow or saves their lives. After dinner, they had served a traditional British fruitcake. He takes one bite, finds the texture "offensive," and spends ten minutes lecturing the chef on the molecular failure of preserved fruit. He tells (Y/N), "If you ever offer me something this dense again, I will consider it an assassination attempt." He gives you a diamond necklace that costs more than the hotel, just to prove he's superior to "Saint Nick."

黒死牟 (Kokushibo) 🌑:

Since he was from the Sengoku Era (400 years ago, Winter ❄️ was more for survival and not celebration); he was deeply confused by the concept of "Santa Claus" coming down a chimney and a "Christmas Tree"🎄. He considers it a security breach. He literally spends the night staring at the fireplace with his sword drawn while standing guard over your room, six eyes scanning for this "Santa." However, seeing you excited, he attempts to court you with the discipline of a samurai🗡️. He explains the holiday as a "winter discipline." He spends the evening silently sitting with you, watching the snow fall on the Infinity Castle's warped balconies. His gift is a handcrafted lacquer box, inside which is a preserved winter camellia 💮 as well as a traditional kimono 👘 patterned with winter camellias, but he’s added a Western-style fur stole he saw a socialite wearing. He is deadly serious about the "Mistletoe" tradition he overheard Dōuma whispering about, but he gets the plant wrong and accidentally hangs a sprig of dried seaweed 🎍over the door, standing beneath it with all six eyes fixed on you, waiting for "the ritual" to begin.

ドゥーマ(Dōuma) 🪭:

He is the one who discovered "Eggnog" and brought it to the Infinity Castle. Dōuma loves the "Joy" 😊 of Christmas because it’s so easy to fake. He tells his cult followers that Santa is a benevolent deity he’s friends with. Being a demon, the alcohol 🍷 doesn't affect him like a human, but he acts drunk just for the attention; basically, he’s the "Drunk" 🥴 of the party. He forces the cult followers to dress as reindeer 🦌 and sing carols outside your window at 3:00 AM. He wears a red hat and insists on singing "Western Carols" that he doesn't know the lyrics to, turning them into upbeat songs about his cult. He corners you under a massive clump of mistletoe he stole from a 💐flower shop, pouting when you tell him that demons don't get presents from Santa. "But (Y/N)! I’ve been so good! I haven't eaten a single follower all week!"

アカザ (Akaza) ❄️:

He hates the "softness" of the holiday but wants you to be happy. He explains that "Santa" must be a formidable warrior 👊 to visit every house in one night "If he wants to give gifts, he should fight for the right to do so!" He takes you to the highest peak of a mountain 🏔️ to see the "First Sunrise" of the New Year early. His gifts are random but thoughtful: a heavy, warm haori, a basket of winter peaches 🍑 , a pair of sturdy, warm boots 👢 , and a promise: "I will crush anyone who tries to put you on a 'Naughty' list." He finds the idea of "Coal" 🪨 as a punishment hilarious—he’d rather just fight the offender. He’s the most realistic; he knows he’s a demon, so he simply says, "I can't give you a 'holy' night, but I can kill anything that tries to ruin your sleep."😴 He thinks Dōuma’s coal joke is pathetic and offers to punch Dōuma into next year.

妲己＆牛太郎 (Daki & Gyutaro) 🎀🔪:

Daki loves the fashion; Gyutaro hates the waste. Daki spends the day demanding you tell her she’s prettier than a Christmas angel 😇 . She demands the most beautiful "Kurisumasu" kimono in Yoshiwara. She explains the holiday as a day where she should be worshipped. If Daki gets "coal," she will burn the entire district down. Gyutaro would just wheeze and say, "Coal is for the poor, and we aren't poor anymore, are we, (Y/N)?"   She spends the day dragging you through the snow-covered streets to show off. She treats Christmas like a photoshoot in the Yoshiwara district. She treats (Y/N) like a favorite doll 🎎, dressing you in layers of expensive fur. Gyutaro stays in the shadows, grumbling about how "all these happy couples need to be cursed" plus how "lucky" 🍀 people are to get gifts. Still, he secretly brings you a bag of high-quality roasted chestnuts and premium wagyu beef 🥩 that he snatched from a street vendor. Daki tries to sing a "carol," but it sounds more like a threat. but he’s the one who scoured the city to find you a tin of imported French chocolates 🍫 , handing them to you with a raspy, "Don't let Daki eat them all, or I'll have to kill her."

ナキメ (Nakime) 👁️:

She doesn't speak much, but she uses the Infinity Castle to create the ultimate Christmas surprise. She doesn't want a gift; she just wants you to sit near her instrument 🪕 while she plays. Nakime provides the "Atmosphere" as she changes the rooms of the Infinity Castle to look like a snowy forest 🌳 just for you. She creates a beautiful, infinite room filled with floating lanterns 🏮 and falling "snow" (shredded silk) just for you to rest in. She plays a soft, festive melody on her biwa, the rhythm matching the beating of your heart ❤️ . She plays a haunting, rhythmic melody on her biwa that sounds suspiciously like a minor-key version of "Jingle Bells"🔔 and the most peaceful "Silent Night". She is the one who keeps Dōuma from falling into the bottomless pits while he's drunk on eggnog.

半天狗と玉光 (Hantengu & Gyokko) 🏺😰: 

Gyokko tries to make "Christmas Art" which is just a vase stuffed with frozen fish heads 🐠 and pine needles 🪡 . He calls it "The Birth of the Winter God."You have to pretend to like it.  Hantengu just hides under the table, terrified that "Krampus" is a real demon 😈 coming to punish him specifically for his "sins." Hantengu’s "Joy" 😊 clone is the only one enjoying himself, while the others cower in the corner, terrified that Santa 🎅 is a demon hunter coming down the chimney to behead them eventhough (Y/N) kept explaining to them. They are the reason you can't have nice things.

継国縁壱 (Yoriichi Tsugikuni) ☀️:

He doesn't understand Christmas as a concept, but he understands the "Winter Solstice."❄️ He remembers seeing early Christian missionaries and equates the holiday with the simple warmth of a hearth. He finds a parallel between the "Star of Bethlehem" ✨and the Breath of the Sun. He explains it as a day of hope—something he feels he has lost but sees reflected in you. He takes you to a quiet shrine covered in snow. He approaches Christmas with a quiet, heartbreaking curiosity even though he doesn't have much to give, so he gives you a small, dried flower 🌷 he kept pressed in a book as well as a small, handmade flute 🪈 . He doesn't understand the "Western" traditions, but he understands the feeling of "Peace on Earth." When you mention the mistletoe tradition and kiss him softly, he blushes 😳 a deep, sunset red and looks away, his hand ghosting over his sword hilt in shy nervousness. He tells you of a winter centuries ago when he simply sat with his wife, Uta, and watched the frost form. "I do not need a holiday to be grateful for your warmth, (Y/N)," he whispers. The realism of his grief mixed with his love for you makes the moment feel incredibly fragile and precious. He spends the day teaching you how to make traditional New Year’s decorations 🎋(Kadomatsu) while explaining that the end of the year is a time to let go of old sorrows.

A Special Comment from the Christmas Party 🍾

"I asked Akaza for a present and he gave me a black rock. I told him it was coal because I was 'naughty,' and he got so confused he started a fight with a nearby boulder. I found Douma is currently face-down in a bowl of spiked eggnog and Kokushibo is nearly choking on some fruitcake. "Does anyone know if Muzan-sama accepts returns on 'immortal blood' vials? It doesn't go with my outfit." When I jokingly told Muzan that he's on the "naughty list," he didn't laugh. He leans in, eyes glowing plum-red, and whispers, "I don't receive coal, (Y/N). I turn the world into ash if it doesn't give me what I want. You are the only gift I’ve chosen to keep." — A very tired and confused (Y/N).

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❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you had to spend New Year's Eve trapped in the Infinity Castle, which Upper Moon would you trust to be the most "civilized" at a dinner party as well as bring you a cup of eggnog without "accidentally" putting something suspicious in it?

煉獄 杏寿郎 (Rengoku Kyojuro) 🔥:

Rengoku is 100% on board with the "Spirit of Giving." He decides he is the "Santa" of the Corps. He doesn't have a sleigh , so he just carries a massive sack of sweet potatoes 🍠 on his back and runs at full speed between estates. He spends the morning shouting "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" at every passing Kakushi as well as shouting "Umai!" at every seasonal dish you prepare, "A holiday for joy! A holiday for feasting! (Y/N), let us eat until the sun rises!" But I think he had taken things too seriously, especially when he accidentally set the "Christmas Tree"🎄 on fire while trying to light the candles with his breathing technique. He puts it out instantly, but the tree is now a charred stick. He just laughs and says it looks "distinctive!" even though you had to spend ten minutes chasing him with a bucket of water 💦 while he laughs heartily, completely oblivious to the danger.

冨岡 義勇 (Giyu Tomioka) 🌊:

Giyu listens to your explanation of Christmas with a focused, slightly confused 😐 stare, and let's just say he was mostly confused about the idea of a "Secret Santa." He heard that "giving coal" is a punishment for bad people, so he spends the entire week being extra polite to you because he’s terrified you’ll give him a bag of charcoal. But in his mind, he also thought it was a day where you have to eat a specific cake 🍰 , or you’ll be cursed ("He's very stoic"). So he buys a massive Western-style sponge cake and tries to eat the entire thing in one sitting because he thinks it’s "proper etiquette”. You have to stop him before he makes himself sick 🤢. He looks at you, cream and strawberries 🍓 on his face, and whispers, "D-Did I do good? Is the ritual complete?"

宇髄 天元 (Tengen Uzui) ✨:

Tengens's Christmas is, predictably, the most flamboyant thing you've ever seen.  He had to train his Muscle Mice 🐁 to bring you jewelry and a custom-made cloak lined with the softest fur imaginable. He hires a team of people to string actual gemstones 💎 on a tree and insists on "Christmas Fireworks." "Standard Christmas? (Y/N) That's So Boring! We’re making this the flashiest night in Taisho history!" He insists on it also being called the "Flamboyant Festival of the Winter God." Even after explaining to him multiple times, Tengen ended up getting the wrong concept of a "Christmas Sleigh. 🛷 " Lacking reindeer 🦌, he harnesses a happy Tanjiro, an excited Inosuke, and a very confused Zenitsu to a wooden cart and tries to launch them off a small hill while he throws glitter ✨ at you. After the inevitable crash, he treats your "scandalous" lack of a mistletoe by simply hoisting you onto his shoulder and declaring that wherever he stands is a zone for kissing.

時透 無一郎 (Muichiro Tokito) ☁️:

Muichiro literally forgot it was Christmas five minutes after you told him, but he remembered that you were happy about something. He spends the day following you around like a quiet, curious kitten 🐈‍⬛ . "What was the fat man’s name again? Santa? 🎅 Does he have hair like the clouds too? Why does he have a beard?" He gets confused about the "Stocking" tradition and puts his own damp socks on the fireplace mantle. When you tell him that’s not quite it, he just tilts his head and asks, "Then whose socks are they?" On Christmas morning, he forgot to bring a gift, so he just handed you a very smooth, cold rock 🪨 he found three minutes ago. "I thought it looked like you," he says. You aren't sure if it's an insult or a compliment.

不死川 実弥 (Sanemi Shinazugawa) 🌪️:

Sanemi claims this Western Christmas holiday is a "waste of time," but then you find him in the kitchen at 3:00 AM covered in flour and aggressively smashing ginger 🫚 to make cookies 🍪 because he heard you liked them.  "WHAT?!!. It’s for the... Christ-thing. Whatever." They were burnt and shaped like jagged rocks, but when he shoves them at you the next morning, his face is a violent shade of pink. "Just eat them and shut up!," he snaps, though he lingers nearby to make sure you actually enjoy them. When you found him outside and tried to thank him, he started a snowball fight to hide his blushing 😳 face, accidentally knocking Genya into a frozen 🥶 pond.

伊黒 小芭内 (Iguro Obanai) 🐍:

Obanai is very skeptical of any holiday that involves "peace on earth" 🕊️when demons are still roaming. Not to mention the "Santa" story, where he spends the evening debunking the physics of a man coming down a chimney. "The soot would ruin the silk, (Y/N). It's illogical." However, he gets Kaburamaru to wear a tiny red ribbon and even tries to teach Kaburamaru (his snake) 🐍 to hold a sprig of mistletoe over your head. The snake keeps getting distracted and trying to eat the berries 🫐 instead. Eventually, Obanai just stands over you (unless you are taller than him), looking incredibly grumpy while blushing, and holds the mistletoe himself. He refuses to look at you, but he hands you a box of handmade wagashi shaped like tiny Christmas trees 🎄 . "Don't tell Sanemi I did this," he growls.

胡蝶 しのぶ (Shinobu Kocho) 🦋:

Shinobu finds the "Western holiday" a charming experiment and uses the Butterfly Mansion to host a small tea party 🍵. She’s very refined about it, decorating the table with winter ❄️ camellias & poinsettias. "Ara ara, (Y/N)-san, if you want a kiss 😘 under the mistletoe, you needn't use a tradition as an excuse. Just ask." which made you also drop your tea cup while blushing. She had even convinced the younger girls to tell Giyu that "Santa" only visits people who smile. She watches with a terrifyingly sweet grin as Giyu tries to force a "festive smile" 😊 at you, which looks more like a painful grimace. For her Secret Santa gift, she gives you a small vial of "festive" perfume she mixed herself, smelling of winter plums and sugar.

甘露寺 蜜璃 (Mistsuri Kanroji) ❤️:

Now Mitsuri is in her absolute element. She is crying tears of joy within five minutes of listening because the "Meaning of Christmas" is just too beautiful for her heart to handle. She bakes enough green tea and strawberry cakes to feed a small village to which she asks everyone to help her give out to nearby villages. She wears a festive pink haori plus makes (Y/N) a "Christmas Kimono" 👘 that is bright red and green. During dinnertime, she eats an entire roasted turkey 🍗 by herself in under ten minutes, then blushes furiously when she realizes you were watching and tries to bake a Western-style "Christmas Log" cake 🎂 . But sadly, she underestimates her own strength and, while whisking the batter, accidentally breaks the bowl and sprays the entire kitchen (and Iguro) with cake mix. She’s devastated until you start laughing and turn it into a food fight. She ends the night hugging you so tightly you can barely breathe, sobbing 😭 about how "Love is the greatest gift of all!"💕

悲鳴嶼 行冥 (Gyomei Himejima) 📿:

Gyomei finds the holiday deeply spiritual. He spends the day praying 🙏 for the peace of all children and the safety of the Corps. He also has a hidden hobby that he started because of the winter season. During the gift exchange 🎁, he then reveals how he has spent the last month knitting 🧶 . He presents you with a giant, thick, heavy blanket (large enough for five people) that he knitted with his own hands. It’s the warmest thing you’ve ever felt. He stands over the group like a protective mountain 🏔️ , tears streaming down his face as he watches everyone laugh. "Namu Amida Butsu... to see such joy in a dark world is the only gift I require." P.S. He is the only one who manages to keep the peace when Inosuke and Sanemi start a "festive" brawl over the last piece of cake.

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Special Comment from the Corps ✉️

"To the person reading this... please tell Rengoku-san that 'Santa' is not a demon, and he can stop standing on the roof with his sword drawn and burning trees. Master Tengen must pay for all of the fireworks displays, injuries to the cadets, and workers. Also, someone please help Giyu, he has eaten too much cake and cannot move." — A very tired Kakushi. 😓

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you had to choose one Hashira to help you decorate the estate, who would you pick? (Choose carefully: one might burn the house down with 'spirit,' and the other might cover it in 24-karat gold!)

The Hashira: The "Righteous" Manipulators ⚔️

🔥 Kyojuro Rengoku: He doesn't use lies or tricks; he uses exhaustion. He will "recruit" your partner for endless, grueling missions or "training" sessions. He’ll keep them away for weeks, ensuring they return too tired to speak to you. Meanwhile, Kyojuro is always there with a warm meal and a bright smile, whispering, "It's a shame they prioritize duty over your heart, (Y/N). I would never leave you waiting in the cold." while making your partner look cowardly or incompetent by comparison.

🌊 Giyu Tomioka: Giyu is a quiet and isolating ghost as he acts as the "silent concerned friend." He doesn't say much, but he leaves "accidental" evidence behind—making it look like (Y/N)’s partner is being unfaithful or speaking ill of (Y/N) behind his back. He uses his authority tointercept your partner’s letters and simply... lose them, making it seem like they’ve stopped writing. When you’re at your lowest, he’ll appear like a silent shadow. He won't say your partner is bad; he’ll simply say, "Some people are just not meant to stay. I am still here, aren't I?"

✨Tengen Uzui: He plays the social master assassin. He uses his mice and his wives to gather every tiny secret or flaw your partner has and "accidentally" lets them slip in front of you. A stray lipstick stain on your partner's collar (placed there by Tengen), a forged receipt from a brothel—he makes your partner look "un-flamboyant" and unfaithful. He wants you to believe that only a man of his stature can provide the loyalty you deserve. Tengen wants your partner to look unflashy, incompetent, and dull compared to his brilliance. He’ll make sure your partner feels so insecure that they eventually break up with you out of shame.

🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa: Well we already know that he is the most aggressive. He won't sabotage the relationship behind your back; he’ll do it to your partner’s face. He will always pick fights with your partner, intimidating them until they are too terrified to show up to dates. He’ll tell you, "That coward didn't have the guts to face me; do you really think he has the guts to love you?" But if they try to defend themselves, he’ll make sure you see their anger, while he plays the "concerned friend" protecting you from a "loose cannon." He creates a vacuum of fear around you that only he is "brave" enough to cross.

🐍 Obanai Iguro: The Serpent Hashira is the master of poison—(Well the verbal kind). He uses Kaburamaru to spy and watch your partner’s every move. Iguro drips poisonous doubts into (Y/N)’s ear daily: "Did he really stay late for work? Is he bored of you?" "Are you sure he's telling you everything? or Snakes know when someone is hiding a venomous heart." He twists every innocent action into something sinister until (Y/N) can't even look at his partner without suspicion. He wants you to feel like the only person you can trust is the man with the bandages who "never lies" to you.

📿Gyomei Himejima: The most subtle and terrifying. He uses his spiritual authority to "sense" a dark aura around your partner. He will weep for you, telling you he "prays for your safety" because your lover's soul feels "corrupt." Because he is so respected, you’d never suspect he’s lying to keep you for himself. He doesn't ruin the relationship; he makes you feel like the relationship is a sin you need to be saved from.

The Upper Moons: The "Cruel" Manipulators 🌙

❄️ Akaza: He targets your partner's spirit as he views them to be "weak" and therefore a hindrance to your potential. He won't kill them— (unless you're looking).....that's too easy. He will systematically break their spirit especially as he'll show up in the middle of the night to tell your partner exactly how he could kill them in a second not to mention challenging them to feats they can't achieve, making your suitor so terrified of being near you that they flee the city without a word, leaving you thinking they abandoned you.

🪭Douma: Well the demon without emotions would play it like a game. He invites your partner to his "cult" and makes them disappear into the "paradise" of his stomach. Then, he’ll show up at your door with a fake letter from your partner saying they found "enlightenment" and don't need you anymore. He'll offer you a handkerchief and an empty smile as he watches your heart break, waiting for you to fall into his arms with his cold, unfeeling embrace.

🌑 Kokushibo: He uses his centuries of wisdom to make your partner look like a bumbling child. He ensures your partner loses their job, their home, and their reputation through "anonymous" business failures. He wants you to see that a mortal man is a flickering candle, while he is the eternal night. Everyone knows that his mere presence and the threat of his blade are enough to make any human suitor flee in terror, leaving you wondering why everyone you love "abandons" you.

The Masterminds: The King & The Sun 👑

🩸 Muzan Kibutsuji: To Muzan, he would need to be in absolute control. He doesn't just sabotage; he replaces. He will kill your partner, then use his shapeshifting or his minions to ruin your partner’s life—bankrupting them, framing them for crimes, or simply making them "cold & cruel." He will then step in as the "savior" who solves all your problems, effectively buying your gratitude and your life. Once you are single and crying, Muzan appears in a human guise. He offers you a hand and a life of eternal luxury. "Humans are such fragile, fickle things, (Y/N). Why settle for a heart that can break or wither, when you could have mine?"

☀️ Yoriichi Tsugikuni: This is the most "realistic" heartbreak. He doesn't mean to be a yandere, but his sheer perfection is the sabotage and even that is "gentle" but firm. He is always there, always perfect, always stronger. He makes your partner feel so inadequate just by existing near them that your partner eventually leaves you out of pure shame. Yoriichi will then sadly take your hand, "apologizing" that they weren't strong enough to stay.

The Final Twist 🕯️

As (Y/N) is sitting by the fire, mourning the end of their relationship, they are contemplating whether they are the ones with the problem or wondering why everything in love life is going wrong. They then feel a hand on their shoulder—it's one of them (Either the Hashira or Demon). As they offer you a drink, a smile, a promise of forever, you then end up crying your eyes out about how you believe that your former partner was a liar, a fraud, a coward, or a cheat. But as (Y/N) turns to the "helpful" Hashira or Demon, they then lay their head on their shoulder softly. (Y/N) felt safe. But what they didn't realize was that they're really a bird in a cage, and their so-called "ex/friend" is the one who locked the door and threw away the key.

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❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you found out that your "loyal" Hashira/Demon's friend was the reason your last relationship ended, would you confront them, or would you be too scared of losing their protection to say anything?