The air smells of rust and brine. Somewhere behind you, a steel door clangs shut, swallowed by the hum of the ship’s engines.

You’re on a cruise. At least, that’s what the welcome pamphlet says—the one you found crumpled in your jacket pocket. Welcome aboard the S.S. Vesper. Enjoy your endless vacation.

Your jacket. Your pockets. Your name is Y/n—you remember that much. But the last week is a smear, a white static, like a dream you woke from mid-sentence.

You lean forward, staring down at the churning white foam far below. The wind whips your hair across your face. You blink, tasting salt.

Then you feel it.

That prickling at the base of your skull. The sensation of being watched.

You turn.

The deck stretches empty behind you. A deck chair rattles in the wind, and a half-finished glass of lemonade sweats on a small table, the ice long since melted.

But the corridor door to the interior—that heavy metal hatch with its circular porthole—is slowly swinging shut. Creak-clunk.

A flash of white. A shape, too tall and too broad, gone before your eyes can focus.