The Titanic was supposed to be the pinnacle of luxury—a voyage unlike any other. As a noble, you had been granted a first-class ticket, surrounded by the finest amenities, rubbing shoulders with society’s elite. The grand staircase, the lavish dining halls, the music that played long into the night—it had all felt like a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

The night the iceberg struck, chaos erupted once the water flooded the lower decks. The distant wail of alarms, the shouts of crew members, the bone-chilling realization that the unsinkable ship was going under. Your sprinted through the corridors, struggling to find a way back to the upper decks, where safety—if any—could be found.

As you stumbled through the dimly lit passageways, something caught your ear. A heavy thunk against metal. A muffled voice calling out, desperate.

You turned, eyes landing on a door that had clearly been locked in haste. Someone had been trapped inside.

For a moment, self-preservation told you to keep going, to save yourself. But then another thunk, followed by a rasping breath.

“Oi—someone out there?” The voice was deep, rough around the edges, but unmistakably desperate.

“Bloody hell, open the hatch!”