The Seven Passengers (BTSxTitanic)

Chapter 1: Hoseok

I'm going to throw myself overboard if I keep getting interrupted.

"Yes, Ms. Eleanor, the Titanic is yours to roam about as you wish. The Crystal Dining room is open for your convenience for twenty-four hours and will be provided with entertainment during dinner."

Lady Eleanor runs a finger across the writing desk in the corner of the spacious room, amused when she finds no dust. Obviously.

Her skirts brush against the marble floor as she gracefully examines the room. It's a waste of time, really. I pride myself on cleaning and dusting the elaborately decorated cabins. Her room is complete with a bed made with white silky sheets, two dressing rooms, a fireplace, and a private deck.

"How long will it be until we reach New York?" She pauses in front of the mirror hanging over the fireplace to fix the stray brunette curls. She would be a pretty woman if it wasn't for the way she carried herself above everyone like royalty.

"In five days if we come across no troubles."

"I should hope we don't. Captain Smith said this ship was unsinkable."

"And so it is," a voice says behind us.

Standing at the door is Kim Nam-Jung, an esteemed guest and artist who was responsible for the Titanic's design. His face is slightly pulled, where wrinkles are visible and his mouth is formed in a permanent frown. He stands with his head tilted upward, casting doubt on anyone who dares look him in the eye.

In his shadow stands Kim Seokjin, his son who is rumored to be the spitting image of his father. They are correct, they both have the same bored expression, but Seokjin stands with his head tilted down as if he is constantly mourning the loss of a loved one. Upon seeing him, I instantly feel sad.

"Leave us," says Kim Nam-Jung. 

I obey.

My walk back to the deck gives a moment of peace. The bright blue sky has cleared away this morning's chilly weather. The sun warms me up instantly, and I'm grateful to have a calming sea breeze with it. With the amount of time I spend tending to other people, this may be the only time I have to enjoy myself.

As I round the end of the hallway, I come across a man sitting with a deck of playing cards. There is no one with him at the table, but he shuffles the cards in his hands and begins to divide them between him and the empty space.

When he notices me, the man offers the cards.

"I'm supposed to be on duty," I say.

He smiles, but his eyelids do not rise. His cheekbones are pronounced, like he hasn't eaten anything in years. But the dressy vest and freshly polished shoes tell me he was born like that.

"Surely you can spare a few minutes for a quick game," the man says. "You're not a stoker, are you?"

"No. I'm just a cabin boy."

He flicks his chin at me. "Good. A tiny guy like yourself would be crisp by the time we reach New York. I only ask because now I can call you to play cards whenever I feel lonely."

"Is that often?"

"You would think not."

The man placed the cards face down on the table and extended a hand. "My name is Victor."

I smiled and took his hand, introducing myself in the mimicked version of his charm. I'm not that good at formal speaking, though I hardly needed the practice when it came to Victor. His relaxed demeanor seemed to mirror the ocean below us. He and I talked about our travels, even though it ended with Victor taking the stage. I didn't mind. I didn't have much to contribute to anyway.