The rest of the night tried its best to appear normal.
The musicians resumed the waltz from the beginning, as if a new melody could erase the whisper of metal brushing against the depths. Waiters returned with trays of drinks, guests resettled in their seats, and even a few jokes began to drift between the tables. Nothing soothes anxiety better than pretending it doesn't exist.
Samuel, however, didn't sit down again.
He had gone back to the deck. The air was colder than before—or maybe it just felt that way under the weight on his shoulders. He leaned on the railing once more, eyes fixed on the black horizon, barely broken by the faint reflection of the moon.
His breathing was steady, but his mind was not. The memory of that groan kept repeating itself, over and over, as if his body needed to convince him he hadn't imagined it.
"It wasn't just a vibration," he told himself. "I felt it in my bones."
An officer walked by, speaking quietly to another uniformed man. They didn't seem alarmed, but something about their body language—the stiffness in their shoulders, the long pauses between phrases—didn't quite match the image of calm.
Samuel remained there for a few more minutes. Then he went down to the cabin level, walking with firm steps. The carpet muffled his footsteps, and the air felt warm—too warm for the cold sense of dread crawling down his spine.
He entered his cabin, closed the door, and stood still in the dim light. Everything was in place. Too much in place.
Then, almost without thinking, he opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a wooden-handled knife he had brought with him—a personal part of his travel kit. It was no longer than his forearm, but sharp. He ran a finger along the edge. He didn't need it. Not yet. But something inside him insisted it was better to have it close.
He wrapped it in a dark handkerchief and slipped it into his briefcase, along with a flashlight and his notebook.
Not paranoia, he told himself. Just caution.
He sat on the bed without undressing. The ship felt stable. Outside, the voices were calm, muffled by wood and steel.
And yet, the silence had weight.
A weight that hadn't been there before.
A few minutes passed.
There was a knock at the door.
"Mr. Rossi, excuse me," said a young man in uniform, polite and composed. "The captain wishes to inform the passengers that the ship experienced slight friction with a submerged formation.
Nothing serious, but as a precaution, we'll be inspecting a few areas. Everything is under control. Please continue enjoying your trip."
Samuel looked at him silently, gave a small nod, and when the door closed again, he murmured to himself:
"That's what they always say before something goes wrong."
He didn't return to the salon that night. He remained in his cabin, seated in an armchair near the reading lamp. Coat still on, briefcase at his feet, and his pocket watch ticking louder than usual with every second.
Outside, the Oceanus continued its voyage.
Serene. Impeccable.
With the confidence of something unafraid of what it cannot see.
But Samuel was afraid.
He didn't know of what, exactly.
Only that something, down there, had brushed against the ship… and it hadn't done so by accident.