Night had fallen silent, darker than usual. No moon, no stars. The sky was a black blot without a horizon, and the Oceanus moved forward like a sleeping palace, barely lit by its own lights.
Samuel didn't have dinner that night. He stayed in his cabin, awake, dressed, coat on. Something in his chest weighed like lead. It wasn't anxiety—it was certainty. As if his body knew what his mind hadn't yet admitted.
Past midnight, he felt it.
A dry shudder. It wasn't a blow like before, but a break. Something gave way deep in the hull. A kind of contained crack, long and deep. The ship shook slightly. This time, Samuel wasn't the only one who noticed.
Footsteps began in the hallways. First a few, then more. Some doors opened. Voices called out to each other. The corridor filled with confused murmurs.
He left his cabin with his briefcase in hand. The flashlight hung from his pocket. He climbed to the deck via a side staircase. The air was colder than usual. The sea, however, looked still. Too still.
From above, he saw a group of crew running toward the stern. They weren't moving as part of routine service. They ran with urgency, with poorly concealed fear.
Then he heard the word for the first time:
"Flood!"
It came from a distant, broken voice. Then another. And another.
There was no collective scream. Not yet. Just a slow spread of fear, like water seeping under a door. People leaving their cabins, still in pajamas. Parents carrying half-asleep children. Women with blankets over their shoulders. The staff tried to keep calm, but orders no longer sounded so firm.
Samuel went down the opposite side, toward a section where he knew the lifeboats were stored. It wasn't the main evacuation area, but something pushed him in that direction. As he moved, the ship began to tilt slightly. A minimal, but steady angle.
And then, as if the Oceanus had decided to stop pretending, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then went out.
Darkness was total.
Screams. This time, yes. Not a collective panic, but the outbreak of human fragility: real, raw fear. Someone stumbled, someone else cried with a broken voice. Alarms began to sound, late and not all at once. Some stayed silent.
Samuel turned on his flashlight. He moved toward one of the emergency rafts, one of those covered, orange structures designed for twenty people. It was tied up, closed, forgotten. Not yet in use. No one had reached it.
Looking around, he understood why: everyone was heading to the main boats, the protocol ones. To the brighter sectors, with more staff. But something told him that order wouldn't hold for long.
Behind him, a roar sounded. It wasn't voices. It was the ship itself. The hull giving way somewhere. A deep, metallic, tearing sound, as if the Oceanus was being opened from within.
Samuel untied the rope as best he could, his hands trembling but steady. He knew he was doing the right thing, even if he couldn't prove it.
A group rushed past him; no one noticed. They were too worried about reaching where they thought they'd be safe.
When the raft hit the sea with a dull thud, Samuel grabbed its edge and climbed down the side rope. His feet touched the water for a second, icy as knives, before he climbed up with effort inside. He closed the canvas hatch and curled up inside.
From there, he heard the sounds that luxury couldn't mask: screams, orders, jets of water hitting metal, the agonizing creak of the hull.
The raft drifted away, floating silently. The waves pushed it, gentle at first. Samuel looked out through the plastic window.
The Oceanus was still standing, but tilted. Very tilted. Like a wounded animal still breathing, but not for much longer.
The deck filled with shadows. Some boats were already lowering. Others were stuck. Some people were jumping into the water without hesitation.
Samuel, soaked to the bone, with his knife still stowed and flashlight off to avoid being seen, watched the ship lose its shape against the night.
He was alone.
And the ocean was immense.