April 12, 1927 — Cork Harbour, Ireland
The morning fog lay thick over Cork Harbour, clinging to the docks like a damp, cold shroud.
The sea breeze carried not the clean scent of the ocean, but the acrid smell of rusted machinery, rotting fish, and the sweat of a weary crowd.
The cranes along the waterfront loomed as vague, shadowy silhouettes.
At the boarding gate of Pier 3, passengers shuffled slowly along the slippery wooden planks.
"Line up! Everyone in line! Push again, and you'll regret it!" a crewman shouted from atop a cargo crate, his uniform streaked with oil and grime.
"Tickets and documents ready! Don't waste my time!"
Two burly assistants moved through the crowd like shepherds, jostling luggage aside with their canes.
A drunken man surged forward, trying to cut in line. He was shoved back violently, and the crowd murmured in disapproval.
"Why so rough…" muttered a young boy nearby.
"Quiet, William!" an old woman snapped, tugging at his sleeve. "If they hear you, they'll toss you into the sea!"
Seventeen-year-old Shane D. Cassidy stood nearby, tall and lean, his red hair falling over sharp blue eyes that scanned the chaos with cool detachment. His grey overcoat was neat despite its worn edges. He held the hand of his little sister, Mary, who looked pale and exhausted.
"My foot hurts," Mary complained softly, the heel of her shoe already rubbed raw.
Shane knelt, pulling a clean strip of cloth from his pocket to bandage her foot with precise, careful movements. "Why didn't you say earlier?" he murmured.
Mary winced but smiled faintly as Shane adjusted the wrap. He rose, surveying the slums of Cork Harbour in the distance. His canvas backpack, bulky from survival supplies, rested against his shoulder.
Two months prior, Shane had awoken in this body, his consciousness displaced from decades into the past. He had quickly adapted to this life, selling whatever could be converted to cash, burying the deceased, and focusing on one goal: America.
The line moved forward, tension rising as a drunken passenger shouted, pushing toward the first-class gate.
"Return to your place, or you won't go anywhere!" a senior officer in a dark blue uniform commanded, his voice calm but unyielding. The golden anchor insignia on his chest gleamed in the pale light.
Shane assessed the situation, stepping between the drunkard and the officer. "Sir, perhaps a cigarette first? The ship will wait. Calm down."
The man, staring at Shane's steady eyes, hesitated before taking the cigarette. The officer motioned, and two crewmen escorted the man aside.
"Handled cleverly," the First Mate remarked, studying Shane. "I'm MacDonald, First Mate of the Free Star. And you are?"
"Shane Cassidy, sir,' Shane replied with a respectful nod."
"Cassidy… I'll remember that. Let's see how you fare on board."
Documents checked, tickets verified, Shane led Mary onto the gangway. The metal grated underfoot as the ocean liner's whistle blew. Slowly, the Free Star pulled away, leaving the Irish coastline behind.
Shane and Mary stood on the third-class deck, watching the receding shores swallowed by fog.
The morning sun pierced the mist in scattered golden rays. Shane's thoughts had already crossed the Atlantic, landing in 1927 New York City.
In his previous life, he had known the city's streets, its booming industries, and the tension bubbling beneath the surface: the rise of Wall Street finance, labor unrest, and the undercurrent of organized crime. He knew that if he wanted a new life—and the power and security to protect Mary—he had to establish himself quickly in this new world, preparing for challenges yet to come.