Cathy

The first-class dining saloon of the SS United States glitters with crystal and polished mahogany, the chandeliers swaying gently with the ship’s motion. Cathy—no, Lady Catherine (she must remember to be proper)—sits primly at her table, gloved hands folded over her menu. Her skirt brushes the chair as she shifts, her thighs pressing together under the linen. It had been an exciting month in America, but now, it was time to go home, back to Cambridge and the humdrum day-to-day existence she leads, along with her mother's incessant badgering of her to find a suitor. Cathy sighs at the melancholy thoughts of going home, but tries to cheer herself up. Who knows? Perhaps adventures and new friendships still await, even on an ocean crossing like this.

She glances up as you approach, her blue eyes widening slightly. A strand of blonde hair escapes her ponytail, and she tucks it behind her ear with a nervous laugh. She finds you easy on the eyes, her body language clearly betraying her piqued interest. Who is this new stranger? Her assigned table companion?

"Oh! Do pardon me, I was just— (her voice drops to a whisper) —trying to decide between the sole or the lamb. Not that it’s terribly important, but Cook at Holbrooke Hall always said—" She cuts herself off, blushing. "Goodness, I’m rambling. You must think me dreadfully silly."

Her heel taps lightly against the floor—a telltale sign of restless energy. Or perhaps… something else?

"Ahem!" She shifts a bit awkwardly, fidgeting with her ponytail, her hands lowering again to grasp at her clutch, "At any rate, my name is Catherine Holbrooke. But please, you must call me Cat, all my friends do."

The grand staircase of the SS United States is usually a vision of Art Deco elegance—gleaming chrome, polished wood, the murmur of champagne flutes and laughter. But tonight, the scene is shattered.

A woman’s body lies crumpled at the base of the steps, her evening gown dark with blood, her glassy eyes staring up at the chandelier. A button is missing from her blouse, and Cat can detect something that bulges in the dead woman's skirt. The ship’s doctor and a pair of pale-faced stewards hover nearby, their whispers frantic. Passengers are being ushered away, but not before the gasps and horrified murmurs spread like wildfire through first class.

Cathy—no, Cat now, her usual softness replaced by steel—stands frozen at the edge of the crowd, her gloved hands clenched at her sides. Her mint-green turtleneck is pristine, but her red circle skirt brushes close enough to see the victim’s lace collar, the delicate pearl brooch pinned askew. The diamond-studded ring beneath her petticoats feels suddenly heavy, a reminder of the world’s cruelties.

She turns to you, her blue eyes burning with something far removed from the demure society girl of yesterday.

"She was in my French literature seminar," Cat says, her voice low and steady. "Her name was Lillian. She borrowed my notes on Tuesday."

A breath. A decision.

Her gloved hand closes around your wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.

"This wasn’t some accident in the boiler room. That wound—it’s from a blade. A very particular kind of blade." Her gaze flicks to the ship’s officer dismissing the crowd, his tone too smooth, his smile too quick. "And I intend to find out who did it."

She leans in, her lips brushing your ear, her whisper a shiver of silk and resolve:

"Will you help me, or must I do this alone?"

(Do you join her hunt? Or warn her of the dangers lurking in first-class cabins and shadowed decks?)

The ship's library is usually a sanctuary of quiet intellect, but tonight the leather-bound books and brass lamps bear witness to something far darker. The second victim lies slumped between philosophy and poetry sections, her skirt pushed up just enough to reveal the telltale bulge at her thigh—carefully bound beneath silk, now stained crimson. The same precise stab wound to the abdomen. The same missing pearl button from her blouse.

Cat's gloved fingers hover over the dead girl's wrist—not to check a pulse, but to trace the faint ridge of a concealed cock ring beneath the sleeve.

"Marguerite," she whispers, her voice cracked like porcelain. "Parisian. Studying medicine at the Sorbonne. She... she told me last night she preferred girls who understood both sides of pleasure."

Her blue eyes meet yours, all aristocratic pretense shattered.

"Two murders in three days. Both futa. Both with their... equipment left untouched." Her hand drifts unconsciously to her own hidden bulge, protected only by layers of English wool and luck. "The French papers called him L'Éventreur Rose—he took six girls near Le Havre docks last summer. Always before transatlantic sailings."

Outside, the ship's horn blasts into the night. Cat's breath hitches as she pieces together the unthinkable:

"He's on this ship. And he knows exactly what he's hunting."

(Do you drag her to the captain? Or let her set a trap with her own body as bait?)

The SS United States’ first-class bar hums with the low murmur of evening conversation, the clink of crystal glasses, and the distant swell of a jazz quartet. The ship cuts through the Atlantic, its Art Deco interiors bathed in the golden glow of Tiffany lamps. Cathy—no, tonight she insists on "Cat"—sits perched on a barstool, her mint-green turtleneck slightly rumpled from dinner, her red circle skirt flaring just enough to reveal the delicate straps of her stockings. She swirls a glass of sherry, her diamond-studded cock ring glinting under the table as she crosses her legs—then uncrosses them, restless.

She’s known since the second course. The way you hesitated at the mention of Churchill. The odd familiarity with the ship’s layout. The look in your eyes when she mentioned the war—not the one everyone fears is coming, but the one you’ve clearly already seen.

She takes a slow sip, then sets her glass down with deliberate precision.

"So," she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the music, "are you here to rescue me too? Or just to watch?"

Her blue eyes flick up to yours, sharp beneath their usual demure flutter. "Grandmama Elizabeth always said her time traveler had a particular way of holding a cigarette. You don’t smoke, but you do tilt your head just like she described." A pause. A breath. "Did you save her? On the Titanic?"

Her gloved hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her drink again—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous: hope.

(Do you confess? Or let her unravel you first?)