Chapter 2: Horror Cruise (Part 2)
I recognized her. She'd been on the high-speed rail trip too—a survivor.
It made sense. Anyone who could survive a Death Trip would have skills. After she finished her set, she caught my reflection in the mirror and turned around. Our eyes met.
"It's you." She wasn't particularly surprised, just set down her dumbbells and looked me over. "I remember you—got bitten on the face by that kid in the bathroom on the train. You're the new blood."
That scar on my face—it really was distinctive.
"I'm Ryan Knox," I said. "You know a lot of people's backgrounds?"
"Selene." She didn't shake my hand, just stated her name. "Used to be a private investigator. I know a bit about most people on these trips. Who are you looking for?"
"Drake. About six-foot-three, scar across his face, right arm replaced with a golden hook shaped like a dragon."
"I know him." Selene's eyes flickered. "Why are you looking for him?"
"Personal grudge."
"A personal grudge against Drake?" She looked at me like I was suicidal. "He's a 14K assassination consultant. He's killed more fighters than you can count. Even Quinn, the WBC champion, died at his hands."
Even she knew about Quinn.
"So he is on this ship?" I pressed.
"No. I checked the entire passenger manifest—Drake isn't on this trip."
I was disappointed but also relieved. Drake wasn't here, which meant I didn't have to face that nightmare again—yet.
"Since you seem pretty informed," I said, "can you tell me anything else about this trip?"
"There are a lot of players this time—193 passengers. A large proportion are repeat Survivors, which means more experienced fighters. This is my third trip." She paused. "On my first trip, out of 80 participants, only 11 survived. On my second, 100 participants, only 7 survived. Do the math."
I swallowed hard. The survival rate was terrifyingly low.
"Survivors get entry into the next trip, and the rewards keep getting bigger," Selene continued. "This time it's eight hundred thousand. The next will probably be over a million. But the death rate keeps climbing too."
"Why do you keep participating?"
Selene didn't answer right away. She grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from her brow, then said quietly: "My father. He disappeared during a Death Trip. I'm here to find out what happened to him."
Her father—I'd heard enough stories to understand. Everyone drawn into these trips had their own reasons, their own ghosts.
"I'll be honest with you," she said, wrapping the towel around her neck. "I'm good at gathering intelligence, not combat. If we team up, we cover each other's weaknesses. What do you say?"
I thought about it. In a trip with 193 passengers and mostly experienced killers, having someone who understood the players was an advantage I couldn't pass up.
"Alright, we're allies."
"Good." Selene didn't waste time on pleasantries. "First piece of free advice: stay away from your cabin mate."
"You saw him?"
"Saw his file. He's a forensic psychologist—specializes in criminal profiling. His name is Jasper Locke, and he's completed two Death Trips. He looks harmless, but he's one of the most dangerous people on this ship."
A forensic psychologist on two previous trips—that explained the "Abnormal Psychology" book. And it also explained why he'd seemed so calm and collected. People like that understood human behavior better than anyone; they knew exactly how to manipulate, predict, and exploit.
Great. So my cabin was shared with a high-functioning psychopath.
"One more thing," Selene added. "There's a monk on this trip—a martial artist. He specializes in a technique called the Iron Bell. He's not aggressive by nature, but he's nearly impossible to hurt. If you end up in a fight with him, don't bother attacking—just run."
A monk with an Iron Bell technique? That was a new one. I filed it away.
The broadcast crackled to life overhead. "Attention, all passengers. The Rose has now entered international waters. The Death Trip officially begins. Combat is now permitted in all zones except the captain's cabin and the medical bay. Good luck."
The game was on.
The air in the fitness area instantly changed. Selene and I exchanged a glance and moved quickly toward the door. The ship was huge—9 decks—but the fighting would start in the confined spaces. Passages, stairwells, cabins—those were the kill zones.
As we stepped out of the fitness area, I heard a scream from the restaurant level below. The bloodshed had begun.
I looked at Selene. "Where to?"
"Higher decks. Fewer people, more room to maneuver. The cabins on Deck 7 and above are mostly unoccupied—we can find a defensible position and wait it out."
It was a sound strategy. In a Battle Royale with nearly 200 people, the smart move was to avoid the initial chaos and let the numbers thin out.
We made our way up the stairs. On Deck 4, a man burst out of a cabin, clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers. He stumbled toward us, eyes wide with terror, before collapsing face-first on the deck.
Behind him, a woman stepped out of the cabin, wiping a knife on her sleeve. She saw us and smiled—then went back inside and closed her door.
This was the reality of the Death Trip. No rules. No mercy.
We kept moving. On Deck 6, we encountered our first real obstacle: a group of three men blocking the stairwell leading up. They looked like they'd been waiting.
One of them cracked his knuckles. "Two more ticket stubs. Nice."
I stepped in front of Selene. Three on one wasn't ideal, but in a narrow stairwell, they couldn't all attack at once.
The first one lunged. I sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and used his momentum to slam him face-first into the metal railing. He howled in pain and went down.
The second one was more cautious—he threw a punch aimed at my head. I blocked, countered with a short right hook to his solar plexus, and he folded like an accordion.
The third one was already running back down the stairs. Smart man.
"Nice," Selene said behind me. "I made the right call."
"Don't congratulate me yet. We need to keep moving."
We reached Deck 8 without further incident. Selene led me to an unoccupied cabin at the far end of the corridor, near the emergency exit.
"This works. One way in, one way out, and we can hear anyone coming down the hall."
We locked the door and barricaded it with furniture. Through the cabin window, I could see the endless dark ocean stretching out beneath a ceiling of stars.
And somewhere on this floating fortress, 191 other people were fighting for their lives—or taking them.
The first hour was the worst. Screams, crashes, and the unmistakable sounds of violence filtered up through the ship. Selene sat cross-legged on the bed, calm as a monk, while I paced the room like a caged animal.
"How can you be so calm?" I asked.
"Practice. This is my third trip. After you've watched enough people die, you learn to compartmentalize."
She said it matter-of-factly, without bravado. I could tell she wasn't heartless—just experienced. There was a hardness in her eyes that hadn't been there on the train.
"And your father?" I asked. "What happened to him?"
"My father's name is Victor Day. He was a researcher—brilliant, but obsessed with his work. He started going on these trips about five years ago. At first, I thought he was just traveling for conferences. Then I found out the truth." She looked at me. "He disappeared on his fourth trip. No body, no ticket stub returned, no explanation. The organization doesn't give you information about missing travelers."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm going to find out what happened to him—or die trying."
There was a knock at the door. Both of us jumped.
"Room service," a voice called out cheerfully.
I looked at Selene. She shook her head slowly and mouthed: "Don't open it."
"Heads up!" the voice called again. "Captain's orders—everyone needs to proceed to the main dining hall on Deck 2. The ship has encountered some mechanical difficulties, and we need all passengers accounted for."
"That's not the captain's voice," Selene whispered.
She was right—it was too casual, too cheerful. In a Death Trip, nothing was what it seemed.
The knocking stopped. Footsteps retreated down the corridor. I waited a full minute before moving the barricade aside and peering out.
The corridor was empty. But the stage was set—someone was trying to lure us out.
"Stay put," I said. "Or better yet—let's find another way to observe."
We went to the window. From our position on Deck 8, we had a partial view of the port side. Below us, I could see figures moving on the deck. Small clusters of people, fighting, chasing—or just standing watch.
This was going to be a long five hours.