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Atlantic Ocean.
April 10th, 1912.
Chaos and destruction had followed Agatha for centuries, like shadows cast in the wake of her every step. After nearly three hundred years, they were her only constants—the bitter companions of a life steeped in dark magic and power. Yet, here she was, standing on the deck of the grandest ship ever built by mortal hands: the Titanic, the crown jewel of human ingenuity, a monument to their audacity.
Of course they were proud. How could they not be? A vessel like this, a floating palace that defied the elements, carrying the hopes and dreams of the rich and poor alike, gleaming with excess and grandeur. It was more than just a ship—it was a symbol. A promise that humanity could rise above nature itself, conquer the depths of the ocean, and traverse the seas unscathed.
Of course they were proud. The weight of their pride hung heavy in the air, palpable in every breath Agatha took, thick with the arrogance of the elite who believed themselves untouchable. But Agatha knew better. Pride like that always demanded a price. The sea was hungry, and no ship—not even one as great as this—could escape its reach forever.
Still, Agatha hadn't come for the mortals. Their fate, sealed beneath the icy waves, was of no concern to her. She was after something far more valuable: hidden among the passengers, cloaked in wealth and false smiles, was a coven, one that had spent years slipping through her fingers, weaving themselves into the fabric of high society, thinking they were safe among the aristocracy. However, Agatha was all too familiar with their kind. Where else would they hide but among the powerful and the privileged, drowning in decadence, thinking they were untouchable? They believed the Titanic would carry them to a new world, to safety. But Agatha, too, had boarded this doomed vessel.
She had come to claim their magic before the sea claimed them all.
Agatha sighed as she walked along the upper deck, her gaze sweeping across the endless expanse of sea. An ocean of possibilities—quite literally—and one singular certainty: nothing would end well for this ship. She knew it, had always known. One didn’t need the clairvoyant gifts of Lilia Calderu to understand that greatness always came at a price.
"Good evening, miss," a firm voice broke through her thoughts. She turned to find Captain Edward Smith standing before her, dressed in his impeccable uniform, his neatly trimmed gray beard framing a face marked by authority.
"Captain," she replied with a slight smile, allowing a subtle, comfortable familiarity to settle between them like the gentle breeze rolling off the sea.
For a moment, he studied her. Something about Agatha seemed to catch him—something intangible that he couldn’t quite name but which caused him to pause, as if held by an invisible thread.
"Are you enjoying the voyage?" he asked, perhaps out of protocol, perhaps out of something more. His words were measured, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath the formality.
Agatha turned her gaze back to the ocean, her lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "It’s... a unique experience, I won’t deny that," she said, her tone laced with just enough irony to be noticeable but not too obvious. After all, how often did one have a front-row seat to such impending tragedy?
"I’m very pleased to hear that, miss," he replied, stepping a little closer, his presence accompanied by the faint scent of salt and tobacco that clung to him. "If I may ask... what is your final destination?"
There it was—the inevitable small talk, the thinly veiled curiosity. Agatha could almost taste the underlying flirtation in his voice, though masked by the propriety of his rank. It didn’t surprise her. Men, even those in high positions of power, always had a peculiar fascination with women who carried secrets in their eyes, as if drawn to the allure of the unknown.
She held his gaze for a moment, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips, before glancing out at the horizon once more. “Final destination? Now, Captain, that’s an interesting question. One could say we're all headed toward the same end, aren’t we?"
Her words hung in the air, almost too light for the weight they carried. She could see the flicker of confusion pass through his eyes, the brief flash of uncertainty that quickly hid behind his composed demeanor. He didn’t understand, of course, but how could he? Men like him, so certain of their mastery over the world, rarely glimpsed the undercurrent of inevitability flowing beneath their feet.
"Well, let’s just hope that end is a long way off," he replied, offering a smile that was meant to reassure, though Agatha could hear the unspoken question behind it. There was always a question.
"Oh, Captain," she said softly, her voice a gentle tease as her eyes drifted to meet his again. "I suppose we’ll find out soon enough."
Edward chuckled softly, a low, amused sound. “Now you've got me curious. Are you running from something?”
“Let’s just say I’m looking for something,” Agatha replied, her tone softening as she felt the faint pulse of magic in the air around her—the subtle presence of the witches she sought. They were here, hidden somewhere aboard this floating palace, thinking that anonymity among the rich and powerful would shield them. She was certain of it.
But nothing could protect those who crossed Agatha Harkness’s path.
“If you need anything during the voyage, don’t hesitate to seek me out,” the Captain offered, his smile kind but with an unmistakable glint behind it. Agatha recognized that look all too well.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, her voice cool enough to keep his flirtation at a distance, yet still laced with enough intrigue to hold his interest.
As soon as he walked away, Agatha exhaled, her fingers curling around the railing of the ship as she gazed out at the sea. The water stretched endlessly before her, and beneath its dark surface, the future churned—a future these mortals were oblivious to. It was almost laughable. All their effort, all their grandeur, and in the end, for what? For the ship to sink into the depths, taking with it lives that barely grasped the reality unraveling around them?
The coven was here. She could feel the flickers of power, like distant embers, dancing in the shadows. And the Titanic, with all its gleaming splendor? Soon, it would be nothing more than a broken monument to human arrogance, resting at the bottom of the ocean. There was an inevitability to it, a sense of fated ruin that Agatha found oddly poetic. They had dared to defy nature, to build something so grand, so untouchable in their eyes, but she knew better than anyone that nothing was untouchable. Even the greatest creations could fall, brought low by forces they couldn’t control or even see.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the pull of magic guide her, feeling the heartbeat of the ship beneath her feet. The witches were close. They thought they could hide, but Agatha could already sense the edges of their spells, the delicate web of power they had woven to shield themselves.
Soon, she would find them. And when she did, their magic would be hers.
Atlantic Ocean.
April 11th, 1912.
The elite of the Titanic gathered in the grand ballroom, all glittering jewels and empty smiles. Laughter bubbled in the air like champagne—sweet but meaningless—and the orchestra played a waltz that swayed through the room as if it, too, were enchanted by the illusion of grandeur. Agatha, clad in tailored trousers of rich black and deep violet, paired with a white button-up shirt adorned with delicate ruffles, moved through the crowd with practiced grace, indulging in idle conversation. To anyone watching, she was the perfect picture of sophistication, but her thoughts were far from the meaningless chatter around her. She smiled at all the right moments, laughed where she should, but her mind wandered elsewhere. Always hunting.
These fools, with their grandiosity, so proud of their unsinkable creation, had no idea how close they were to ruin. And wasn’t that always the way? The higher they climbed, the harder they fell. Agatha had learned that lesson long before most of the souls on this ship had even drawn breath, and it was a truth that never failed to reveal itself. She watched them, one by one, with their glittering jewels, their smug smiles, the ease with which they moved through the world as if it had been crafted solely for their pleasure. It was all so predictable. Wealth had a way of making people blind to their own fragility, and Agatha could already sense the delicate cracks beneath their polished exteriors.
But her focus wasn’t on them. Not really. Her senses were attuned to something far more important. Hidden among these wealthy fools were those who possessed something far greater than riches. Power. Real power, woven into the very fabric of this glittering elite, magic disguised beneath fine silks and practiced smiles. She could feel it—faint pulses of energy, like whispers in the air, leading her closer to her goal. Each one a potential target, each one a step closer to what she had come for.
Yet as she stood there, scanning the room with her piercing gaze, something shifted. A ripple in the magic, a disturbance that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. It wasn’t the coven. No, this energy was different. It was darker, sharper, and far more familiar than she had expected to encounter on this ship.
Agatha’s eyes narrowed, her focus sharpening. She knew this energy. She had known it for centuries, had felt it in moments when she least expected it, just before their paths had crossed. And now, it was here, humming in the air like a song only she could hear. A presence that tugged at something deep within her, something she thought she had buried a long time ago.
Rio.
Of course. Of course she would be here.
Just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, walking out on the upper deck, her figure moved with a familiar grace—dark, fluid, untouchable. The light from the ballroom windows barely reached her, but there was no mistaking her. Even after all these years, Agatha would know that presence anywhere.
Agatha’s breath caught, but only for a moment, her mind already racing. Of all the places, of all the ships, here she was—on this ship. The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. She felt something stir within her, an old echo of emotions long buried under layers of ambition. She shook it off, reminding herself of what mattered now. This wasn’t the time for nostalgia, and certainly not for weakness. But… the mere sight of Rio on the deck had knocked something loose in her, something she couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore either.
With a practiced smile, she excused herself from the dull conversation she had barely been following and slipped through the crowd, unnoticed as always when she wanted to be. As she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a wave, sharp and refreshing, pulling her focus back. The deck was quieter, the distant hum of the ship’s engines the only sound as she moved, her eyes locked on Rio’s figure ahead. There was something almost poetic about it, Agatha thought as she followed at a distance. The two of them, reunited by chance—or fate, if she believed in such things. Rio walked with the same quiet confidence she always had, her long, dark hair flowing behind her like a shadow, the night itself seeming to cling to her. Agatha’s lips curled into a wry smile.
Agatha’s steps were quiet as she trailed her, moving like a predator closing in on its prey, though the dynamic between them had always been far more complicated than that. There was something achingly familiar about this—following Rio, watching her from the shadows, waiting for the moment when they would finally speak again. She could still feel the pull of the coven somewhere on board, but that could wait. For now, all her attention was on Rio. The woman she hadn’t seen in over five decades or so, the one who had always seemed to slip just beyond her reach when it mattered most.
And here they were again, like characters in a play they both knew too well.
The path to the Observation Deck was brief, but as Agatha finally reached Rio, she leaned against the railing, the salty breeze playfully tousling her hair while she studied the brunette before her. “So… Still in the business of collecting souls, huh? I would’ve thought you’d have moved on to something a bit more... glamorous,” she teased, letting a playful lilt color her words.
Rio’s lips curled into a half-smile as she turned her head slightly, catching Agatha's gaze. Her eyes were insanely beautiful under the moonlight.
“Glamorous? You mean like mingling with the upper crust of society? Not really my style, you know that.” She paused, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, this crowd is hardly worth my time right now. They’re too busy polishing their egos to notice what’s happening around them.”
“But there’s a certain charm in the decadence, don’t you think?” Agatha countered, raising an eyebrow. “All this opulence, and yet they remain blissfully unaware of the darkness lurking beneath the surface. It’s almost poetic.”
“Or tragically naive,” Rio replied, her tone light but with an edge of seriousness. “But I suppose that’s where you come in—always the one to dance in the fire.”
“Touché,” Agatha replied, leaning in closer, the tension between them thickening. “And you’re here for the flames, not the warmth.”
The brunette chuckled softly, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Why settle for warmth when you can have the whole inferno? Besides, it’s more fun to watch everything burn from a safe distance.”
“Right. The classic approach of a firestarter,” Agatha teased, leaning in just enough to feel the warmth radiating from Rio. “ I know you always did enjoy the spectacle of chaos, but what do you really gain from it? Souls, sure, but is that all there is to it?”
Rio’s gaze sharpened, her playful demeanor momentarily giving way to something deeper. “It’s not just about the souls, Agatha. It’s about the stories—the lives that flicker out, leaving behind whispers of who they once were. Each soul has its own history, its own power. And you know I can’t resist a good story.”
As Rio spoke, her gaze locked onto Agatha's, an electric current pulsing between them—an undeniable pull, as if gravity itself had shifted, drawing her closer to Rio’s magnetic presence. The intensity of their shared history lingered in the air, and Agatha could see it reflected in Rio’s eyes—the flicker of unspoken desire, the way her lips curved into a teasing smile that hinted at something more profound just beneath the surface… Each heartbeat resonated with the familiar rhythm of their connection and Agatha noticed the way Rio’s gaze dipped to her lips, a barely-there longing that sent a shiver down her spine. It had always been like this between them: a dance of attraction and hesitation, of fire and ice.
Just as Agatha felt herself slowly leaning in, caught in the moment, Rio broke the spell, her voice smooth, showing her intentions in a way Agatha recognized instantly. “I have a proposition for you.”
The purple witch narrowed her eyes slightly. “Should I be scared?”
Rio leaned closer. “What if we made this night even more unforgettable? I could use your talents to intensify the tragedy on this ship. The chaos, the despair… it would create a perfect storm for collecting souls. And in return, I’ll help you find the coven you’re after.”
“You want me to help you exacerbate a disaster for your own gain?” Agatha raised her right eyebrow. “You know I can find the witches by myself.”
“I know you can,” Rio replied, her tone believably enticing. “But think about it, Aggie. Working together could be... exhilarating. Just like Switzerland, remember? It’s not all bad when you embrace the chaos.”
The way the nickname left Rio’s lips made a shiver run through Agatha’s spine. “Fun and work—quite the combination you’re suggesting.” She weighed her options, the flicker of intrigue dancing in her chest.
“Exactly,” Rio purred, her eyes glimmering with mischief. “Imagine the stories we could gather together, the power we could harness...”
For a heartbeat, the world around them faded into the background, the cacophony of the party drowning out. Agatha’s pulse quickened at the thought of the risks, the thrill of working alongside Rio again, and the sound of Rio’s low voice reaching places . “And what’s in it for you, really? Just a few more souls to add to your collection?”
“That, and…” Rio’s smile turned sly. “I get to work with you again.”
Agatha paused, her eyes scanning the other woman with attention. They had a history. They had a past together—a really, really fucked up past, to say the least. Agatha knew who Rio was, and Rio was probably the first person in Agatha's life to actually see her for who she really was and not some distorted version that everyone else knew.
“So, basically… You just missed me?” Agatha teased. Of course she would deflect it with some sort of flirty joke or whatever.
One of the things Agatha loved the most about Rio—and probably one of the things that made her want to kill her at the same time—was that insanely annoying and extremely hot confidence, with which Rio was capable of leading every conversation if she wanted to.
“I've never lied about that.” Rio stepped closer. “If I recall it correctly, you're the one who gets off on saying that you hate me.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “That's because I do hate you.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But your body betrays you everytime.”
Agatha’s breath hitched as Rio stepped closer. The space between them seemed to shrink with every second, until their bodies were mere inches apart. Rio’s dark eyes locked onto hers, a familiar intensity simmering in their depths—a challenge, a question—, and Agatha could feel the warmth of her breath, the teasing proximity of her lips. Rio was right—despite the sharp retort on the tip of Agatha’s tongue, her body reacted differently.
There was always this push-and-pull between them, the line between hatred and desire blurring in a way that left Agatha's thoughts tangled and her pulse racing. Rio's gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there, and Agatha felt her heart hammering against her chest. She swallowed her, discreetly, almost imperceptibly. She hated the way her body betrayed her, responding to Rio’s nearness, the heat rolling off her skin, and most of all, she hated Rio for knowing exactly how to push her buttons, for always bringing her to this point. Even so, she couldn’t deny it—there was something between them, a dangerous spark that never truly died. Even after all this time.
Rio’s lips were so close now, barely brushing hers as she whispered, “See? Your body knows what it wants.”
Agatha's eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, her mind fighting for control over the pull of her instincts. The tension was suffocating as she stepped back, only to be stopped by the cold railing of the observation deck behind her. Rio wasn’t touching her—she didn’t need to. The air between them crackled with anticipation, with all the things they’d never said but had always known. It was maddening, this dance they did.
Agatha opened her eyes, catching Rio’s gaze again, and there it was—that silent question, the flicker of respect in the way she held herself back, waiting for Agatha to make the next move. Despite the fire that burned between them, there was always a measure of control, of caution, that had kept them on the edge. As if they both knew how easily they could destroy each other if they weren’t careful. Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach out, to close the distance. Agatha tilted her chin up ever so slightly, an answer in the subtle shift of her stance, and Rio’s smirk softened, her eyes never leaving Agatha’s as she leaned in further, until their lips finally met.
The kiss was slow, yet charged with all the tension that had been simmering beneath the surface. Agatha’s hands found their way to Rio’s waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened, the heat between them rising with every second. For a moment, the world outside of them ceased to exist—no ship, no ocean, no covens, no souls, no past grudges. Just the raw, undeniable connection that had always been there, waiting to ignite. When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, the weight of what had just happened hung between them, unspoken but understood.
“Still hate me?” Rio murmured, her forehead resting against Agatha’s, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Agatha let out a breathy laugh, her fingers still gripping Rio’s waist. “More than ever,” she whispered, though the way her hands held onto Rio told a different story. She leaned in slightly, their lips brushing again, teasing, as if neither could bear the space between them. "And I’m starting to think you like it that way."
Rio’s eyes gleamed, a spark of mischief mixed with something deeper. “Oh, I definitely do,” she whispered against Agatha’s lips, the tension sparking between them once more. She ran a hand down Agatha’s side, fingers light, but enough to send a shiver through her. “Hate never felt this good, didn't it?”
Words were unnecessary to reply to that question. Agatha’s hold on Rio’s waist became tighter, pulling her closer, until there was barely any space left between them. Her lips crashed into Rio's again, this time with more urgency, the slow burn of their earlier kiss igniting into something way fiercer. Every pent-up emotion—the frustration, the unspoken history, the undeniable pull—poured into the kiss, leaving no room for restraint. Rio responded with equal intensity, her hands sliding up Agatha’s back, fingers curling into her shirt, gripping it as if to anchor herself. The cold railing behind Agatha pressed into her, contrasting sharply with the heat between them, and there was nothing gentle in the way they moved now, nothing tentative. They didn’t have the time for that. Now, it was a collision of desire and resentment, years of tension unraveling in a matter of moments.
Agatha's breath hitched when Rio's lips left hers, tracing a deliberate path down the side of her neck. Her pulse quickened, every touch sending electric waves through her body, making her skin tingle. She tilted her head back, eyes closing as the world around them disappeared into nothingness, offering more space for Rio’s lips to work their way along her skin. There was only Rio, the intoxicating pressure of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the way she moved against her with an intensity that left Agatha dizzy.
While Agatha's grip tightened around Rio’s waist, the fabric of her dress practically yielding under the witch’s insistent fingers, her other hand moved upward, tangling in Rio’s hair. She pulled her closer, a silent command, driven by the intensity of their shared need. The weight of everything they had suppressed surged between them, every inch of Agatha’s body alive, burning with an urgent desire that made the world outside fade into nothingness. The whirlwind of sensation was overwhelming, drowning out any thought except the craving for more, for release, for the moment they could no longer deny.
Atlantic Ocean.
April 12th, 1912.
As always, time blurred when Agatha focused on a singular objective, and the hunt for the witches became almost like a game: they hid well, but never well enough to elude her instincts. Shadows became her allies, and down the discreet, less-traveled corridors of the Titanic, she finally found what she had been searching for. The room was dimly lit, bathed in an almost ethereal glow, as if the air itself was steeped in ancient magic—because, well, it was. Five women sat in a circle, their low voices chanting an age-old spell in perfect harmony, weaving threads of power that pulsed through the room. Agatha lingered by the door, her eyes sharp, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She had seen this countless times before: small covens playing with forces they barely understood. Yet, there was something different here. The power they channeled was enough to capture her interest, enough to make her want to take it for herself.
But this time, she hadn't hunted them alone. Rio had been instrumental in isolating these witches, leading them into a false sense of security, and, together, they had drawn the coven out, where no one would hear their desperate cries or witness their downfall. It had been Rio’s plan to let the witches think they were safe, to let them believe their spellwork could protect them from the inevitable.
Now, it was time for Agatha to collect what was hers.
Agatha slowly walked into the room, her presence unnoticed at first as the witches remained deep in their trance. Only the High Priestess, or whatever she was, sensed it first—her chanting faltered as her eyes opened wide in recognition, her posture stiffening visibly. The others followed suit, the once perfectly synchronized voices now scattered with growing panic.
“Agatha Harkness,” the High Priestess whispered, her voice trembling, despite her attempt to appear composed. They all knew who stood before them, since Agatha’s reputation had traveled far, and none had dared to cross her. However, as it usually happened, fear mingled with the desperate hope that they might somehow be the exception, that their magic could hold The Witches Killer.
Delusion was a good look on them.
Agatha took a step forward, her smirk widening, a cold glint in her eyes.
"Congratulations, darling. You’ve done your homework." Her voice was silky, filled with mocking amusement. "But tell me, what exactly are you trying to do here? Save this doomed ship from its fate?" She let the question hang in the air, her words laced with disdain.
The witches exchanged nervous glances, their hands trembling as they tried to prepare their feeble spells. Agatha’s gaze sharpened and the atmosphere in the room shifted, becoming suffocating with her sheer presence. She laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous. “You know what is going to happen… And you think you can defy the inevitable? With your pathetic little tricks? None of you have the power to alter the fate of this ship, let alone escape it.”
The High Priestess, her pride wounded, began muttering a spell, her followers hesitating only a second before joining in. They thought they could fight her off. The smirk on Agatha’s lips grew a little wider.
Exactly what she wanted.
From the shadows by the door, Rio appeared, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk of her own, watching the scene unfold. She gave Agatha a small nod, as if signaling that it was time to have their fun. They did work well together, after all, Agatha with her power and Rio with her talent for setting the stage.
The air crackled with energy as the witches, in their desperation, funneled their combined strength into the spell, circling Agatha who now stood in the center of their chaotic magic—calm and composed, a hunter observing her prey exhaust itself. Their chanting rose in intensity and the room hummed with the force of their efforts. Agatha remained unimpressed, of course, her lips curling into a cruel smile as she extended her hand toward the center of their circle, fingers outstretched as if to pluck something fragile from the air. In one fluid motion, she tore through their spell, unraveling it as effortlessly as pulling a loose thread from a garment. The witches’ chanting faltered, their voices catching in their throats as their magic dissipated like smoke. With each note of their incantation that faded, Agatha felt the weight of their powers shift, flowing toward her like a river into an open sea.
She took a step forward, her presence suffocating in its dominance. “See, this always happens,” she purred, her voice smooth and taunting. “It’s not on me anymore; it’s on you and your fantasy that you can defeat me. You should have run when you had the chance.” The dark promise in her words hung heavy in the air.
The witches trembled, feeling their magic slip away, powerless against her. Agatha reveled in the sensation as their energy swirled around her, thick and inescapable, merging with her own. She raised her hands, savoring the intoxicating rush of their stolen power as the last remnants of their feeble spellwork dissolved into nothingness. With a flick of her wrist, she bound their magic to her will, claiming it as her own. The witches froze, their bodies unable to resist, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief as Agatha absorbed their strength, drawing it deep within herself. She could feel the world bending around her, time slowing as the power accumulated within her, but then... a deep sound. A dull thud echoed throughout the ship, accompanied by a tremor that coursed through every inch of the floor beneath her feet.
The Titanic had finally struck the iceberg that Agatha had manipulated hours earlier, fulfilling her promise to Death herself.
For a fleeting moment, the spell was broken. Agatha blinked, her gaze refocusing on the witches before her. The few who remained conscious were sprawled on the ground, their faces drained of color, nearly transparent, exhausted from the magic that had once sustained them. She sighed, feeling the wave of power still reverberating inside her—strong and vibrant.
“So many promises…” she murmured, a hint of disappointment lacing her voice. She could have drained them completely, siphoned every last spark of energy that existed within them, but fate, as always, had other plans.
The ship trembled violently, chaos beginning to unfurl through the corridors. Agatha cast a disdainful glance at the remaining witches, their forms now mere husks, reminders of her own superiority. They could have been more—if not for the impact. More energy, more power. But now, it hardly mattered.
The Titanic was doomed, and she, now even more powerful than before, had other priorities.
She stepped forward, her eyes glinting with determination. The witches at her feet were of no use to her now; they were simply a fleeting distraction. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a barrier around herself, protecting her newfound strength from the chaos that was brewing. The ship's impending doom only fueled her ambition.
With that thought driving her, Agatha turned her back on the fallen witches, her mind racing with possibilities. The energy coursing through her veins was a tantalizing promise of what was to come. She would find a way to harness this moment, to transform the disaster into something powerful and beautiful—something entirely her own.
But when she looked at the door, eager to share that moment with the only person who would understand half of what she was feeling, Rio wasn’t there anymore.
Agatha walked with an eerie calm as the chaos around her began to unfold. Passengers, still unaware of the full magnitude of what was happening, ran frantically, trying to find salvation amidst their inevitable fate. Screams echoed off the walls, panic spreading like wildfire.
A true masterpiece.
As she passed by the grand staircase of the Titanic, the screams faded to a distant hum in her ears, almost as if time were slowing around her. The luxurious surroundings, the grandeur of the chandeliers that cast their glow on the opulence that would soon be swallowed by the sea, seemed inconsequential. And then, Agatha saw her again.
Rio.
She stood there, beside the large, polished wooden clock, like a silent shadow amidst the chaos. The black cloak swirled around her body as if woven from the void itself, and her presence seemed to make time stand still, her eyes fixed on Agatha with an otherworldly calm. Everything around them became irrelevant—the screams, the desperation, the very ship sinking beneath their feet—nothing else existed. Only Agatha and Rio, death incarnate, staring at each other in the midst of the impending destruction.
The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken tension as their eyes met across the distance. Agatha’s calm exterior didn’t falter, but her heart raced in her chest, a contrast to the cold detachment she displayed—which wasn’t exactly a problem between them, since Rio could read her so well. Rio stood there, poised as always. but her eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—something that mirrored the same hunger that Agatha felt burning within herself.
She stood there, beside the large, polished wooden clock, like a silent shadow amidst the chaos. The black cloak swirled around her body as if woven from the void itself, and her presence seemed to make time stand still, her eyes fixed on Agatha with an otherworldly calm. Everything around them became irrelevant—the screams, the desperation, the very ship sinking beneath their feet—nothing else existed. Only Agatha and Rio, death incarnate, staring at each other in the midst of the impending destruction.
Death always lingered near power, like a sentinel waiting patiently for the souls soon to be claimed. And for a fleeting moment, the weight of Rio’s gaze brought an eerie calm to Agatha’s heart, as if she were being watched by something far more relentless than time itself. They stood frozen, unmoving, while chaos raged around them. Agatha's lips curled into an almost cynical smile. Her eyes gleamed with a silent challenge, her thoughts aligning into a bitter provocation.
" Enjoy the bodies ," she mused internally, knowing that speaking the words aloud was unnecessary. Rio would understand regardless. " I expect we’ll meet again soon. "
Death, unwavering, returned the gaze with an enigmatic expression. Her lips barely twitched into the faintest of smiles, a small gesture that, nevertheless, carried profound meaning. She grasped the essence of Agatha’s words without a single syllable exchanged.
For the briefest of seconds, Agatha felt something stir within her—an odd glimpse of feeling she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t fear, nor regret. It was something akin to acknowledgement, a recognition of the force standing before her, a kindred spirit in the way only death could be to someone who danced so closely with power and destruction. So, in silence, Agatha finally broke eye contact, her gaze shimmering with renewed determination. With that, she continued walking, her steps unhurried as before, leaving Rio and her souls behind her. The Titanic was doomed, but Agatha had other plans.
As she moved further away, the tremors beneath her feet intensified, the cries of the passengers growing louder. But Agatha’s mind was already elsewhere. She could feel the magic she’d siphoned still coursing through her veins, fueling the dark, ever-expanding hunger inside her. That power would carry her through whatever lay ahead, and Rio’s presence, as quick as it had been, only reminded her of the fine line she walked between survival and destruction.
Still, as she disappeared into the night, the echo of Rio’s faint smile lingered like a silent promise—one that Agatha knew, deep in her soul, they would meet again. Somewhere. Sometime.
And while the ship sank and the lost souls cried out for salvation, Agatha walked on, the weight of death’s gaze always in the periphery, an eternal reminder of the inevitable.