On Nora’s second day of class, she didn’t walk in quickly, but the moment she stepped into the classroom, she immediately spotted the one person who had arrived early. Her gaze almost automatically locked onto Tim—the culprit who had somehow left a full humanoid mechanical body stuffed under her bed, the reason she had spent the past few days constantly thinking about how to deal with it, even seriously considering at one point whether she should drag it out in the middle of the night and throw it away.
She paused at the doorway for a brief moment, then walked in and took her usual seat. Throughout the entire process, her gaze never fully left him.
Tim was still in the same posture.
Slumped over the desk.
His head turned to the side, his face pressed against the surface, one arm hanging loosely at his side, looking as if he could fall completely asleep at any moment. As she sat down, he happened to turn his head toward her. Those blue eyes looked at her, the dark circles still very obvious—if anything, even deeper than when they first met. He lifted a hand slightly, as if too lazy to complete the full motion, and gave her a casual greeting.
Nora watched him for a moment.
She had originally thought that she might enter Tim’s dreams several more times.
She was very familiar with consecutive dream entry.
But it hadn’t happened.
Not even once.
These past few nights, she hadn’t entered his dreams at all.
Maybe Tim hadn’t been dreaming.
Or maybe he hadn’t slept at all.
Her gaze fell onto those far-too-honest dark circles, and her mind almost immediately reached a conclusion.
The latter.
Was being Batman’s assistant really this busy?
At that moment, Tim glanced at his phone. The light from the screen flickered in his eyes before he set it back down on the desk.
“There are still five minutes before class starts. We haven’t discussed the film from last time yet—we can talk about it now.”
His tone sounded normal as he said this, but the end of the sentence dragged slightly, as if his awareness hadn’t fully caught up yet. After speaking, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, the motion a bit forceful, like he was trying to force himself awake.
Nora looked at the person in front of her.
Someone who clearly wanted to close his eyes.
She didn’t respond immediately. She simply stared at him, then spoke.
“I think the Puppet Master is just a scumbag trying to scam someone’s feelings.”
She had genuinely thought about it over the past few days.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became.
That was exactly what it was.
Tim froze completely.
It was as if a giant exclamation mark had appeared above his head.
The half-asleep state he had been in was instantly dragged back into reality. He sat up straight, his back lifting off the desk, his eyes fully open, his entire body visibly awake.
Finally.
Someone had said exactly what he had been thinking.
And used such precise wording.
He stared at Nora, as if reassessing her all over again.
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For their second assignment, the professor’s keywords were: love, soundtrack, and class.
This time, Tim spoke first, asking Nora. His tone was even more natural than usual.
“For a romance film, it feels like girls would have more thoughts on it.”
Nora paused for a moment, then began trying hard to recall.
Love. Soundtrack. Class.
Her mind felt like it had been thrown into a search engine, frantically pulling up results. She tried to find something softer—a smaller, more understated romance film. No melodramatic misunderstandings. No overly exaggerated plot.
But her mind refused to cooperate.
The same film kept taking over her thoughts.
That ship.
That scene at the bow.
That piece of music.
That ending.
Titanic.
She fell silent for a moment.
Then slowly lifted her head and looked at Tim.
Even if I really end up dreaming about Titanic, she thought, with a hint of self-persuasion, at least I’ve seen it before.
She paused, then added another thought, as if trying to justify it to herself.
There are plenty of people in it I could choose to inhabit. It should be fine.
Her voice came out faint.
“…Titanic.”
Tim nodded.
“Classic. It’s a good choice. I’ve seen it too—it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
There was even a trace of evaluation in his tone, like he had already assessed the problem and deemed it within his control.
Nora gave a polite smile and nodded in agreement.
But inside, she was silently praying.
Please.
Please don’t go rewatch the movie and reinforce it.
Please just go another week without sleeping—until the next class.
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It seemed God hadn’t heard her prayer.
That was what Nora thought, standing inside Tim’s dream.
She stood at a height that belonged to no one, her gaze passing over the crowd and settling on the roaring excitement along the shore. People packed the docks, waving, shouting, applauding—their voices layering over one another, rising like waves crashing forward. Every face carried a smile, carried anticipation, carried that kind of light that held no doubt about the future.
They were offering their blessings to this ship on its maiden voyage.
And those aboard were responding in kind.
Some leaned against the railings, laughing loudly. Some waved their hats. Some desperately waved toward friends and family on shore, as if this moment would be remembered forever. Their eyes shone with an astonishing brightness—that pride of “I am here” almost spilling out of their expressions.
To board this ship was an achievement.
Something that could be talked about for a lifetime.
They had no idea—
That this was a voyage leading straight to hell, ending in eternal burial beneath the cold depths of the Atlantic.
Nora floated in the sky.
Weightless, without a place to land. She simply existed at that height, and so she could see farther. She watched as the ship slowly pulled away from the shore, saw the ropes being released, saw the water split apart, leaving behind a long white trail.
The ship was enormous and gleaming, almost dazzling under the sunlight.
Titanic.
The name surfaced in her mind, striking like thunder.
She couldn’t help but stare at the ship for a moment.
“…They really recreated it.”
She muttered quietly to herself.
To be able to see this level of reconstruction in a dream—she supposed it was worth it. She comforted herself silently. At least Tim had taken the modeling seriously—he hadn’t turned the Titanic into some randomly pieced-together, shabby little boat.
There was so much detail.
The flow of people on the deck, the smoke rising from the funnels, the proportions of the ship—even the lighting and shadows were almost excessively accurate.
This wasn’t something casually imagined.
This was something built piece by piece, after truly seeing it.
Nora fell silent for a second.
Then added another thought quietly in her mind.
How many times had he watched it?
There was, however, one problem this time.
She pulled her gaze back from the ship as a whole and began focusing on the details.
There were too many people.
First-class gentlemen and ladies, second-class passengers, and the crowded figures further below—each level had its own rhythm, every corner holding a different story.
She had to find Tim among all of them.
The owner of this dream had very clearly not been considerate enough to leave himself a marker.
Where had he placed himself?
What was his objective?
Nora frowned slightly.
She slowly lowered her height, descending from that panoramic perspective, her gaze moving closer to the deck. The sounds became clearer—laughter, footsteps, voices overlapping in different languages—carrying a level of realism that was almost excessive.
As she watched—
She searched.
For someone who might not be in any obvious place.
Someone who would very likely hide himself in some corner.
This was going to take a bit of time.
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Nora began searching for him.
Dreams, after all, had a kind of inertia.
She paused in midair, recalling her previous experience. Tim hadn’t “created” a new character—he had directly replaced an existing one, embedding himself into someone who already belonged to the world.
So this time, there was a high chance it was the same.
Not an observer.
But someone inside the story.
Nora frowned slightly and began reorganizing her thoughts.
So what was Tim’s objective?
She barely needed to think before arriving at the answer.
If most people were transported onto the Titanic, the only goal they would have would be to stop the ship from hitting the iceberg.
Which meant the question became—
Who had the ability to stop it?
The captain.
Almost instinctively, Nora drifted toward the bridge.
She passed through the deck, skimmed over the crowd, moved through doors and corridors one after another, until she finally stopped near the captain’s quarters. She lowered her height slightly, bringing her line of sight level with the people inside.
Edward Smith stood there.
His uniform immaculate, his beard neatly kept, his entire presence carrying that calm authority of someone accustomed to being in control. His movements were composed, his tone steady, as if everything was within his grasp.
Nora stared at him for a long time.
A long time.
“…No.”
She reached her conclusion silently.
That wasn’t Tim.
Nora drifted away quietly.
She continued thinking.
There were actually many roles that could have prevented this disaster.
For example, the Titanic’s chief designer—Thomas Andrews.
He understood the ship’s structure, its limits, where it would fail.
Then there were the crew.
The first officer, second officer, third, fourth, fifth.
The lookouts.
The radio operators.
Each of them, in some way, had a chance to change that moment of fate.
Nora began checking them one by one.
She moved back and forth across the deck, circling near the bridge, then slipping into the inner corridors. She observed person after person—their movements, their expressions, the way they spoke—trying to find the one presence that felt slightly “off.”
There were too many people.
She checked one crew member.
Rejected.
Another.
Still no.
Another.
Nothing.
Her focus began to scatter.
Too much information. Too many people. The environment too complex. Her mind felt like it was being forced to process an overload of data all at once, beginning to strain under the weight.
Nora stopped in midair.
And closed her eyes for a moment.
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Even in a wandering spirit state, Nora was starting to feel tired.
She had been drifting back and forth across this ship for too long, seen too many people, analyzed too many details, yet still hadn’t found that key presence. The people in the dream were all so happy—laughter, conversation, and music weaving together—everyone immersed in their own expectations and pride, while she alone was doing something completely out of place in this atmosphere.
Only I have a task to deal with.
The thought surfaced in her mind, and even she couldn’t help but feel a bit helpless about it.
She slowly lowered her height and finally stopped at the edge of a deck, near the railing, facing the open sea. The ocean was split along both sides of the ship, white foam churning, while the wind—carrying salt and moisture—kept blowing in from the distance.
She had chosen the first-class area.
Fewer people.
More space.
Cleaner air.
Unlike the third-class sections, where it was so crowded there wasn’t even room to stand, people constantly moving back and forth, bodies passing through hers again and again—that sensation was something she really didn’t like.
She leaned there, looking out at the sea.
Letting herself pause.
Letting her thoughts loosen, just a little.
At that moment, footsteps approached.
Two people walked over from the far end of the corridor.
Their clothing was extremely refined.
Tailored suits, delicate accessories, an overall presence that clearly marked them as upper class. They moved quickly, barely slowing down, as if they were in a hurry.
One of them spoke as he walked:
“What could possibly be so important in the Hockley family…”
The other followed behind.
Nora slowly turned her head.
Her gaze followed that receding figure.
Caledon Hockley.
The film’s secondary male lead.
One of the antagonists.
Her expression froze for a brief moment.
Then a thought surfaced in her mind.
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Nora walked along an extremely luxurious corridor.
Intricate wood carvings extended along the walls, the lines so delicate they were almost like works of art. Gold-leaf framing shimmered under the lighting, understated yet ostentatious. Beneath her feet lay thick, soft Persian carpets, each step like walking on silent clouds. Above her hung crystal chandeliers, layered and cascading, light and shadow flowing through the space, refracting the most extravagant atmosphere of that era.
The entire corridor declared one thing—
This was the domain of the upper class.
As Nora walked, she looked around.
She passed through door after door.
Like flipping through a book with no table of contents.
Inside the rooms, some held neatly made beds, some had unpacked luggage, some had maids busy at work, some had staff moving in and out. Every scene was complete, vividly real—yet none of them contained the person she was looking for.
The corridor was long.
So long that she began to wonder if Tim had intentionally extended the map.
She walked for a long time.
A very long time.
Other than staff and maids, there was nothing.
Nora stopped, standing in the middle of the corridor, quietly looking ahead toward a direction where the end still wasn’t visible.
She began to consider a more practical option.
Just pretend to be dead.
Let the dream’s owner do whatever he wanted.
Not interfere, not search—just drift through the entire dream like this.
That, in itself, seemed like a reasonable strategy.
Just as she was about to make her decision—
Music reached her.
A symphony.
The notes unfolded in layers, traveling from afar, carrying rhythm and structure, as if guiding the way.
Nora lifted her head.
Then followed the sound.
She passed through the final stretch of the corridor, pushed open a door, and her view suddenly opened up.
A grand hall.
The first-class dining hall.
Even more magnificent than anywhere she had just passed through.
The space was tall and expansive, the lighting bright yet soft. An orchestra played to one side, the melody flowing through the entire room. People moved within it—talking, smiling, raising glasses—every motion carrying the etiquette and rhythm of that era.
The women’s dresses layered upon layers—lace, embroidery, feathered details—like carefully arranged blossoms.
The men wore perfectly tailored tailcoats, their lines sharp, their movements restrained.
The entire scene was beautiful to the point of feeling almost unreal.
Nora didn’t rush to look for anyone.
She first circled the hall.
Treating herself like a player in a hyper-realistic 3D experience.
She looked at the lights, the people, the details—she even paused to study the texture of a piece of fabric on someone’s dress.
She walked to a corner.
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And then—
She stopped.
She had found her target.
That person was seated on an intricately carved chair.
He wore a silk-textured suit, the fabric catching the light with a subtle sheen, the cut fitted yet not deliberately ostentatious. His posture was relaxed—almost too relaxed—with a kind of effortless composure.
There was a faint smile at the corner of his lips.
But those blue eyes held no trace of it.
His entire presence carried a kind of absent, deliberate distance.
One leg crossed over the other.
Making the line of his legs appear long and clean.
His fingers were slender, the joints defined, holding a cup of coffee. The gesture was so natural, as if everything about this scene was exactly as it should be.
A pair of gold-rimmed glasses rested on his face.
Nora froze.
Completely stunned.
Her mind went blank for a second.
Then a very honest thought surfaced.
He’s really handsome.
She apologized silently in her mind.
Sorry.
She just had a thing for glasses—didn’t everyone think guys with glasses looked smarter?
And besides…
Besides…
She quickly found a reasonable explanation for herself.
That wasn’t the Tim she knew.
Not the eighteen-year-old Tim who still carried a trace of youth.
This was Tim at thirty.
The youth had been worn away by time.
His entire presence felt refined, as if shaped and polished by the years—his features sharper, his demeanor steadier.
That kind of tension that didn’t need to be deliberately expressed—
Was even more apparent.
Nora stood there, watching him.
And for that moment—
She even forgot that she had come here to find someone.
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39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLWc46SM9G5
Nora was sitting beside Tim in a way that was anything but ladylike.
She had no regard for appearances at all—sitting cross-legged on the carpet, one hand resting casually on her knee to support herself, her whole body just settled there beside his seat, like a presence that absolutely did not belong in this setting. The banquet had already begun. The long table was covered with exquisite tableware and dishes. Silverware reflected the light. Plates were served one after another. People conversed elegantly, ate with composure—everything followed the order that this space demanded.
Only she was on the floor.
Staring at one person.
Nora watched Tim absentmindedly.
Her gaze didn’t move.
Her mind was working.
Not just looking at a handsome guy—well, a little.
But mostly thinking.
Why had Tim chosen to use Caledon Hockley as his role?
Her brows drew together slightly.
In the film, he was a well-known antagonist.
Selfish. Controlling. Emotionally extreme. He even chased people with a gun in the end. No matter how she looked at it, he wasn’t a role that seemed “suited to changing the ending.”
She began analyzing in her head.
Listing out the advantages of the role one by one.
Status.
Wealth.
Influence.
And weapons.
That scene surfaced automatically in her mind—
Cal holding a gun, chasing someone through the chaos.
And he had servants at his disposal.
Plenty of resources.
High authority.
She paused.
…Actually, that sounded pretty good.
From a certain perspective, this was a position that allowed the most possible leverage.
But the problem remained.
How was he supposed to turn this tragedy around?
That was the real point.
Nora felt curiosity begin to rise.
That slightly fatigued state of mind was pulled back up again.
She lifted her head and looked at Tim.
He was drinking soup.
Unhurried.
His fingers held the spoon, lifting it lightly, bringing it to his mouth. The entire motion was so elegant, as if he truly belonged in this role. Beneath the gold-rimmed glasses, those blue eyes held little expression, as if he were eating while thinking about something else.
Nora watched for a moment.
Then couldn’t help but speak.
“What are you even thinking?”
Her voice came out naturally.
As if the conversation should have existed.
But no one responded.
No one looked up.
No one paused.
The music continued to flow. People continued their conversations. Tableware lightly clinked.
Her voice—
Was not received by anyone.
She was still a ghost no one could see.
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and then Add to home screen.