Tim was bored.
Not the ordinary kind of boredom, but a kind of weariness that rose from the bones. Everything around him was too complete, too refined—so much so that it became impossible to feel engaged.
This was an era without computers.
No terminals.
No networks.
No systems that could be operated in real time with immediate feedback.
Even the Turing machine wouldn’t appear for another twenty years.
He suddenly found himself missing the sound of a keyboard—the rhythm of fingers striking keys, the sense of control where every input produced an immediate response.
And now, he was sitting in the first-class dining hall of the Titanic.
Music flowed through the space. The orchestra layered melody upon melody, so elegant it felt almost seamless. Each table was attended by multiple servers, their movements quiet and precise, existing like shadows. Dishes were brought out one after another, plated with such care they resembled displays.
Midway through the meal, people would come over to propose toasts—but in truth, they were there to make connections. Their words carried probing intent and subtle flattery, hoping to attach themselves to the Hockley enterprise, at the very least to become a familiar face, to leave a thread for the future.
Tim was far too familiar with this.
As one of the young figures responsible for both Drake Industries and Wayne Enterprises, occasions like this brought him no pressure. If anything, it was instinct. He moved through it like a fish in water. When someone approached, he would raise his glass, respond with appropriate tone, exchange information briefly, manage distance—neither too close, nor making the other feel rejected.
His movements and tone—
All precise.
And yet, still boring.
So boring.
He thought this to himself.
At the table, the female lead’s mother was still talking.
He paid her no attention. Those words about etiquette, class, and future arrangements were nothing more than background noise. There was no information worth processing, and he didn’t spare even a fragment of attention to listen to a complete sentence.
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Rose—the female lead—had wandered off somewhere.
Honestly, he didn’t care.
Part of the reason he chose this role was to support the main couple—to reduce the conflicts and misunderstandings that would have originally arisen. If Cal, as a character, was meant to be an obstacle, then he would simply render that obstacle ineffective.
Rose was probably interacting with Jack right now.
He made the assumption casually in his mind.
Hopefully, they would get together soon.
Then he could withdraw cleanly, offer his blessings, and part ways properly.
She would pursue her love.
He would deal with the tragedy of this ship.
The division of roles was clear.
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He had been extremely busy just now, occupied with laying out every part of the disaster that he might be able to alter.
He had gone first to Cal’s office and opened the safe. The entire process had taken him only ten minutes. That so-called security mechanism posed almost no difficulty in his eyes—the structure was simple, the logic straightforward. It was hardly secure at all, to the point that it made one question the purpose of its existence.
Inside were checks, signed documents, and the Heart of the Ocean.
Tim took it out and glanced at it. The blue jewel was indeed beautiful under the light, its color pure, refracting a soft yet dazzling glow. But to him, that was all it was—beautiful, and nothing more. It had no practical use whatsoever. It could not even save a single life.
He quickly put it back.
Not lingering for even a second.
He spent several hours reading through those documents and financial reports, confirming the current structure of corporate power page by page, analyzing the flow of funds and the decision-making structure, building an overall operational model. Then, in his mind, he ran simulations—listing every factor that might affect the shipwreck one by one, then testing them one by one.
If he wanted to change this disaster, what resources could he use?
Which people could be influenced?
At which points in time could he intervene?
Which decisions could be moved earlier, or delayed?
He ran through every possibility he could think of.
Then he began meeting the people he needed.
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He met with J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line.
This man was not in an easy position at the moment. His business was under pressure. Market competition and external criticism were piling up. He needed a result powerful enough to prove that his decisions had not been wrong—and the Titanic was exactly that answer. A symbol meant to restore reputation and rebuild confidence.
He met Ismay.
The middle-aged man came to Tim’s office with a cooperative attitude. There was no arrogance, even carrying a trace of polite humility. That surprised Tim a little. Perhaps the film had exaggerated this character, making him seem more extreme, but in reality—or rather, in this dream—Ismay appeared to be a fairly competent person in charge. His tone was steady, his logic clear, without any obvious arrogance.
Tim quickly cross-referenced this in his mind.
In actual history, he wasn’t a villain either.
He was simply blamed afterward for surviving.
He didn’t even have the supposed obsession with achieving the fastest voyage in the world.
Tim began to explain.
He organized his observations from inspecting the ship into several key points. His tone was deliberately kept calm, but the content itself came across as somewhat abrupt. He brought up his concerns about the lack of safety guarantees—the number of lifeboats was too few, there was no complete evacuation drill process, and the entire emergency response system had barely been tested in practice.
When these words came out of his mouth, they almost sounded like a wealthy young man complaining that the environment wasn’t safe enough. No matter how rational his tone was, the content still carried a sense of being out of place for the era.
These safety systems had originally been built up over time.
They were the result of one tragedy after another.
What Tim was saying now were lessons that would only be proven in the future.
He knew very well that, to the person in front of him, these words were too ahead of their time—almost like baseless speculation.
Ismay listened.
He did not interrupt.
But that state of “hearing, yet not understanding” was obvious.
Tim paused for a moment.
He knew there was no point continuing to circle around it.
So he went straight to the point, his tone becoming more concise.
“I want the ship to slow down.”
Ismay frowned slightly.
This time, a real question appeared.
He didn’t refute it immediately.
He simply asked, directly:
“Why?”
Good question.
That was what Tim thought for a brief moment before answering.
“Like I said earlier—slower is safer.”
There was no flaw in the logic of that answer.
But in this era, it carried no persuasive weight.
Ismay clearly couldn’t understand. His brows furrowed slightly deeper. His tone remained polite, but now carried a practical rebuttal.
“All vessels crossing the Atlantic travel at around twenty-two knots. I don’t see why we would need to slow down. There are no obstacles in the ocean.”
Tim didn’t respond immediately.
He simply looked at him, then offered a hint, his tone even.
“What if there were icebergs?”
Ismay replied almost without pause.
His tone remained rational, but now held a trace of confidence.
“I do not believe this steel giant would be defeated by an iceberg. A few years ago, the SS Kronprinz Wilhelm damaged its bow and still made it safely to port—let alone a ship of this size.”
He paused, looking at Tim. There was no malice in his voice, but there was a faint sense of finality in his judgment.
“Honestly, young Mr. Hockley, you’re being a bit overly cautious.”
In that moment, Tim knew the conversation could not continue.
A generational gap.
A difference in understanding.
And that particular confidence—and blind spot—belonging to the pre-war era.
All of it layered together, rendering any rational argument ineffective.
For a brief moment, he even had the urge to take the simplest route—
Like his adoptive father would.
Subdue everyone.
Seize control.
Then steer the ship directly to safety, cutting out all the cost of persuasion and communication.
But he didn’t do it.
He knew very clearly that this was not a situation that could be resolved through force.
There were over nine hundred crew members on this ship.
And more than thirteen hundred passengers.
This was not a system that could be crudely reset.
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and then Add to home screen.