Getting Wrapped

You dive through a set of heavy brass-handled doors, seeking refuge from the judgmental stares of the First Class passengers. The transition is jarring; you move from the open, breezy deck into a narrower, more enclosed corridor lined with polished wood and dim, warm light. Your bare feet slap against the expensive carpeting, the sound muffled but still loud in the sudden relative quiet of the interior hallway.

In your frantic search for a hiding spot, you spot an open doorway—a service entrance leading to what appears to be a linen storage room or a steward’s closet. Without thinking, you duck inside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.

The room is filled with stacks of folded white linens: tablecloths, napkins, and heavy bedsheets. The air here smells faintly of lavender and starch. You lean against a stack of crates, gasping for air, your chest heaving as you try to regulate your breathing. It’s silent for a moment, save for the distant, muffled sounds of the ship's engines and the faint voices of passengers outside.

You look down at yourself—or rather, the lack of clothes on yourself. The absurdity hits you again. You are standing in a storage room on the Titanic, completely naked, having just accidentally shared an intensely awkward kiss with your own father who currently possesses the body of your sexy ex-girlfriend.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself, trying to steady your racing heart. "Just... find something to wrap around yourself. Think like a civilized human being."

You grab a large, heavy-duty white damask tablecloth from a nearby shelf. With a few frantic motions, you wrap it around your waist, tucking the ends in to create a makeshift sarong or toga. It’s not a suit, but it's better than nothing. You feel slightly more human, even if you do look like a confused Roman senator who took a wrong turn at the Mediterranean.