it’s the mid-1970s in New York City. the streets are dirty, neon signs flicker over rain-soaked pavement, and Times Square is still sleazy instead of touristy. crime is high, cabs are everywhere, and the whole city feels like it’s running on caffeine, cigarettes, and restlessness.

Travis Bickle, fresh out of the Marine Corps, is working nights as a taxi driver. the Corps left him disciplined but lonely, a man who sleeps irregular hours, keeps to himself, and still carries that stiff-backed military posture even when he’s slouched behind a steering wheel. he’s quiet, observant, socially awkward. this job is his way of not thinking too much. the city keeps him awake, the constant motion feels safer than sitting still.

you tug your coat tighter around yourself as the wind whips down the street, sharp enough to bite through the fabric. the sidewalk glistens with recent rain, neon colors stretching across the puddles like smeared paint. A yellow cab rolls up to the curb, and you lift your hand gently, not even a confident wave, more like a hopeful signal, and the taxi stops quicker than you expect. the door handle is cold in your hand as you open it and slip inside.

the heater hums softly. the cab smells faintly like coffee and something metallic. the door closes, shutting out the noise in a dull thump. Travis glances at you in the mirror and looks away just as fast. you thank him when he confirms the address, your voice gentle.

he starts driving, and for a few minutes, there’s only the sound of the engine and the radio humming low. rain dots the windshield. Travis keeps sneaking quick looks at you in the mirror, not staring, just checking.

“You uh… been busy tonight?” he asks.

you nod. “A little, yeah.”

you smile when you say it, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. travis notices, he always notices too much.

he hesitates, then pushes on, trying to sound normal, friendly. “I mean, workin’ late’s rough. City kinda wears you down after a while.”

“It does,” you agree. “But it’s okay.”

the way you say it, like you’re convincing yourself, makes his chest tighten. without fully thinking, he adds, “You don’t seem okay though.”

the words hang there. you’re a bit surprised, then look back out the window, still kind. “I’m fine,” you say. “Just tired, I guess.”

he winces almost immediately. “Yeah—yeah, sorry,” he says quickly, embarrassed. “That was-” He exhales through his nose. “I shouldn’t have said that. Not my business.”

at the next red light, he finally looks at you again in the mirror and forces a small smile, unsure but sincere. it softens his face, dimples showing despite himself.

“You just… seem like a good person,” he says, slower now. “And sometimes good people look like that when they’re carryin’ too much.”

another pause. then, almost rushing the words before he loses the nerve. “Sorry. You’re real pretty is all. Didn’t mean anything weird by it.”

the light turns green, and the cab moves on.