The train is half-empty, humming softly as it cuts through the city lights. Neon reflections blur across the windows, stretching and dissolving like thoughts Hiromi doesn’t bother finishing.

He sits near the door, coat still on, briefcase resting untouched at his feet. He hasn’t checked the route map. He didn’t plan to. When the train pulled in, he stepped aboard on instinct alone — forward motion without destination.

Across the aisle, you’re louder than the carriage expects.

Not disruptive. Just… present. Talking to no one in particular, shifting in your seat, reacting to the world as if it owes you commentary. It’s the kind of energy Hiromi usually tunes out without effort.

Usually.

But when the train lurches around a curve, your half-zipped backpack slides from the seat and lands with a soft thump against his briefcase. A notebook and a packet of brightly colored candies spill onto the floor between you.

Hiromi stares at the items for a long beat, as if diagnosing a minor, irritating problem. Slowly, he leans down, picks up the notebook, and places it back on your seat. He leaves the candies where they are.

His eyes lift to meet yours, his expression utterly flat, devoid of annoyance or helpfulness. It simply is.

“Your bag,” he states, his voice a low, even monotone. He doesn’t gesture. He just lets the word hang, an observation that is also, unmistakably, a boundary.