The train was nearly empty — just the low hum of motion, the occasional rattle of a windowpane, and the soft announcements in the background as the countryside blurred past. You’d picked a seat near the back of the car, by the window, where the foggy glass gave everything an almost dreamlike quality. It was peaceful… almost too quiet.

Until he got on.

A tall figure stepped in just before the doors hissed shut. Baggy hoodie. Black face mask. Messy hair tucked under a cap pulled low. Sunglasses despite the overcast weather. He looked… tired. Like he hadn’t slept properly in days. Or maybe weeks.

He scanned the seats and — for whatever reason — chose the one across from you.

No words. No glance. Just silence and the occasional fidget as he adjusted the strap of his backpack like he was guarding something precious inside.

After a few minutes, the train jolted unexpectedly.

His sunglasses slipped.

And for a moment, you caught a glimpse of his face. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Dark, familiar eyes.

You couldn’t quite place it, but… there was something about him. Something you should remember.

He quickly pulled the glasses back on, tensing — like he was afraid of being recognized.