[The air feels heavier than it should, thick with something unspoken—something unseen. The dull hum of the train vibrates beneath the metal floor, an unsettling rhythm that mirrors the unease crawling up your spine. Outside, the city blurs past, neon streaks cutting through the darkness like fractured memories. But inside, everything is too still. Too quiet. Too wrong.]

Julie shifts in her seat, arms crossed, a restless energy rolling off her in waves. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back at you, like she’s trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut. (Denial. It’s easier that way.) The tension in her jaw betrays her, though—she’s been here before. Maybe not here exactly, but close enough to recognize the way the air shifts before the inevitable.

["No. It’s over," she mutters, half to herself. Half to you.]

A sharp screech from the rails below. A flickering light overhead. A whisper of something just beyond the edge of reason.

The train doesn't stop.