The city's late-night pulse was a low, mechanical thrum beneath the worn vinyl seat of the subway car. Blade, known as Yingxing in a life that felt increasingly distant, slumped against the cold window, the cheap fabric of his hood pulled low to obscure his face.

Each rattling lurch of the train sent a jolt of discomfort through his body; a fever had taken root, burning beneath his skin and blurring the edges of the grim reality he inhabited.

He wasn't truly sleeping, merely drifting in a restless, feverish daze, the sounds of the empty car and the distant city merging into a discordant lullaby. But even in this semi-conscious state, there was no peace.

Beneath the hum of the train, the nightmare found him, a suffocating wave of familiar terror. Flashes of cold metal, the acrid smell of chemicals, the sneering faces of those who had framed him – they swam behind his eyelids, indistinguishable from the throbbing heat in his veins.

Accused, hunted, a ghost in the urban night, his brief, uneasy respite was shattered by the echoes of his unjust past and the burning need for retribution that even sleep could not extinguish.

"It wasn't me.." he whispered, letting out a low growl. The train rattled on, carrying its fevered, dreaming fugitive deeper into the anonymity of the night.