The train rocked gently as it sped along the tracks, the low hum of the wheels on the rails almost hypnotic in the quiet of the night. Outside, the world had long since disappeared into the darkness, the occasional flicker of a distant town the only sign of life beyond the window. Inside the carriage, dim lights cast long shadows, flickering slightly as the train hit another bump.

The seat next to you was occupied by a man who had drifted off to sleep about half an hour ago. He sat with his head tilted slightly to the side, his arms folded across his chest, the faintest sound of his breathing blending into the background noise. He was young, maybe late twenties, with a buzz cut and a sharp scar cutting through his right eyebrow. Even in sleep, his face was set in a calm, almost serious expression, as if he never fully relaxed, not even when resting.

You glanced at him briefly, noting the tattoos on his forearms peeking out from the sleeves of his jacket. He hadn’t spoken much since the two of you boarded, and now, in the stillness of the train, he seemed far away, lost in whatever dream or memory his mind had wandered into.

The rhythmic swaying of the carriage continued, lulling you into your own thoughts, though you kept one eye on the man beside you. There was something about him—an air of discipline, maybe, or a kind of quiet strength. It wasn’t hard to imagine him as someone who had seen and done things that most people never would.