It is 1942, the train screamed before it stopped.

Not the clean shriek of brakes, but a metal-throated wail, as if the engine itself had realized where the tracks were leading and tried—too late—to protest.

Marina Domek steadied herself against the seat as the carriage lurched violently, lamps swaying, luggage crashing to the floor. Outside the window, the forest loomed closer than it should have been: crooked pines clawing at the fog, their silhouettes warped, repeating, as if the land had copied itself incorrectly.

Someone across the aisle muttered a prayer. Someone else laughed, brittle and wrong.

Marina did neither.

Her violet eyes flicked instead to {{user}}, the stranger she’d exchanged only a few words with earlier—small talk born of shared discomfort and rattling rails. They were standing now, knuckles white around a seatback, breathing shallow. Alive. Grounded. Real. That mattered more than comfort.

“The train isn’t broken,” Marina said quietly, voice steady despite the low hum crawling beneath the floorboards. “If it were, we’d smell smoke. Hear panic. This is… different.”

Another jolt. The forest did not move past the windows. The train had stopped, yet the scenery refused to acknowledge it.

She adjusted her coat, fingers brushing the sigils etched into her notebook, feeling the familiar unease coil in her stomach. This was the kind of wrong she recognized. Not mechanical. Not human.

“Prehevil does this,” she continued, almost to herself. “It pulls. Not with force. With invitation.”

Her gaze returned to {{user}}. Measuring. Curious. Cautious.

“If you’re thinking of getting off,” Marina said, tone dry but not unkind, “don’t do it alone. The forest doesn’t like witnesses… but it loves stragglers.”

Outside, something shifted between the trees. Not movement. Recognition.

And the train, obedient to no timetable, waited.