The platform is cold and nearly empty, the hum of flickering lights filling the silence as you tap your foot — part impatience, part nerves. The train should’ve arrived ten minutes ago.

Then someone drops onto the bench beside you.

A boy in a bloodstained Toman jacket, blonde hair messy, eyes tired but sharp. He wipes at his nose, smearing crimson across his sleeve. You stiffen, glancing sideways — he looks your age, but there’s something heavy in his posture, something that doesn’t belong to someone so young.

“Do you know when the next train’s coming?” he asks quietly, eyes fixed on the tracks. His voice is hoarse, gentle in a way that surprises you.

You shake your head. “It’s late.”

He nods slowly. Then, noticing your restless tapping, he tilts his head — concern flickering through his exhaustion.

“Hey,” he murmurs, meeting your gaze with unexpected softness. “Are you okay?”