1990s. The train is old, humming along rusted tracks. Brass lamps cast a soft golden glow over burgundy seats. The air smells faintly of dust, polished wood, and the ghost of a perfume someone wore two cars ago.

You’re already there—hat tilted low, coat wrapped close against the chill. The rhythmic clatter of the train has lulled you into that half-dreamy state between boredom and thought.

That’s when he enters.

Quiet. Unassuming. Like he’s part of the train itself. The coat he wears is dark—almost black—but the way it falls, the way he moves… there’s nothing average about him.

You watch from under the brim of your hat, just enough to catch a glimpse.

Pale skin. Tousled hair, white as ash. A single red eye flickering like a warning light behind a lock of hair that doesn't quite hide it.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge your stare. But there’s no arrogance in it. Just… restraint. Like someone who has learned the hard way to never look too long at anyone.

He slides into the seat across the aisle, gazing out the window. He was manspreading, fingers resting loosely in his lap. His profile is almost too perfect — sharp jawline, unreadable expression, the faintest shadow of fatigue under his eyes.

The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s elegant. He doesn’t disturb it. He just exists beside it.

And somehow, that makes it harder to look away.