The train rocked gently as it sped along the track, a steady hum filling the cramped car. People were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a mix of commuters lost in their own worlds. Near the far end, a tall man in a black wool coat stood by the doors, one gloved hand gripping the overhead rail. In the other, he held a well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, its pages creased at the corners.

His presence was unnerving, but not because he made a sound — he didn’t. Not even a glance was offered to the bustle around him. His dark hair was slicked back with precision, jaw sharp, eyes obscured behind narrow sunglasses despite the train being underground. The kind of man you'd think twice about brushing past.

You squeezed in as the doors hissed shut, brushing briefly against his coat. He didn’t flinch. He turned a page.