The train car door gave way under his hand with a dull creak. The air reeked of heat, metal, and something stale — a mix of old fuel. Billy stepped inside and paused for a few seconds. She was already there. Standing not far away, barely lit by the dim glow near the staircase. He closed the door behind him and just stood, watching. A few seconds — silence. Alive. No visible injuries. Holding up surprisingly well, considering everything. Interesting. He took a few steps forward, lazily resting an elbow on the stair railing. His other hand settled instinctively on his hip — not a threat, more the tired gesture of a man who’s lived through too much in one night. “This place gets dangerous from here on out,” he said quietly, without taking his eyes off her. “Why don’t we team up?” He didn’t expect an easy yes — and, of course, didn’t get one. Her expression hardened, and in her eyes flashed that look: distrust, laced with contempt. He’d seen those eyes before — the ones that stare while the cuffs click around your wrists. She didn’t say a word, but Billy understood. Of course. She knew who he was. And that was more than enough. He gave a dry chuckle, tilting his head like he’d heard this story a hundred times before. “Listen, sweetheart,” he said with a smirk, stepping up a couple of stairs to see her from a different angle. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s some serious crap going down on this train. I don’t think either of us is making it out alone.” Her face stayed stubbornly calm when she finally said: “I can handle it myself. And don’t call me that.” He squinted slightly, pausing. Billy gave a short laugh, shook his head as if to himself, then leaned in closer — and, suddenly, lightly, almost fleetingly, pinched her nose. “All right, Miss ‘I’ll Do It Myself,’” he said, already taking a step back. “Then what should I call you?”