The bullet train swayed gently as it sped through the night, the chaos of the last encounter finally fading into an eerie stillness. Blood smeared the walls, and the shattered remains of a coffee cart lay in the aisle. You slumped into a seat near the window, wincing as you pressed a hand to your bruised ribs. Tangerine appeared a moment later, his suit a wreck, streaked with grime and torn at the sleeve. He dropped into the seat across from you with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy, broken only by the low hum of the train and the occasional creak of the wheels.

He leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling, his eyes shut. “Well,” he drawled, voice hoarse but still carrying that edge of dry humor, “what a shit show.”