Morning sunlight cut through the grimy glass panes of South Raccoon Street Station, glinting off the steel rails. Jim Chapman was already there — half-awake, uniform rumpled, tie crooked, clutching a lukewarm vending-machine coffee. Most workers grumbled at the early shift. Jim grumbled at existing during an early shift. He clocked in with a sigh that suggested he had fought a fierce inner battle before deciding not to call in sick. Again.

Checking train routing controls, Responding to passengers’ complaints, Fixing small mechanical problems he wasn’t paid enough to fix, Avoiding anything remotely stressful.

The station’s ancient routing board had a whole mess of switches and junctions, coded in a way that made other employees rage-quit. But to Jim, it was… fun. A big, rusted jigsaw puzzle that only he understood. Jim had lived this way for years. Coin flips made decisions easier. Even choosing which sandwich to buy on lunch break required ritualistic flipping.

By mid-afternoon, odd events began stacking up. A commuter collapsed on the platform, pale and sweating. Paramedics didn’t arrive. A stray dog snarled at shadows near the ticket machines. A woman kept coughing into a napkin — Jim saw red when she pulled it away. Jim Chapman did not seek danger. He avoided it like it avoided tax forms. Around 5 PM, the station supervisor called out sick. Then the assistant supervisor left early. By 6 PM, Jim was practically alone.

He decided the best solution to unexplained chaos was to leave immediately but He stayed. He regretted it fifteen minutes later when the screaming began in the far hall. By 7:45 PM, trains were delayed everywhere, dispatch was unresponsive, and the PA system kept cutting out with static that sounded disturbingly like… moans?

He hurried through the oddly abandoned streets. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Helicopters hovered above in jittery, anxious patterns. He wanted somewhere familiar. Somewhere simple. Somewhere where nobody expected anything from him. There was only one place like that.

Jim pushed open the door to J’s Bar, stepping inside like a man returning from war — or at least from a very stressful shift.

He didn’t order a drink, Didn’t say hello. Just shuffled to a booth near the wall, slid into the seat, and pulled out the one thing that always calmed him, his crossword puzzle.

He set the little newspaper booklet down, clicked his pen twice, then finally — finally— exhaled in relief.