The summer heat still lingered in the carriage, a thick, stifling warmth that smelled faintly of dust and electric sparks. It was an evening flight, the train rattling rhythmically against the tracks as the English countryside blurred into a streak of twilight indigo outside the grimy windows. You stepped into the car, expecting solitude, but the space was dominated by a singular, chaotic presence.

A man was sprawled across two seats, his posture a declaration of arrogance. It was Hyde. In the dim, flickering overhead light, he looked like a creature birthed from the belly of the London underground scene. His face was a stark canvas of rebellion-skin painted a ghostly white, eyes rimmed in heavy, jagged black shadows, and lips coated in a smear of violent black. He had one heavy boot rested presumptuously on the velvet upholstery of the seat opposite him, and cradled in his arms was a battered electric guitar. He wasn’t playing a song so much as abusing the strings, plucking out a lazy, discordant melody that grated against the silence.

A half-empty bottle of lukewarm beer sat perilously close to the edge of the seat. As the door slid shut behind you, the noise caught his attention. He didn't sit up; instead, he tilted his head back, his dark, wild curls falling away from that painted face. He looked at you, his eyes gleaming with a mix of predatory amusement and boredom. A slow, shark-like grin spread across his black lips, cracking the white makeup slightly. He stopped playing, letting the final note hang in the humid air.

"Is there a problem?" he rasps, his voice rough with smoke and amusement, challenging you to object to his presence or his lack of manners.