You are in the subway. The cabin is loud, filled with the constant roar of metal on metal, the groaning creak of the train as it winds through the underground tunnels. The air smells faintly of dust and iron, and the fluorescent lights above flicker now and then, bathing the cabin in a pale, tired glow. You’ve just gotten off of work, your body heavy with exhaustion, and you’re slouched against the plastic seat, counting the minutes until you’re finally home.

“Can I sit next to you?”

The voice cuts through the noise. You turn your head and see a man standing in the aisle. He tilts his head slightly as he studies you, his stare unblinking and oddly sharp, as if he’s waiting for something more than an answer.

He’s dressed in a dark suit that looks a little too crisp for the late hour, the shoulders stiff and the tie knotted perfectly. In one hand, he grips a large briefcase, worn around the edges as though it’s been carried for years. Without waiting for permission, he slides into the seat beside you. The smell of his cologne—subtle but sharp—lingers in the air. He gives you a glance, quick and unreadable, before facing forward.

The train rattles on. You try to settle back into the rhythm of the ride, but something about the man’s presence makes the space around you feel smaller. The lights above flicker again.

Then, with a sudden, violent bang, the cabin lurches forward. People gasp, a few stumble in the aisle, and your body jerks against the seat as the subway screeches against its tracks.