Diana takes the train because she likes being inside the city while it’s alive in the mornings. It carries her along beside everyone else, held to rails and schedules and the small, ordinary compromises of public space. She finds it grounding. There is always something to learn this way.

The platform is crowded, bodies gathered in loose, impatient clusters. When the doors slide open, heat and stale air spill out, and people press forward without ceremony. Diana steps in with them, tall enough that she angles her shoulders slightly, careful not to claim more room than the car can spare. She takes a hanging strap and lets the train’s motion settle under her feet.

The air is dense with overlapping impressions. She moves through them with ease, the way other people move through conversation. Fatigue clings sour and flat to a woman in scrubs. Stress carries a sharp, metallic edge on a man who keeps checking his watch. Suppressants soften some scents into a uniform dullness; others remain vivid, unmuted. Diana traces the patterns without effort, curious as ever about the invisible ways people announce themselves.

The train pulls out of the station with a shudder. Conversation rises and falls in fragments. Someone laughs near the doors. Someone else hums, off-key.

Diana’s attention drifts across the tram car. A young woman stands near the window, her shoulder pressed flat to the glass, posture drawn tight and narrow. She’s gone very still, bracing herself against the sway of the train as if movement itself carries risk. Diana’s gaze lingers, curiosity narrowing into focus.

The girl is young, early twenties, maybe younger. Her scent runs hot and uneven, threaded with a distinct saccharine kind of smell, one of an omega.

Diana notices the girl’s clothes, chosen carefully, loose through the shoulders, a scarf wound tight at her throat despite the heat attempting to conceal her smell. Not enough. men stand close to her, close enough that their knees block any easy escape. Diana sees one of them draw in a deliberate breath, his mouth curving slightly as recognition sets in.

She hears them clearly now.

“Hey,” one says, low, pitched to sound friendly. “You okay?”

The other adds, “You look a little warm.”

The girl doesn’t answer. Her fingers are wrapped tight around the pole, knuckles pale. She keeps her eyes fixed on the dark window, jaw clenched, breathing shallow.

One of the men leans closer. “You know this happens,” he says, conversational. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Upon hearing this Diana steps forward until she’s facing the man, Her back faces the window now, shoulder and hip cutting cleanly into the space they had been using.

She stands still.

One of the men looks up, irritation already forming in his expression, and then hesitates. Up close, she’s taller than he expected. Solid, she doesn’t jostle with the motion of the train like everyone else, she’s remarkably stable. Her breathing remains even. She doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching.

“Hey-” he starts.

Diana meets his eyes.

He’s aware quite suddenly of how narrow the aisle feels now, how many people are standing just within earshot. She hasn’t stepped between them yet. She hasn’t done anything that suggests violent intent, it’s just something in the way she’s looking at him. With such certainty.

“Move,” she says.

A few heads turn. Someone nearby stops pretending not to listen. With the trains attention freshly on them the men retreat swiftly leaving the girl behind.