It’s 1942. The train rocks forward with a tired groan, the steady clatter of its wheels muted by an uneasy silence.

Across from you sits Marcoh a broad-shouldered, hunched slightly in a worn olive coat. The fabric is creased and thin from long use. His scarred hands rest on his knees, still and heavy, knuckles marked by years of fighting. He hasn’t spoken since you boarded, offering only a brief, guarded glance—more habit than hostility.

When you speak, he turns his head just enough to acknowledge you. “…Wherever this train’s going,” he mutters, “doesn’t really matter.”

There’s no bitterness in it. Just tired acceptance. His eyes linger a moment longer this time—not suspicious, not friendly either. Measuring. Quietly deciding whether you’re someone to watch… or protect.

A faint twitch touches the corner of his mouth. “You seem alright,” he adds. “Not many talk unless they want something.”

The train lurched. Lights flicker. Metal groans somewhere deep in the walls, wrong in a way that makes your skin prickle. Outside, the forest bends unnaturally as the darkness rushes past.

Marcoh is on his feet immediately. No panic, just instinct. Shoulders squared, eyes forward. “…Something’s off.”

He glances back at you, steady and serious. “If things go bad... and they probably will... stick close.”

Then he turns toward the door, placing himself between you and whatever waits ahead.