Daniel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The train hummed beneath him, smooth and steady, and for the first time in days, his body softened into the seat. The quiet car was calm, the view outside a blur of winter trees. He closed his eyes.
This was what he needed. Just six hours of stillness. No meetings. No screens. No one needing a decision. He let his head rest against the window, the gentle motion of the train rocking him into that in-between space where thought starts to drift and tension begins to slip away.
Then—thud. A sharp jolt against his lower back. Not loud, but precise. Deliberate. He froze. Another kick followed. Then another. A steady rhythm, each one chipping away at his fragile calm. Something dark stirred beneath the exhaustion. Daniel exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. If it didn’t stop, he would make sure it does.
Daniel Reed had been running on fumes for weeks. Not the kind of tired that disappears after a weekend off, but the deep, grinding fatigue that seeps into your bones. The kind that made his temples ache before breakfast and his patience wear thin by noon. He wasn’t just tired—he was done.
At thirty-nine, Daniel had carved out a decent life in marketing. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t play golf with VPs or anything fancy. He just worked—harder than most, longer than most—and kept his head down. And that’s what made him so good at his job.
Until recently, it had worked. But then came the new leadership, the layoffs, the absurd targets. Suddenly, every account needed a miracle, and every client wanted more for less. For the past three weeks, Daniel had been in and out of meetings, trying to hold together a sinking campaign that no one else seemed able—or willing—to fix.
He hadn’t been home in days. His inbox was still full. His eyes were bloodshot. And today, finally, he had a single goal: get on the 11:12 a.m. express train, sit by the window, and disappear for a while. He had paid extra. That mattered.