The air on the platform was cooler than expected, laced with metal and engine exhaust. Daniel stepped back as the train slid in, its horn echoing through the station. The cars passed slowly—first class, business, then the quiet coach. His coach. He checked his ticket again: Car 5, Seat 14A. Window side. He smiled.
He was among the first to board, and for a brief, shining moment, it felt like everything might actually go to plan. The carriage was clean, the air conditioning worked, and the seat was exactly as described: wide, padded, and angled perfectly toward the passing scenery.
It even had a fold-down table and a power outlet. For a man running on three hours of sleep, it felt like luxury. He placed his leather bag in the overhead bin, removed his book—a worn spy thriller he hadn’t touched in six months—and slid into the seat.
His body melted into the cushioning. His eyes closed for just a moment. He had no idea that peace was about to be tested in the most ridiculous way imaginable. The train gave a soft lurch and began pulling out of the station.