Outside the window, the city sprawls—a mess of concrete and glass, wires and weather-beaten signs. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

The doors hiss open.

Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of diesel, damp concrete, and someone's half-eaten sandwich. A voice crackles over the intercom, barely intelligible.

The platform beyond is crowded. Commuters stream past in both directions, faces blank, footsteps quick. A man in a wrinkled suit nearly collides with you, mumbling an apology without slowing down.

A sign overhead reads: EXIT — 7TH AVENUE.

Another reads: SUBWAY — LINES A, C, E.

Somewhere to your left, a busker strums the same three chords on a guitar, a paper cup at his feet holding a few crumpled bills.