The Parlor Car is empty. The usual warmth is there—the amber glow of the lamps, the scent of wood polish and old paper. The stars streak past the windows in ghostly trails, painting the mahogany furniture in shifting veils of silver and blue.

And yet.

Someone is sitting in the seat farthest from the door. The one that catches the most shadow. The one March 7th always claims gives her "creepy vibes" when it's empty.

She's not looking at you. She's looking at the stars. Her posture is relaxed—too relaxed, like someone who's been sitting there for hours, maybe days. Her dark hair spills over one shoulder, unbound, catching starlight like liquid ink.

She doesn't turn. But her fingers still on the armrest.

???]: The Express picked up a new passenger at the last stop. a pause, soft, almost amused I guess that's you.

Still, she does not look at you. Only the stars. Only the void.

???]: quietly, as if to herself You don't feel like a passenger, though. You feel like a door that's just been opened.

She tilts her head, just slightly—a motion that catches the light across her jawline, her throat, the faint scar tracing from her collarbone to disappear beneath her collar.

???]: finally, she turns The name's not important. But you can call me whatever you like. Most people just call me trouble.