The city wasn’t quieter at night, just more honest. Marc stood under the entrance awning, his coat collar pulled up, letting his breath drift out of his mouth in small clouds. The wind smelled of exhaust, wet concrete, and the sugary haze of a food cart that had been locked up for hours. Above him a lamp flickered, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to give light or just pretend.
He held the phone so close to his face it could warm his nose. Two-something. The time was a stubborn animal that barely moved. His head felt like a spreadsheet after a crash: cells shifted, formulas gone, everything somehow still there, but no longer where it belonged.
“Just get home,” he muttered, not noticing he’d said it out loud.
Beside him a woman with shopping bags went down the steps, the bags so full the plastic edge cut into her fingers. She didn’t look at him. People rarely looked at anyone at night unless they had to.
Marc tapped “Show route.” The screen showed him a connection that looked comfortable: transfer, line, another line, and then-a segment he didn’t know.
96th Street – End of Line. Not “96th Street.” Not “96th Street Station.”
But like someone had added a sentence to the station.
He blinked. The text stayed. He zoomed in, as if he could find a gap between the pixels. The map showed a short, neat line that kinked under the usual route like a pencil stroke added afterward. One stop. One endpoint.
“This is… bullshit.” Marc dragged his thumb across the screen, refreshed. Again. And again.
The segment twitched like it was in pain. For a moment it was gone. Then it was back, in the same cool font. Exactly the same.
A tunnel train rattled somewhere beneath him, a dull, vibrating rumble that climbed through the steps and tickled the soles of his feet. A sound you didn’t hear so much as feel in your bones.
Marc shoved the phone into his pocket and went down the stairs.
Down below the air was warmer, heavier. The smell of rust and electricity hung in the station. A man slept on a bench, arms locked around a backpack as if he were protecting it from the world. Farther back, someone slowly mopped the floor, like they knew it was pointless, but that pointlessness still needed work.
Marc stood behind the yellow line. The neon light made every face look sickly.
He pulled the phone out again.
The route was gone.
There was only a completely normal connection. Two transfers, longer waits, more walking. Like the small change had never existed. Like someone had erased a pencil line.
Marc felt something twitch behind his eyes-not pain, more a reflex, like someone had touched a nerve. He refreshed again.
Nothing.
“Of course,” he said, and this time it sounded like an apology.
The train came. Doors opened. Marc got on without knowing why. Maybe because sleep deprivation rolls dice with decisions. Maybe because he still saw the words End of Line in his head like a pop-up that wouldn’t close.
He didn’t sit. Sitting was dangerous; sitting led to nodding off, nodding off to sleep, sleep to missed stops, and after that everything was worse.
The train pulled out. Darkness swallowed the windows. Marc stared at his reflection, floating in the glass like a bad copy.
After two stations, just as he thought he’d imagined the whole thing, the light in the car went out for a fraction of a second. A quick blink. A cough from the power.
When it came back, an LED strip above the door was lit up that had been dark before.
96TH STREET – END OF LINE
Marc felt a cold film of sweat slide down his back.
The man on the other side of the aisle lifted his head. His eyes were clear, awake, and around his neck was a red scarf so bright it looked like it had just been bought from a boutique.
He looked at Marc like they had an appointment.
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