CHAPTER 1 - THE DEPARTURE
The morning air felt like a sheet of ice against his skin.
"One ticket, please," the boy said, his voice steady despite the frost blooming with every breath. He shifted the weight of the long, rectangular case slung over his shoulder. It was heavy and wrapped tightly in weathered canvas to hide the silhouette of what lay inside. He didn't want eyes on it not here, and certainly not today.
He pulled his blue scarf tighter around his neck, tucking his chin into the fabric. Underneath a dark tracksuit and a simple black shirt, his lean frame seemed small against the backdrop of the massive locomotive hissing steam onto the platform.
The ticket seller, a man in his thirties with a neatly pressed black coat and dark brown hair, looked up with a practiced, friendly smile. "Going far, kid? That'll be five Zen."
The boy fished the coins from his pocket and traded them for a slip of paper.
"Safe travels," the man added, but the boy had already turned away, his boots crunching on the frost-dusted gravel.
"All aboard!" the conductor's voice boomed, echoing under the vaulted iron roof of the station. "Train departing for the Northern District in five minutes! All passengers on board!"
The boy joined the stream of travelers. There were businessmen clutching briefcases, families huddling together for warmth, and elderly couples moving slowly toward the metal steps. He moved through them like a shadow, silent and focused. As he stepped onto the metal floor of the carriage, the rhythmic thrum-thrum of the engine vibrated through the soles of his shoes. It felt like a heartbeat.
He found his way through the narrow corridors, the smell of coal smoke and old leather filling his lungs. People were busy stowing their luggage in overhead bins and settling into the plush velvet seats, oblivious to the world outside their windows.
Train 4: The Compartment
In the fourth compartment, the atmosphere was different. It wasn't the quiet hum of a morning commute; it was the heavy, suffocating silence of a predator waiting to strike.
Three men sat near the front. One of them, a man with a jagged, white scar running from his temple to his jawline, sat perfectly still in a brown hoodie. He looked like a statue carved from stone. Opposite him sat two others, their eyes darting restlessly toward the digital clock on the wall.
At a silent nod from the man with the scar, they all stood up at once. The movement was coordinated practiced. They marched toward the front of the carriage, cutting off the exit.
"OI... Hurry your ass up and get the fuck up!" one of them barked. His name was Zach, a wiry man with a twitchy expression. He was hovering over a young woman clutching a small child to her chest. The child began to wail, the sound piercing the quiet room.
A man sitting across the aisle, wearing a suit and looking like he'd had a long enough day already, stood up. His face was flushed with indignation. "Hey, now come on... Just what the hell are you trying to pull here?" he yelled, pointing a finger at Zach. "You can't talk to her like—"
"Oh, you bastard," Zach sneered, his eyes widening with a manic glint. "You talking back to me? To me, Zach?"
In one fluid, violent motion, Zach reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy black pistol. Instead of firing, he swung the butt of the gun in a brutal arc.
Thwack!
The sound of metal hitting bone was sickeningly loud. The man collapsed back into his seat, his hands instantly flying to his forehead. Blood began to gush, dark and hot, leaking between his fingers and staining his white shirt. He groaned, trying to push himself back up to fight, but the cold barrel of the gun was suddenly pressed hard against his temple.
Zach's finger tightened on the trigger. His teeth were bared. He was a second away from painting the window red.
"Don't do that," a cold, low voice commanded.
It was the man with the scar. He hadn't moved from his spot, but his presence filled the entire room. "We don't need any unnecessary bloodshed here. Not yet. Just go according to the plan we made. Don't mess it up."
Zach froze. He looked at the scarred man, then back at the bleeding passenger. He spat on the floor. "Ok, I hear you, Scar."
He leaned in closer to the injured man, whispering so the whole carriage could hear. "Just shut your fucking mouth. You're lucky. If he hadn't spoken up, you'd be a corpse on the floor right now."
Scar stepped forward, his eyes scanning the terrified faces of the passengers. The woman with the child was sobbing quietly, trying to muffle the sound.
"Hey! All of you, listen up!" Scar's voice was like a whip crack. "If anyone of you dares to open their mouths, you'll get a hole in your head. Sit still, keep your hands where we can see them, and you might just live to see the next station."
Train 3: Room 3
While the terror took hold in the fourth carriage, a man with massive, broad shoulders moved through the door of the third compartment. He wore a short-length tracksuit that looked like it was straining to contain his muscles.
He didn't look like a common thug; he looked like a soldier.
He entered Room 3, where two other men were hunched over a map spread out on a small table. They looked up as he entered, their expressions grim and expectant.
"Boss," the man said, his voice a deep rumble. "The perimeter is set. We have secured all the passengers in the rear, and the boys are in position. We've started the plan."
The man at the table nodded, his eyes fixed on the tracks ahead. "Good. Tell the others to stay sharp. We aren't just here for the train. We're here for what's inside it."
Farther down the train, in a quiet seat by the window, the boy with the blue scarf felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He reached out, his hand resting on the long case beside him.