The last train was always quieter than people expected.
Haru liked it that way. Less noise meant fewer performances. People stopped pretending at midnight. Their shoulders slumped, their eyes dulled, and their thoughts drifted openly across their faces. It made them easier to draw.
He sat by the window, sketchbook resting on his knee, pencil loose in his fingers. He never drew faces completely—only outlines, shadows, impressions. He liked the idea that no one could accuse him of stealing their likeness when all he took was a feeling.
That was when he noticed her.
She sat across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap, back straight, eyes fixed on the dark glass of the window. The reflection of the train lights slid across her face again and again, but she never reacted.
She didn't blink.
Haru's pencil paused.
He told himself he was imagining it. People blinked. Everyone did. It was involuntary, natural—proof of being alive. Still, he watched for it. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.
Nothing.
"You're staring," she said suddenly.
Haru jumped slightly, embarrassed. "I—sorry. I didn't mean to."
She turned her head just enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. Her gaze felt heavy, deliberate.
"You were," she said. Not angry. Just stating a fact.
"I draw people," Haru explained. "I guess I forget myself sometimes."
Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook. "Draw me, then."
He hesitated. "I don't usually—"
"Do it," she said.
There was something unsettling about the way she spoke, like she expected obedience without ever raising her voice. Haru swallowed and lifted his pencil.
"Stay still," he said softly.
She smiled faintly. "I wasn't planning on moving."
As he sketched, he became aware of something else. Not just her stillness—but the way the air around her felt cooler, thinner, like standing too close to an open refrigerator. It made the hair on his arms lift.
"You're not scared," she observed.
Haru glanced up. "Should I be?"
"That depends," she replied.
"On how attached you are to being safe."
The train roared through a tunnel, plunging them briefly into darkness. When the lights returned, her eyes caught the glow—and for a fraction of a second, they looked red.
Not bright. Deep.
Old.