My lungs burned with every breath as I sprinted toward the central station. The morning mist was thick, but the distant shriek of a train whistle cut through the cold air. The 6:15 Express. If I missed it, I was dead.
I burst through the station's heavy oak doors, not daring to look back. I could feel the temperature dropping behind me—the shadows were slithering along the edges of the vaulted ceiling, desperately trying to avoid the station's harsh fluorescent lights.
"All aboard!" a conductor shouted from the platform.
The massive iron wheels ground against the tracks, the train slowly gaining speed. I pushed past a cart of luggage, my boots slipping on the polished marble floor. Just a little further. > I leaped toward the last carriage, my fingers desperately clawing at the icy metal rail. For a terrifying second, my feet dangled over the blurred tracks. Then, with a surge of adrenaline, I hauled myself onto the open observation deck.
As the train roared out of the station and into the safety of the rising sun, I collapsed against the heavy iron door, gasping for air. I was out. I had escaped. But when I pulled the map from my torn jacket, my blood ran cold. The glowing ink had rearranged itself. The line didn't point to an ocean anymore. It pointed straight toward the front of this very train.