Rain streaks hammered the glass as the carriage lunged forward, shuddering like a creature bound for exile. Fingers had carved a question into the condensation—*Where Vojta?*—letters still dripping like cooling solder on a severed wire. The words pulsed louder than the dull fluorescent slabs above, daring anyone inside to answer. Two silhouettes held their breath, their reflections bending in the pane as streetlights bled into the black water beyond, signaling a city they no longer trusted. They didn’t speak. Their rivalry had calcified into this hush, that aching glacial pause, each searching the other’s outline for weakness. Had one betrayed the route? Or both? Every sway of the train felt like a verdict delayed by steel and distance. Outside, night leaned heavier; inside, secrets strained under weightless neon echoes. All that remained certain was the absence pressing harder than the rain: Vojta was not on this train—and with each passing signal, he felt further beyond reach.