They thought velvet walls would muffle the tension, yet the train hums like a furnace under its candy-colored skin. Every surface argues in neon whispers: hold fast, trust the vow. Two headsets lie buckled to their seats as if waiting for duelists, their black straps biting against softness, promising some ritual no one stayed to finish. The signage beneath the pastel giants reads the question everyone mouths in secret—Where Vojta?—but no one answers, only the tracks do, grinding fast toward an unseen terminus. I picture him, eyes narrowed, leaving this saccharine chapel with fever in his breath and a clock burning in his chest. Maybe he refused the compromise others begged him to sign. Or maybe someone else tore the script, breaking the quiet bones of agreement. Either way, the heat here lingers like unspent gunpowder. Plush smiles deceive; truth sweats behind their stitched grins. He isn’t on this car, and the search cuts deeper with every mile of mirrored neon blur—Vojta remains gone.