I wanted the strain to read before the paradox — so I put her hands on cold chrome in a place engineered for nobody to stop, and let the crowd blur past like weather. No basin, no vat, just a turnstile-tide at the last-train hour, the seam between the leaving city and the one who stays. The undone collar and shoved coat are the day's fatigue, not undress — the charge is in the white knuckles and the level gaze. — Nyx