8:38 a.m

  Gunfire.

  It was supposed to be another nothing morning.

  Now there was glass and blood on the floor. People were screaming. Someone was bleeding.

  Mike pressed himself down against the floor of the train, hands over his head, heart slamming in his chest. He could hear someone scream a few rows behind him, and a man falling straight to the metallic floor, blood blooming against a once-white shirt.

  Mike scanned the room fast. Broken glass. Sparks. A woman crawling along the floor toward the emergency intercom. A kid — maybe sixteen — shaking under a seat. The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized, casting everything in a sickly yellow haze. The train jolted forward harder now with a dull, rhythmic clunk as it picked up speed, like it was trying to outrun what had just happened.

  “What the hell was that—” someone whispered.

  Mike had seen it. The image was burned into his mind. Black gears. Guns. Not just handguns—real weapons. Military-grade. Tactical masks, no insignia.

  The masked figures on the platform were firing at everyone with no hesitation. He had seen before and learned to recognize the way men moved when they had already decided to kill.

  Whatever this was, it wasn't a random attack. Those were neither terrorists nor civilians.

  They were professionals.

  He stayed on the floor a few seconds longer, counting his breath like it might keep his heart from bursting open. One... two... three...

  “Get up.”

  His own voice was weak but urgent. He pushed himself up slowly, careful not to cut his hand on the glass on the floor. The train lights flickered again—one overhead was already dead, leaving half the car in shadow.

  He looked around again. People were huddled behind seats. Others were kneeling, hands over their mouths, eyes wide and wild and searching for something that made sense.

  A man with a heavy beard was trying to pull a woman out from under a collapsed luggage rack. She was gasping in short, desperate breaths, her face turning pale.

  Near them, another figure — broad-shouldered, helping an older woman sit up — murmured calm words too soft to hear.

  Mike crouched low beside the woman pinned under the wreckage. Checked her breathing, her pulse. She was alive.

  A man had collapsed near the doors, bleeding from the shoulder. A woman beside him was trying to tie her scarf around the wound, hands trembling so badly she kept dropping the knot.

  Mike moved to help without thinking.

  He knelt beside them. The woman looked up, startled, like she hadn’t even seen him coming.

  “I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” she stammered.

  “It’s okay,” he said, voice steady but soft. “You’re doing fine. Just tie it tighter. I’ve got him.”

  He pressed his hands to the wound. The man groaned beneath him. Warm blood soaked through his fingers. Mike didn’t flinch.

  You’re okay. You’re fine. You’re not freaking out. Keep breathing.

  It worked. A little.

  8:40 a.m

  Across the train, someone stood up too fast.

  “We have to stop the train! People are hurt—we need help!”

  “No, no, no—don’t—” Mike started.

  A man was already at the emergency brake handle near the middle of the car, fumbling with the glass cover.

  Mike stood quickly and shouted. “Stop! Don’t pull the emergency brake.”

  The guy turned, wild-eyed, a bit stoned by the intensity of Mike’s voice. “Are you crazy?! There’s blood everywhere! People are dying!”

  Mike stepped closer, gentler this time, palms raised.

  “I know. But if we pull that, this thing’s gonna stop right now—in the middle of the tunnel. We won’t be near any help at all. We’ll be stuck with no way out. No signal. Nothing.”

  “But what if they shoot us again?” A terrified and trembling voice said.

  “They can’t hit us if we keep moving,” Mike said. His voice was calmer than he felt. “ But if we stop now, in the dark, in the middle of the tracks? That’s a death trap.”

  The guy hesitated, blinking. Other passengers were watching now. Breathing quietly. Listening.

  Mike turned, sweeping his eyes across the faces — scared, injured, confused.

  “We get to the next station. We get off there, and then we get help.”

  The man finally backed away from the brake, convinced. Nobody argued.

  The woman beside Mike finished tying the scarf tightly around the wounded man’s arm. He was still breathing.

  That was good. And good was enough.

  Mike sat back down, hands covered in blood. He wiped them on his jeans and exhaled through his teeth.

  What the hell just happened?

  The train lady flashed in his mind—her number, her smile, her wave.

  Was she okay? Had she seen the shooters too? Did her train get out?

  He looked at his palm.

  The phone number ink was smeared under sweat and blood.

  8:42 a.m

  The train kept moving.

  Lights flickering. People whispering. Crying. Praying. No cell service. No announcements on the train speaker. No idea how far they were from the next station.

  Then—a jolt.

  A sudden screech.

  Someone had pulled the emergency brake.

  Not in their car. Somewhere up front.

  The train slammed to a halt, metal screaming against metal, the floor vibrating like the bones of the earth grinding together.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Bodies were thrown forward. Mike hit the seat in front of him hard. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood.

  A woman slammed into the pole beside him, grabbing it hard and leaving blood on the steel. Someone else hit the floor with a choked grunt.

  The lights cut out. Darkness swallowed the car. Someone screamed. Someone else yelled.

  Mike’s hands clenched into fists.

  8:43 a.m

  “Why are we stopping?!”

  “Who pulled the brake?!”

  “Why are the lights out—?!”

  “Shut up! Everyone shut up—!”

  Voices clashed. Rushed. Climbed over each other.

  "I can’t breathe!"

  "We’re trapped!"

  "Don’t open the doors, stay inside—!"

  "Is it the terrorists?!"

  "God, what the hell is happening?!"

  People moved without thinking — grabbing at backpacks, searching for exits, tripping, panicking.

  The train had become a cage. The lights still buzzed, someone was sobbing uncontrollably, and somewhere near the front of the car was whispering prayers in a language Mike didn’t recognize. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the world.

  Mike stood slowly, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. His ribs ached, his knees were stiff, and his palms were sweaty.

  All around him, the fear grew teeth.

  People clustered into messy groups, pushing closer to strangers they would’ve ignored 10 minutes ago. Their faces were pale under the flickering lights, their voices sharp and brittle, their eyes searching for answers that weren't coming.

  The air smelled like burnt metal, sweat, and something worse.

  That’s when the arguments started.

  Fast. Loud. Desperate.

  A woman near the doors shouted, “We have to stay inside! It’s safer! We don’t know what’s or who’s in those tunnels!”

  Another voice — younger, bloodied — snapped back, “Stay for what? So they can come finish the job?!”

  More voices joined in, overlapping, cutting each other off:

  “It's ok, they’ll fix the power!”

  “Yes! The train will start moving soon, we just have to wait.”

  “They’ll send help!”

  “What the hell are you talking about??”

  “The shooters will find us first if we stay here!”

  “We're sitting ducks!”

  One group — smaller but louder — pressed toward the emergency exits, hands already fumbling with the latches.

  The others — wide-eyed, more cautious — clung to the seats like they might anchor them to sanity.

  Mike said nothing. He watched it unfold — the way terror could split a crowd like an axe to dry wood.

  A woman with cropped black hair stood at the center aisle now, arms raised, trying to speak over the chaos.

  “We move fast — together — or we’re done! Staying here’s suicide!”

  Another man, stockier, pointed toward the doors. “You move into those tunnels, you’re dead faster than staying put!”

  "You’re welcome to stay and wait for them to come back!" she shouted back, jabbing a finger at the smashed window, the echo of gunfire still ringing in the walls.

  Another voice fired back — female, firm. “We don’t even know where we are. What if they already cleared the next station? What if it’s worse?”

  The cropped-haired woman stepped closer. Her tone wasn’t panicked anymore, just cold and practical.

  “If they’re trying to kill people, they’re not going to stop at the platform. You saw them. They were moving like a unit.”

  Mike nodded once.

  Another man, still cradling a wrist wrapped in a torn scarf, shot back:

  “You think the tunnels are safer? You want us to walk in the pitch black, with no idea where we’re going? We’ve got wounded people and no weapons.”

  The artist kid from earlier — eyes red-rimmed, a smudge of graphite still on his fingers — muttered, “It’s not just dark in there. It’s... wrong.”

  Someone scoffed. But no one laughed.

  Stay inside. Wait and hide - The familiar comfort of walls, of structure, even if it became a coffin.

  Or leave. Run and survive - The terrifying unknown, dark tunnels, rats and debris, and whoever else waited in the black for them.

  Neither choice was perfect. Only different kinds of fear.

  The group split along invisible lines.

  The ones who wanted to stay — huddle up, wait it out, pray the power came back, pray help would come.

  They were older, mostly. Or injured. Or just too shocked to move. Their logic made sense on paper: this train was made of steel. A fortress. The tunnels? A void. They just have to wait a few minutes, and the power will restart. The train will move again soon.

  The others — more restless, more angry — couldn’t stand the idea of waiting.

  Waiting meant being a target.

  Waiting meant trusting that someone would save them.

  And no one felt like trusting anyone right now.

  8:48 a.m

  Their shouting bounced off the metal and glass, rising again, splitting what little unity they had left into shreds.

  A chorus of reactions followed.

  Some nodding.

  Some shaking their heads.

  Some were looking desperately toward Mike, like he already had answers. He didn’t. But he looked like he did. Mike had just finished checking the two train cars surrounding them. Only those two, since Mike’s car was the 7th one, the 8th was the last of the train. And the 5th door was blocked and couldn’t open.

  Nobody volunteered to follow him. The result was frightful. Everyone died, not a survivor. He had walked through broken cities before. He had stepped over bodies when there was no choice left. And this was as painful and horrific as he remembered it.

  Mike exhaled slowly, and he found himself in the center. Literally. Like gravity had pulled the argument into orbit around him.

  He looked at everyone’s faces for a moment, he had learned that fear was as dangerous as any bullet. The choice they were making right now — to stay or go — wasn't about safety.

  It was about hope.

  How much of it did you still have?

  How much were you willing to bet on something you couldn’t see?

  Mike adjusted his hood over his head, sweat cooling at the back of his neck.

  If no one else was going to say it calmly, He stepped forward. Not to shout. Not to command.

  "First thing we need to do," Mike said, just loud enough to cut through the noise like a scalpel, "is decide if we want to die in here… or out there."

  Mike turned his head towards the train doors.

  “I don’t know what’s waiting in the tunnel,” he said. “But I know what’s coming down that aisle.” Pointing in the direction the gunshots had come from.

  “We’re not gonna be rescued in the next five minutes. Or ten. Or maybe ever. If someone pulled that brake up front, then we’re not the only ones stuck. Let's reunite and head to the next station.”

  “So we move?” the young artist boy asked with a fearful voice.

  Mike hesitated. “Yes. And fast.”

  8:52 a.m

  People started grabbing bags. Scarves. Flashlights. One guy tore apart a first-aid kit and split the supplies with shaking hands. A woman tried to rig her phone flashlight with a roll of chewing gum foil to reflect more light. It didn’t work — but she kept it anyway.

  It took ten more minutes to agree on anything.

  Who was walking first?

  Who would carry the wounded?

  How they’d avoid rails.

  How far they’d try to go before they turned back.

  Eventually, they formed a group of twelve.

  Twelve out of maybe twenty-five.

  The rest remained in the train, watching them silently, like ghosts of themselves already. They didn’t argue. They just sat back, folded their arms, and stared at the floor. You could see the decision hardened behind their eyes. They weren’t cowards. Just… done.

  Mike understood that. More than he wanted to.

  Just before stepping through the emergency door, Mike turned back once. He saw the bloodstain where he’d knelt earlier.

  He saw the scarf still tied around the wounded man’s arm.

  He saw the girl who had tied it holding her knees, rocking slightly, not blinking.

  He glanced at the emergency light near the ceiling. A dim, flickering red glow. The time read:

  9:06 a.m

  Thirty minutes ago, he’d been looking into a stranger’s smile, wondering if he was about to fall in love.

  Now he was trying to figure out if stepping into pitch black subway tunnels would get him and everyone killed. He pushed the door open with the help of another man. Cold air rushed in, thick with dust and something else—wet concrete, oil, old hot metal. The air smelled like forgotten time.

  And they just stepped out.

  The tunnel swallowed them. Into the dark.