Colorful and bountiful types of miserable souls hang their heads on necks, leaning on their arms, the doors, the handles, and colleagues' shoulders while the subway roams towards each’s destination.

Couldn't find a seat, and honestly, I don't want to. When strangers on a train don't bat an eye while another squeezes in next to you it feels like I'm picking a spot in a graveyard.

So I lean my shoulder and violin case on the door. Drawn out the light of lamps on sides of the tunnel lined into rows of unstable neon tubes. They moved up and down, flickering but never overlapped each other. I turned my head and looked down, lifting my feet like I was checking if there was something under my shoes, while I peeked at the end of this carriage.

Someone with their hoods up has been pressing his head in my direction for some time now. He's leaning on a bunch of posters stapled on the junction between carriages. The pure gray hoodie is baggy, not the stylish type more like bought the wrong size at a discount.

I can't see his eyes from the position, the man’s leaning on the right side of the train like me, head turned 45 degrees, half of his face is behind hoodie the other half in shades.

Didn't pay much attention to him when I got on, though I'm positive he was there before me since I didn't notice anyone else on the platform and this is an express, straight from Via Martinase to the lanes designed for the half deads in loose ties around me.

I scratch the end of my sneaker for the act while checking if the knife a few inches above it is strapped tight enough.

The fellow turned his face to the left in very slow motion, if weren't paying attention one would thought he's always like this. A light chill runs towards my nape. His hands are in kangaroo pockets.

What was it called? Liu Jiu?

The display screen with a couple of penis sketches at its corner shows the stop after St. Christofer is the grand plaza. None of the folks on this track look 'Disalos' enough to have business at that shit hole, most likely lots of them will be off by the end of this minute.

I turned my head back at those racing strings of light in the tunnel. Arms hugging myself.

As the sound of screeching stops and a sense of reaction force violently interrupted the passenger's transit and exhausted state, some started gathering around me or more specifically, the door behind me.

A middle-aged man in a waterproof coat squeezed through between a woman in casual wear with a cheap leather purse in hand and a man in polo shirt. The fucker blocks out my vision of the hoodie fellow.

The invisible force that's dragging me back slowly fades as the incandescent tubes of the station shots through the greasy windows behind me.

"We are reaching St Christopher church. The next stop is, Plaza Linares. Transfer to..."

As the announcement states the stop in the plainest joyful tone anything could utter, almost everyone in the carriage stood up. Cracking their joints, yawning, eyes half shut, arms stuck on sides of body.

It took a bit of effort to check my watch in the middle of all the passengers slowly pushing me towards the door but I managed.

4:54, almost rush hour..... 40 seconds tops.

I push the guy in coat to the side and squeeze past another man with a hideous mustache beside me to sit at the just-empty seats and place my violin case on the ground. The mustache guy stares at me like I'm a madman, before the edge of his lip twitches and he turns back towards the door while muttering something.

Two seconds after the train stops, the door opens with a squeak. I start counting.

7, 8, 9......

Folks that gathered around it swarm out like moths to a blaze, the back pushing the front while the front tries to walk in bigger steps.

14, 15, 16......

The gaps between the passengers widened, I leaned forward, arms resting on my lap while I tried to see the guy.

23, 24, 25.....

Two man in clerk uniforms took their damn time to discuss exhaust pipes, till most were off the train do they strolled off my line of sight towards the exit. Then I saw him.

31, 32, 33.....

The person in hoodie is now leaning on the other side of the train, head is still low but I can now be sure he's looking at me........ or the plastic bag someone left on the ground next to me. Another shiver runs down my spine, encouraging me to take action.

35, 36....

Qins or not, hell. Intentional or not. I really fucking hate people spying on me.

37, 38.....

I crack my shoulders and lean back on the seat while my left-hand hangs lazily off, close to the handle of the case on the ground

39

Left hand clutching the case right, I grab the pole next to the door with my right and joint off the seat, letting the force drag and spin my body. The irritating beeping sound of closing doors brushed over my ear as the metal double door closed behind me, almost snapping my left pinkie.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

40

Through the yellowish, dirty windows on sides of train. I see the hoodie figure get off the wall, in a very obvious motion of trying to get through the door but failed as he stand inches from the hatch with his left palm on the window.

I stride a couple steps to the end of that carriage, staring at him across the window on platform. Making it clear to him that he’s terrible at his job. The beeping kept going on for two more seconds before the train was to leave for Disalos.

The fellow steps backward, facing me directly but keeping his head low so I can't make out much of his face, but I could see the outline of his chin. The fellow's a man for sure.

And before he stuck his hands back in his hoodie pocket I noticed his left ring finger's nail got a funny color.

A dry...no. Flourishing red. The guy lost his fingernail.

The express steadily increase its speed till the steel frames and blue lines on the exterior becomes a blur, and so do the figure inside.

I turn around and realize I'm the only one on the platform the next train on both sides are ten minutes away. Clutching the violin case handle in my left hand. I skip steps to the staircase while the cold cloud at my nape dissolves.

***

Three sets of stairs up, while I'm in the line to take the escalator I intentionally take my sweet time while the line passes the corner so I can take a good look at the station.

The St. Christofer stop connects to the subway, national railway, and airport express so the man flow is always overwhelming with folks from all over the country, even the world.

The structure is completely underground, with four floor of four different tracks connected by glass escalators in a hollowed lobby with some really bad lighting which makes the whole place convey a grayish glint instead of the open and clear vision whoever built it was aiming.

But it does give folks on the top floor's escalator a good view.

I stroll in wide steps, slow movements. As the line passes the glass balcony next to the escalator which leads to the surface. My eyes jump from the coffee shop at B4 to the ticket machines at 2 to the group of teenagers in ink printing shirts and sports bras that followed the flock of office joes from a distance. But nothing seems off, and no one's paying attention to anyone.

Who the fuck was that?

By the time blood red setting sun carved its last resentment on my skin like a venomous old man in his last hour with no one by his side. I have asked myself this question more than ten times. And came up with loads of possibilities, but the Qins searching for their missing scouts or investigating that sociopath who was lurking around the Jiu lou last night is most positive.

Stepping on the street of lanes, I decided to cast those thoughts aside and focus on finding Javier's.

***

Mean or beaten, those are the faces of lanes. Where the luxurious valley of Monclea separates itself from the blood-soaked soil and rusty canopy of Disalos, where the pigs in high towers at downtown can fill their balcony's view with pleasant things while ignoring the desolate and stanched lanes at the edge of their sight as long as they're facing northeast.

The place used to..... well, it still is La Vina territory, but as the things between ruskies calm down a considerable amount of paid guns lost their job. Those were loosely connected to their gangs, half affiliated, with only a sate for cash. They got a taste of how war and conflicts can make them rich faster than pushing half-baked shit to scrawny teenagers or beating prostitutes (or customers).

Therefore not long after the war ended, many fled their gangs, of course the 10 years of hell is a huge factor, but they are opportunists at heart, they did it for personal gains and the freedom of doing it. In a sense, despite having numerous employers, we are our own man..... most of the time.

Ten years ago things were a lot less diplomatic than now. Constant war ended abruptly like opponents of a race both hit a steel wall in the finish line. Peace was good, but the odor of violence was deep-rooted and scared any who survived.

Not all left their original flock on good terms, some were deemed rats but that didn't stop a very considerable amount of senior from leaving, they were done taking orders.

As grandeur as those actions were, they still need to relocate and sticking in the same neighborhood with your ex-wife is a pretty awful idea. That was when some of them started meeting each other around St Christofer church.

It wasn’t a big deal at the start, just some old pals shooting the shit, talking about job opportunities at where by who. But then more freelancers realize that this district is the only part of Euforia that isn't ruled by cops or gangs.

So it grows, the district itself and the folks here. More than chatting about businesses, some start to outsource or join forces for the juicier works.

They started occupying pubs, clubs, dark alleys, fucking laundries. Sitting on benches or stools with hands on the counter and an ugly grin hanging, asking what kind of stuff his mates got for him this time. The other guy would do the same, scratching the callus close to his thumb, throwing his head back and forth with an equally big grin before leaning close to spill a certain someone was complaining about a certain something last Sunday morning after masses.

Two days later, the certain someone would see a guy strolling towards him with an ugly grin and providing him his utmost loyal services in duration of the certain problem he had.

The work wasn't for the faint of heart, as the group in such a profession multiplied, the other small-timers started eyeing the cash flow of these opportunists. They start replacing their pipe dreams according to the newest trend. The most vexing part is that the occupation of 'freelancer' is self-appointed. Fuck me, buying a can of coke for your friend and you qualify as one too as long as you got paid.

But the newcomers overlooked two things.

First, those old timers who ditched the rules and got the whole system work up had all experienced hell, and are well connected enough to play all sides as if waltzing on a tightrope.

Second, the sense of freedom we enjoy are just another set of rules we have to follow.

It doesn't mean you could do whatever the fuck you want. It means to tread as carefully as you can while interacting with your employers, your colleagues, and the goddamn uniforms. Cause there isn't a crutches to lean on for us.

I picked them up a long time ago, even before I became a freelancer. But for some reason, there's always a bunch of ruffians strutting into this pot like a big shot and got a 12 gauge slug of common sense to the brain in the first weeks.

But they kept coming, the illusions and the blinding legends of those old mercs made St Christofer the most mixed up place in Euforia with characters of different values for themself.

But one is almost consistent of us all, we're greedy assholes who put ourselves first.

And that is where the name 'Lanes' came from. It wasn't a nickname for the district, it was one for folks like me, but we like it so much that we rename the district after it. Not sure who started it, probably some gangs down south.

Can't blame them for the idea, cause that's what we are, what this place is. A sewer of all types of scoundrels, the dirty lanes of Faust.

***

Three unenthusiastic badges stand under the shade of a five-story parking, a pair of blood-soaked white sheets by their feet covering the victim's torso, not the blacked and blued limbs. Judging from their arms not sticking out of the sheets and the dented top of the lamp pole a few meters away, they were thrown off.

The movements of the crowd form a temporary stopping point at the blockade. Some jump their gazes past it, most skim through, none cares.

I bypassed a guy with a beer belly and sports shades who's been blocking the already cramped pavement for fuck knows why. Taking a right to the alley next to yellow police line with its end sticking on the corner brick, one of the cops took a step left as I turned to the alley.

The sunlight cuts through a row of short apartment buildings at the end of the empty alleyway and blinds my left eye through the gap of my shades but I can swear, at that one-tenth of a second, the cop is staring straight at me with narrowed eyes while his left-hand reaches for radio.

I stick both hands in my jacket pockets and quicken my steps, facing the last of twilight.