The Final Stop.

K waddled out of the train doors as usual.

It was the end of the line. He passed through the station gates, unnoticed. The attendants were too busy chewing gum and chatting to each other to care about the blood and brain matter staining his clothes.

The night was cold and dark. Nobody exiting the station looked at one another. They wore headphones, tapped away at their phones, muttered into them—texting, scrolling, speaking in low, inaudible voices.

Each one went their separate way, disappearing into the slabs of concrete they called "home."

No greetings. No recognition.

K’s home lay beyond a dingy alleyway, reeking of vape smoke. A group of men, forever looking like teenagers despite their age, lingered beneath a skeletal tree, inhaling and exhaling in silence. The leaves above them trembled slightly in the wind, making them seem more alive than the people beneath them.

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The overflowing bins lined the pavement with their chorus of rotting odors.

K pushed through the narrow entrance of a crammed, three-story house, where every possible inch of space had been carved into a separate room.

How many people lived here? He didn’t know. Didn’t care to know.

The bathroom was occupied, as always. Someone downstairs was boiling a kettle, the air thick with strange, untraceable smells.

The bathroom was always occupied for extended periods. Sometimes, it smelled unbearable. K often saw people emerge from it, their faces glued to their phones, likely the reason for the delay.

Was this the life he had asked for?

He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

Exhausted, he collapsed onto his bed—half the size of his room—and let sleep take him.