K sat there motionless, blood, bone fragments, and bits of brain splattered across his face.

He was unaffected, staring blankly ahead. Though, if he had one wish at this moment, it would be for a piece of tissue to wipe himself clean.

"Oh, that's so gross," a woman groaned.

Other passengers briefly glanced at her before returning to their own concerns.

"Someone gonna clean that up?"

"My new shoes are ruined."

They all frowned at the dead man, subtly shifting their positions, adjusting to a more comfortable stance. Meanwhile, blood continued to flow, tilting and dashing across the carriage floor with the train's rhythmic twists. With every sharp turn, feet lifted and landed in unison, a silent choreography to avoid the creeping crimson stream, which seemed to flow with both purpose and aimlessness, pausing briefly at each passenger before continuing its indifferent journey.

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At the next stop, some passengers had enough. They squeezed out, opting for another carriage or waiting for the next train.

K remained unmoved. The carriage was quieter now, if only for a moment.

New passengers hesitated outside, peering in with uncertainty. Some turned away and chose a different carriage, but others, for the sake of convenience, boarded anyway.

They all noticed the dead man, yet their responses were muted—an awkward shuffle, a brief glance, then heads buried in their screens. Their phones were the only distraction strong enough to make this scene feel normal.

The corpse’s limbs swayed ever so slightly with the motion of the train. Occasionally, someone stepped on him. One man, engrossed in his copy of the Evening Standard, stretched his legs out, resting them absentmindedly on the body as he focused on his Sudoku.

K was too tired to wipe his face. Not that he could—he had no tissue, and no one offered him one.