"See you tomorrow, Brooklyn!""Yeah... see you tomorrow."

I waved goodbye to the junior from my company—truth be told, I'd rather not see him tomorrow. Not that I dislike him but dragging my heavy briefcase and even heavier exhaustion to and from the crowded subway during rush hour is just unbearable. But this daily agony was quickly overshadowed by the eerie atmosphere on the platform.

First, there was the announcement for the arriving train. The voice was just as mechanical and calm as always, but this time it caught me off guard. “Next stop: Chelsea.”

That can't be right, can it?

This subway line only runs within the city limits; how could it be heading to a neighborhood in another part of the country?

And then there was another oddity. Typically, people waiting for the train would be spread out along the platform, positioned where the doors would open. But not today. Today, all the passengers were gathered in one spot. I started to walk over to see what was going on, but I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned.

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At the front of the crowd, there was a woman standing in the middle of the subway tracks. I was about to shout at her, but a sudden gust of wind whipped past me.The next thing I knew, the air was filled with the metallic scent of blood.

In that brief moment, the train had rushed in with a deafening horn blast, passed through, cover, and over the woman. Whether the driver was in shock or simply didn't see her, the train never slowed down, speeding right through the station. A trail of crimson was left on the tracks, something wet and sticky splattering onto the platform near me, accompanied by a sickening, wet crunch.

I felt a wave of nausea and fumbled for my phone to call the police. But as I looked down, my eyes were drawn to the red and black mess on the ground. It was the woman's driver’s license, covered in blood. But it wasn’t the blood that caught my attention—it was the name printed in bold black letters that sent chills down my spine.

Last Name: Chelsea, First Name: Grace

I covered my mouth, barely suppressing the horror and nausea rising from my stomach.

Turning towards the crowd, I was about to call out for help, but I realized they were already looking at me, all of them moving towards me in unison—just like ordinary passengers waiting to board. And I could hear them, mumbling softly as they walked.

"Missed it... next stop.”

Then, echoing through the subway station came the chilling, automated voice.

“Next stop: Brooklyn.”