The train doors hiss open. A gush of warm, stale air hits you. It smells like metal, dust, and a million commutes.
You get on. The carriage lights flicker once. The train lurches forward, and the city above disappears.
It’s a moment of pure, weird magic. You’re hurtling through a dark wormhole, surrounded by strangers. And it’s utterly glorious.
Next time you’re down there at midnight, look around. Smile at the absurdity. You’re part of a secret club that only meets after dark.
