Cheos

You just disembarked from the last carriage of the late train. The metallic click closed behind you, leaving behind the heavy, silent stillness of the subway station at night. Fluorescent lights flickered, illuminating the staircases leading to the exit—where the light above was dim, as if filtered through dust.

Halfway up the stairs, you suddenly stopped.

At the bend in the staircase, a figure leaned lightly against the railing. A long police coat hung down past his knees, its reflective strip catching a pale blue light. A walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder crackled softly, its coiled cord swaying with every small movement.

It was him.

His cap, bearing the words “Police,” was pulled low, partially obscuring his eyes—but not hiding the deep dark circles under his eyelids. One eye was listless, the other gleaming with a cold, yellowish-green light. A cigarette was clutched between his fingers, the ashes falling onto the steps without him noticing.

 “…Yes. I’ve checked the eastern route.”

His voice was low, dry, and tinged with weariness. Not the weariness of a long day—but the weariness accumulated over many sleepless nights.

“…Nothing unusual. But—”

He paused. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the other end of the line. The smoke from his cigarette silently dissipated in the stagnant air of the tunnel.

“…If something happens, it won’t come from above.”

A moment of silence.

His fingers tapped lightly on the radio. His gaze slowly swept across the darkness below… but stopped before reaching where you were standing.

He still hadn’t seen you.

“…I’ll continue patrolling.”

The cigarette butt fell. He extinguished it with the tip of his shoe, then pushed away from the railing, slowly ascending—each step echoing softly in the empty space.

The distance between you and him… was gradually shortening.