He staggered up from his seat, careful with each step as he moved toward her. The train took a turn and Konin stumbled, brushing into passengers as he fought for balance.

"Watch it!" someone spat. He began to apologize, but his eyes weren't on the irate man—they were on the woman he carried on his back.

Her hands were folded like a prayer, mouth sealed, hair shadowing a face so pale her irises seemed to glow—blue as the sea at dawn.

"I'm sorry," he said as he walked away. The hooded girl sat directly ahead; his shadow fell across her grey hood. He gripped the pole and stared, mouth parted, no sound coming. He sucked his lips, then at last: "Sarah..." The rail's rhythm thudded in the near-silence; his finger tapped the pole. Nothing.

He tried again, louder. "Sarah." The woman lifted her head toward the voice. When Konin saw her face it felt like a stranger's.

"Sorry," she said, confused. "I think you have the wrong person."

"Oh—yeah, yeah," he laughed. "Sorry, you just looked like someone I know."

She nodded and tucked away her phone without taking her eyes off him. "Mm."

"I'm Konin, by the way." He raised a hand.

She took it. "Lisa."

"Um—can I sit?" he asked. She shifted and made room. She hesitated, then rummaged through her bag; her palm was bandaged. Thin white scars scored her wrist.

"Here." She produced a handkerchief. He raised a brow but accepted it. "You got a little—" she swept a finger down his temple. He pressed the cloth to his forehead and felt a sharp sting; when he lowered it a dark red blotch stained the pale fabric.

"Thank you," he breathed, dabbing at the blood. She sank back into her seat and watched. The stain began to dissolve—clear liquid seeping through the weave until the cloth floated inside a translucent, spherical membrane suspended in the air. The sphere drank the red, draining the stain; when the cloth reappeared in Konin's hand it looked dry.

"Neat," Lisa said. Konin smiled and handed it back. She pressed her fingers to the cloth; another bead of liquid welled and slipped onto her palm. He watched the bead pool there.

"Is this...water?" she asked.

"Yeah." Konin split the sphere with a palm; one half remained ruby, the other perfectly clear. "It's drinkable too—want some?"

"No, thanks." Her voice was flat. Konin shrugged and let both spheres collapse onto the floor.

"So, who's Sarah?" she asked.

He hesitated. "She is—she was a girl I used to know."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He laughed, too quick. "Don't be. It was a long time ago."

Silence settled; the speakers announced the next stop.

"That's me," Lisa said, gathering her things. "Nice meeting you, Konin."

"You too."

The train slowed; the doors began to open. Lisa swung her bag over her shoulder—and froze. Konin watched her stillness, then called: "Lisa?"

She didn't answer. She lurched sideways into his lap, grabbing his collar; white foam spilled from her lips. Her knees buckled; the rest of her followed. "Lisa?!" Konin cradled her head before it hit the floor.

Then the blood came—swift, unnatural. Other passengers turned; the doors slid shut. Lisa's fingers clawed at Konin's shirt. Blood streamed from the hollows and folds of her face; her teeth showed through blackened lips. Her eyes reddened, tears mixing with the crimson that poured from them. It unfolded with grotesque slowness: the foaming, the bleeding, each detail stretched until Konin's world narrowed to the wet weight of her in his arms.

His mouth sealed, eyes blown wide; red beads dripped across his face. He felt Lisa's breath fade against his cheek until there was no more.