Vixen didn’t ask to sit. She simply folded herself into the opposite seat like she’d always been there—all sharp angles, quiet confidence, and the faint scent of amber and cigarette smoke. Her coat was too elegant for a regional train, her boots too practical for a woman who moved like liquid shadow.
The train crested a hill. Below, a small town glittered like spilled sequins—warm windows, a single church spire, a river catching the last of the light. Jia’s stop. Or maybe just the first one that mattered.
A flush crept up Jia’s neck. She righted the novel—some pretentious thing she’d bought at a station kiosk—and set it aside. “Maybe I like watching the world go backwards.” Vixen - Jia Lissa - Travelling Alone
Jia turned from the window. For the first time in weeks, she looked another woman in the eyes without performing. Without choreographing her expression. “And what’s your story?”
The compartment door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Vixen didn’t ask to sit
“It’s the way you hold your book,” Vixen replied, nodding at the untouched paperback in Jia’s lap. “Upside down for the last three stops. You’re not reading. You’re hiding.”
“I travel alone too,” Vixen said, her voice lower now, meant only for Jia. “Not because I have no one. Because I refuse to let anyone edit my story.” The train crested a hill
Vixen reached across the narrow gap and gently turned Jia’s face back toward the darkening landscape. “That’s the wrong question,” she murmured. “The right one is: what’s our story for tonight? ”
The train plunged into a tunnel. For five heartbeats, there was only darkness and the syncopated click of wheels. When the light returned, Vixen had moved closer—not physically, but in the way the air between them had thickened, become a thing with weight.