David sank into the train seat, shoulders hunched, eyelids heavy. The overhead lights flickered faintly, their rhythm a minor irritation against the pounding in his skull. Another long day at the office—back-to-back meetings, reports stacking higher than he had the energy to care about, emails blinking like little alarms that he had failed to respond quickly enough.
His fingers drummed absentmindedly on his laptop bag. He tried to swallow the dull ache creeping behind his eyes, the tension crawling from his neck to the base of his skull. A headache like this wasn't new. But tonight it felt sharper, more insistent.
Outside, the city blurred. The Elizabeth Line hummed and shimmered, lights stretching into ribbons as the train sliced through tunnels and stations. David pressed his temple against the cool glass, letting the speed lull him. He watched reflections in the window, himself, pale and tense, merge with the tunnel lights. For a moment, he let his mind drift.
He remembered running.
Not the slow, awkward jogs of adulthood, but the pure, uncalculated sprint of his childhood. Barefoot on grass that smelled of rain, lungs burning with a delicious, effortless exertion. The wind slicing past his face as if it were cheering him on, the world narrowing to one simple goal: move faster than you did last time.
He had been fast then, not the fastest, but free. Everything had been easier: the schoolyard races, the reckless leaps across curbs, the simple thrill of racing a friend and winning by inches. There had been no deadlines, no expectations, no weighted exhaustion pressing on him from every direction. Just the rhythm of his legs and the pure, immediate joy of speed.
He remembered the joy of experimenting with different albeit simple methods in an attempt to beat those faster than him, usually just longer or faster strides, or something new with his arms.
A shiver passed through him, one he tried to shake off, and he adjusted in his seat. His head throbbed harder now, a dull drumbeat against his temples, and a wave of dizziness made the edges of the window smear like watercolors. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The tunnel lights snapped past faster, streaks of gold and silver, and he realized he'd been holding his breath.
The memories of sprinting, the ease, the wind, the pulse of pure motion, hung in his chest like something almost tangible. He closed his eyes, leaning back, trying to ignore the pain that was growing sharper, more insistent.
For a fleeting second, he could almost feel the grass beneath his feet again, the world compressing to a single line in front of him, his legs pumping, his heart flying. And then the ache in his head spread, blinding and relentless.
He didn't notice the subtle shift in his body at first: the stiffness in his neck, the way his fingers curled against the bag, the slight lurch forward as his muscles finally surrendered. One moment he was there, seated on the train, and the next...his possessions rushed onto the floor as he went head first into the train's floor.
Everything went black.