The Hell-Gate Run

Elias pressed his lean frame against the scalding steel roof of the fourth carriage, his skin fusing with the rust under the relentless sun of the Dust Corridor. The metal wasn't merely a surface; it was a screaming beast, vibrating with a violent frequency that rattled his marrow. The wind didn't blow here; it bludgeoned, clawing at his limbs to hurl him into the abyss flanking the tracks. The stench of scorched grease and ancient oxidation choked the air. Steam hissed from faulty side-valves, lashing his exposed forearms with sulfurous stings that left angry, red welts. Elias tightened his oil-slicked grip on the leather satchel strapped to his chest. Despite the furnace heat, the weight against his ribs felt cold; these papers were heavier than their physical mass—they were the heartbeat of the Lower Cities. Two cars back, Lydia stood atop the second carriage with a terrifying, absolute stillness. She did not sway with the rhythm of the iron. She looked like a structural extension of the train itself. Her slate-gray military coat snapped behind her like the wings of a carrion bird. She raised a black-gloved hand. With a clinical, downward chop, she signaled her squad. Soldiers…