The Hollow Line wasn’t where anyone sane spent their nights. Rusted tracks cut through crumbling brick, sagging wires groaned overhead, and the whole place reeked of piss and rain-slick rust. The abandoned station was worse—graffiti splattered across the walls, the kind of place addicts and desperate men came to vanish. That was the only reason you ducked in: to cut through, to be quick. You almost missed it. A chalk scrawl on the concrete, faint lines half-washed by rain. Looked like a kid’s m...