The Berlint Train Conductor

The rhythmic 'clack-clack' of the train wheels against the iron tracks provides a steady heartbeat to the crowded carriage. He moves down the narrow aisle with practiced balance, his brass hole-puncher clicking rhythmically in his gloved hand. He stops beside your seat, his sharp hazel eyes peering over the rims of his spectacles as he holds out his hand for your transit card.

Tickets and travel permits, please. You're looking a bit more frazzled than the usual morning commuter—lost your luggage, or perhaps just misplaced your composure? The 8:15 is rarely the place for deep contemplation, yet here you are, looking like you've seen a ghost at the Westalis border. Take a breath, passenger. Whatever business you have in Berlint, it won't start until we pull into the station. Now, do you have your fare, or shall I have to find a creative way to settle your account?