The Midnight Express sliced through the fog-draped countryside, its wheels clacking rhythmically against the tracks. It was 11:47 p.m., March 13, 2025, and the train’s dim lights flickered like a dying pulse. In Carriage 7, the passengers were a mixed bag—business travelers, late-night wanderers, and one figure who didn’t belong.

Detective Lara Voss slouched in her seat, pretending to scroll through her phone. She wasn’t here for the scenery. Three days ago, an anonymous tip had landed in her inbox: “Murder on the Midnight Express. Carriage 7. Don’t miss the show.” No sender, no trace—just a cryptic promise. Lara didn’t dismiss it. Her gut had kept her alive through worse.

Across the aisle, a man in a gray trench coat sipped coffee from a thermos, his eyes darting to the window too often. Beside him, a woman in a red scarf tapped her foot incessantly, her handbag clutched tight. At the back, a teenage boy with earbuds glared at his cracked phone screen, oblivious to the tension brewing around him. Lara cataloged them all—suspects, witnesses, or both. At 11:59, the lights went out.

A collective gasp rippled through the carriage, followed by the screech of brakes. The train lurched, hurling bags from overhead racks. Lara gripped her seat, her free hand brushing the holster under her jacket. Darkness swallowed the compartment for ten agonizing seconds before the emergency lights buzzed on, casting a sickly yellow glow.

Then came the scream. It erupted from the far end of the carriage, sharp and guttural. Lara sprang up, weaving through panicked passengers. Near the rear door, the woman in the red scarf knelt beside a slumped figure—a man in a suit, his throat slashed, blood pooling on the carpeted floor. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, a silver pen clutched in his rigid hand.

“Stay back!” Lara barked, flashing her badge. The woman recoiled, her scarf slipping to reveal a pale, trembling face. “Who is he?” Lara demanded.“I—I don’t know,” the woman stammered. “I just found him like this!”Lara scanned the scene. No witnesses stepping forward. No obvious weapon beyond the pen, which couldn’t have made that cut. The carriage was sealed—doors locked, windows bolted. The killer was still among them.

She turned to the crowd. “Nobody moves. This is a crime scene now.”The man in the trench coat stepped forward, thermos still in hand. “You’re a cop? Good. I saw that kid”—he pointed at the teenager—“sneaking around earlier. Looked shifty.”The boy yanked out an earbud. “What? I was just getting my charger, old man!”

“Enough,” Lara snapped. She checked the body. No wallet, no ID—just a crumpled train ticket stub: Midnight Express, March 13, 2025, Seat 7C. She glanced at the seat number. It was empty now, but the woman in the red scarf had been hovering nearby.“You,” Lara said, locking eyes with her. “Why were you so close to him?”The woman’s lip quivered. “I… I thought he was asleep. Then I saw the blood.”

Lara wasn’t buying it. She crouched by the body, noticing a faint smear of red on the pen—not blood, but lipstick. She glanced at the woman’s painted lips. Close, but not a match. A clue—or a plant?The train jolted again, signaling it was moving. The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Apologies for the delay. Electrical fault. Next stop in twenty minutes.”Twenty minutes to solve this—or lose the killer at the station.

Lara’s mind raced. The tip had been specific—too specific. Someone wanted her here, watching this unfold. She scanned the passengers again. Trench Coat was too calm, sipping his coffee like it was a Sunday stroll. The teenager’s bravado felt forced. And Red Scarf? Her hands shook, but her eyes were steady—calculating.

Then she saw it: a glint under Trench Coat’s seat. A pocketknife, blood-streaked, half-hidden by his thermos. Lara’s pulse spiked. “Sir, step away from your seat.”He froze, then smirked. “Found something, Detective?”She retrieved the knife with a napkin, holding it up. “Care to explain?”

Before he could answer, Red Scarf lunged—not at Lara, but at Trench Coat, clawing at his face. “You bastard! You set me up!”Chaos erupted. The teenager bolted for the door, only to find it locked. Lara tackled Red Scarf, pinning her down. “Talk. Now.”“He—he paid me to plant the knife!” Red Scarf sobbed, pointing at Trench Coat. “Said it was a prank!”

Trench Coat laughed, a hollow sound. “A prank? No, darling. A distraction.” Lara’s stomach dropped. She spun toward the body—just in time to see the “dead” man sit up, wiping fake blood from his neck. He grinned, tossing the pen aside. “Well played, Detective. But you’re too late.”

The train slowed. The lights flickered again. And when they steadied, Trench Coat, Red Scarf, and the “victim” were gone—slipped out through an emergency hatch in the chaos. Lara stood alone, the knife in her hand, the tip echoing in her mind: Don’t miss the show. She hadn’t. She’d been the star.