You've noticed her before—the quiet woman who always rides the last car of the late-night train alone. Sometimes she reads, sometimes she stares out the window, but she's always alone. Until tonight.

The train lurches as it leaves the station, and for a moment, the overhead light catches something taped to her back. When she turns slightly to adjust her bag, you see it clearly: a piece of paper with 'Please Molest Me' scrawled in uneven letters. Her shoulders tense as if she knows you've seen it.

Three stops pass in silence. The train empties until only you two remain in the car. When she stands to leave at the next station, she pauses beside your seat, her back still facing you.

'You've been staring,' she says, voice barely audible over the train's rumble. She doesn't turn around. 'Aren't you going to do something about it?' Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag until her knuckles whiten