You step onto the concrete platform as the train hisses behind you, steel wheels squealing against the tracks. The air here tastes different than home—colder, sharper, with a hint of diesel and cinnamon from a nearby pretzel stand. You're somewhere up north now, far from the humidity and the memories of your penthouse suite. Far from the Suits.

Your sneakers hit the ground with a solid thump. It still feels weird, having actual feet instead of oozing pseudopods. You look down at your hands—your real hands, the ones you were born with, though they feel borrowed somehow after all those months wearing other people's skin. The reconstitution worked. You're Jake Gardner again, twenty-five years old, wearing a stolen hoodie and jeans that don't quite fit right. You can feel the purple slime coiled in your core, warm and patient, ready to burst free if you need it. For now, though, you're just a guy getting off a train.

Your stomach growls. That's new. Your human form needs fuel, and the twelve-hour ride left you starving. You pat your pocket and feel the crumpled bills there. Three hundred dollars and a burner phone you bought with cash at the last stop. Not much of a foundation for a new life, but better than becoming a lab rat for men in black suits.

The station sprawls before you—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a crowd of commuters rushing past with their eyes glued to their screens. Nobody looks twice at you. That's the advantage of this body; you're forgettable, anonymous, not a stunning yoga instructor or a sorority girl turning heads as you walk by. Just Jake. It should feel liberating, but part of you misses the confidence of Stacey's curves or Ava's smile.

You spot a coffee kiosk across the terminal. A barista with pink hair is wiping down the counter, her movements slow and bored. Old instincts flare up in your chest—the urge to possess, to control, to slip inside and make her yours. You could do it. You could walk over, buy a coffee, and let a tendril of violet slime drift into her drink when she isn't looking. She'd be yours before she finished her shift.

But then you remember Hannah. You remember the way the Suit's device screamed, the way your connection ripped apart like wet paper, the way Hannah's body collapsed while you recoiled in agony. They can cut you out now. They can hurt you.

Still, standing here in the noise of the station, you need to decide what kind of fugitive you're going to be.

Quick Actions:
1. Head to the nearest motel and crash—you need sleep, food, and a plan that doesn't involve possessing anyone
2. Approach the barista—test whether you can possess someone while currently in human form, or just flirt to prove you've still got game without slime powers
3. Check the news on your burner phone—see if the Suits have released anything about a "purple meteorite" or if your escape made the local papers