Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and public ageny full. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “public ageny full” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see public ageny full come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “public ageny full, public ageny full, fuck, public ageny full!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “public ageny full” release.