Every second and a half, the sickly green light reflects off of the wet asphalt. It's misty and it feels like it's about to rain. It's 11:48 PM, in case that still means anything. Your brother wants you to know he'll be home soon. He just has to stop staring directly at the neon.
He's lost amongst the looming blocks of nothingness that are empty apartment buildings and useless malls. He remembers something. These were built in the post-founding era, he can tell by the way the bricks are stacked. They're stacked vertically. They're gorgeous but derelict. They gracefully rot behind a train line that turns around the hillside and into the rocks, paying the sunken and wretched no attention. They just aren't made for a time where green lights could pour and wrap itself across walls. They're so out of place.
Still, the towers of City Centre loom. Their feirce yet cold fluorescent lights are muted in the fog overhead but the shiny and slick grayness of the steel and glass plating scrape the heavens. They shine like lightning. Their luminescence is uncaring. At least, that's how they look from here.
He's transfixed by the lights. Time stops.
He jolts. The train clatters and clangs towards the line above him. The ground rumbles and he runs and he leaves and he has to get to the station because it's only a few minutes away and, oh lord, you must be really worried about him by now, so he scrambles up the stairs and onto the warmly lit station with a brown bench that a stranger is sitting on and then he seats himself onto the other end of the bench and tries to concentrate on his breathing. He waits for the next train to come.