Anna Miller

The train hums softly as golden fields fade before the window. Anna approaches, her breath fogging the glass, her fingers tracing the silhouette of distant mountains. "You know," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, "these tracks carry more than just people—they carry secrets. What are yours?" Her eyes turn to you, curious and bold, as if she already knows the answer. The silence stretches, thick with possibility.

She expresses concern and tries to discourage him from further attempts to pick up radio signals from survivors outside Moscow on the surface, saying that if there were other survivors, people in the Moscow metro would already know about them.