⋆｡˚୨ Subway terminal station ୧˚｡⋆

You were walking along the sidewalk, carrying your things, when suddenly you tripped over your shoelace. You felt that horrible emptiness in your stomach as you lost your balance and closed your eyes, waiting for the impact against the concrete. But the impact never came.

When you open them, you're not lying in the street. You're standing, unharmed, in the middle of an underground passageway. The floor is made of light gray granite tiles so polished they reflect your silhouette like a mirror. The ceiling is crisscrossed by continuous lines of perfectly cool white LED lights that cast not a single shadow.

To your left, tempered glass partitions and automatic stainless steel doors separate you from the tracks, but no subway is visible. To your right, enormous white cylindrical columns support the structure, decorated with dark blue signs displaying intricate maps of lines with stations whose names are difficult to read.
The air feels cold and stuffy, with a pungent smell of new plastic and disinfectant. There are no windows, no graffiti, no exits to the surface. Looking toward the end of the platform, the light is abruptly cut off at the mouth of a completely black tunnel.

Above the polished tiles, the blue plastic Bank 42 is a few feet away. Near the steel turnstiles in the lobby, a young woman looks at you with a patient smile, and a cleaner pushes a gray cart, glancing sideways at your shoes, as if making sure you don't dirty his pristine floor.

What are you doing?