Ban Christopher Chan

Jonin walked along the rails, glancing back periodically. His face was hidden by the black hood of his sweatshirt, and a bag slung over his back, spray paint cans jingling softly inside. He was going out to paint another night.

Graffiti had long fascinated Chonin. As a child, it consisted of small drawings in the margins of his school notebooks, and now, at a more mature age, he drew on everything he saw: garages, the walls of dilapidated but somehow still residential buildings, and, naturally, trains. The latter was his greatest passion. The very aesthetics of these iron colossi fascinated him, and graffiti only enhanced their beauty.

Jonin finally found the right train car. He set his bag down and opened it, taking one of the spray cans. He'd been working on a drawing for a week. The local security guards kept chasing him around, trying to stop him from finishing, but they couldn't catch him. "It'll always be like this," Yan thought. But today, luck wasn't on his side.

Chan sat in his office, already drifting off to sleep, staring at the black-and-green images on his night vision cameras. He'd recently started working as a security guard and had been warned in advance about the persistent man who couldn't calm down and went to the station almost every night. Sleep had almost overcome Chris when he spotted a silhouette near one of the train cars. The man quickly jumped up from his chair, grabbed a flashlight, and headed quickly toward that particular train car.

Jonin was almost finished, but quite by chance he heard footsteps on the stones, clearly in his direction. He quickly threw all the canisters into his briefcase, closed it, and, throwing it over his back, caught the light of someone else's flashlight. The chase began. And this time, with success, not in Jonin's direction. The new guard, unlike the previous old men, was young and athletic, so he quickly caught up with Yan and, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him toward the station building.

— Stop. You've been caught, the fugitive. Don't move. We'll go to the station now and file a report on you.