The Dystopian Kingdom

Have you ever entered the Dystopian Kingdom at 7 a.m. on a Sunday? 

The city above is quiet then—empty streets, the weight of morning light pressing against the buildings. But below, the world does not sleep. It never does. It waits. It watches.

I did not walk into Penn Station.

I fell.

It happens so easily. One step forward, and the walls seem to close in, swallowing you whole. The escalator hums, the air thickens, the weight of something unseen presses against your ribs.

The doors slide shut behind me.

I have crossed into their world.

A man is slumped on a bench, the Gatekeeper of the Dystopian Kingdom, his cardboard sign limp in his lap. His fingers are curled around a plastic bag, crinkling softly as he shifts in his half-sleep. His head bobs forward, then jerks up again. His body rocks with the rhythm of a train that isn’t coming.

"Spare change?"

I hesitate. Who carries change in an Apple Pay world? I don’t. I shake my head, feel guilt settle deep in my stomach, but I keep walking.

It feels like no one ever stops.

A woman appears in my path, sudden and urgent, pacing in tight, frantic circles. The Whispering Oracle. Her hands claw at the air, grabbing at something I cannot see. She is unraveling, thread by thread, her voice a sharp whisper slicing through the static.

"It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming, don’t look at me, don’t—"

Her eyes flick toward me, wide and wild.

She isn’t talking to me. She isn’t talking to anyone. Or maybe she is. Maybe I just can’t see who’s listening.

A scream echoes through the tunnels, bouncing off the tile, warping into something inhuman.

The sound belongs to the Mad Jester, standing against the wall, fists clenched, shoulders trembling. His voice is torn from deep inside him.

"You think this is a GAME?! You think it’s FUNNY?! WHERE DID YOU PUT IT?!"

He turns sharply, his eyes locking onto something behind me.

I do not turn around.

I do not want to see what he sees.

The lights flicker. The walls sweat. The air is too thick, pressing against my skin, against my chest, against my ribs. The station tilts. Or maybe I do.

Across the platform, the Silent Watcher sits unmoving, wrapped in layers of clothing, staring straight ahead. She does not blink. She does not flinch when the Jester screams.

She is watching something.

But there is nothing there.

Or is it ignored?

What does she see?

Or, worse—what does she know?

I keep walking, my steps uneven, my breath shallow. The kingdom hums beneath my feet, alive, aware. The tiles are cracked. The ceiling drips. The smell shifts—urine, then sweat, then something I cannot name.

And then, the Hollow King.

Standing at the far end of the station, in the shadows where the ceiling leaks and the floor is slick.

Half-naked.

Tall. Silent. Marked with stories I will never know. His skin is a map of past lives, of wounds that never fully healed.

He does not cover himself.

He does not shrink away.

He stands like he has already disappeared.

The station sways again.

Or maybe it is just me.

The train arrives, wailing like an animal in pain. The doors yawn open, and I step inside. The kingdom does not end here. It follows.

A man paces the length of the car, the Phantom Traveler, his plastic bag rustling as he adjusts its contents—things only he can see. His lips move, his words half-formed, hushed, urgent. He clutches something to his chest, something invisible, something sacred.

A few seats down, the Sleeper is hunched against the window, forehead pressed to the glass, his breath fogging the surface. His jacket is too thin for the season. He does not stir as the train jolts forward.

How long has he been riding?

How long has he been trying to escape the kingdom below?

I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my spine against the seat, trying to push away the weight in my chest.

The train slows. The doors sigh open.

Wall Street.

I step onto the platform, out of the heavy air, out of the kingdom, back into the world of the living.

The morning light feels thin here, cold against my skin. The city above is awake now, its people moving fast, their footsteps sharp, their voices clipped.

Coffee cups. Wool coats. Polished shoes clicking against the pavement.

No one looks back.

No one looks down.

But the kingdom still exists.

Beneath their feet. Beneath the city.

Breathing. Watching. Waiting.

And nothing had changed.

Was I dreaming?