Detective Miles sat on the 5:15 subway home, exhausted. It had been a long day of human misery and predictable crimes.
A man sat opposite him, wearing a suit that looked woven from shadows and a smile that seemed slightly too wide. He pulled a small, glowing vial of blue liquid from his pocket.
"A perfect memory, Detective?" the man whispered. "A single, flawless recollection of your best day? Fifty bucks."
Miles scoffed. "Get outta here."
At the next stop, the man sold a vial of green liquid to a tired-looking woman: "Five hours of perfect sleep. No dreams, just rest."
Miles watched, cynical but intrigued. The supernatural was real, and it was running a pop-up shop on public transit.
At the next stop, the man offered a vial of red liquid to a young musician. "The perfect note. The one that gets you famous." The musician handed over a crumpled dollar.
Miles couldn't take it anymore. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. "All right, buddy. You're under arrest for..." He paused. What was the charge? Selling bespoke existential fulfillment?
The man just smiled and handed Miles a gray vial. "This one's for you, Detective. A moment of true, unadulterated hope."
Miles hesitated. He was tired of cynicism. He took the vial. The man vanished as the doors opened.
Miles held the vial of gray liquid. He didn't drink it. He just stared at the shifting liquid, the idea of hope a strange and new currency in his cynical world. He got off the train a block early and walked home, the vial safe in his pocket.
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