Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and korean red lipstick. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “korean red lipstick” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see korean red lipstick come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “korean red lipstick, korean red lipstick, fuck, korean red lipstick!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “korean red lipstick” release.