Reylson rubbed each temple with his corresponding index and middle fingers. He pushed vigorously, wishing he could erase the lines from his worried brow. As much as his concern at the time should have been entirely selfish, he also spared a thought for his colleagues and even pitied his former employers. Where did it all go wrong? That’s always the question when giants fall.

The railway line below began to wail as the graffitied SR1308 electrical multiple unit commuter train, once the height of technology, curved the bend and laboured its sorry way to the platform. Reylson, allowing his redundancy to diffuse into every fibre, boarded the rickety old thing without enthusiasm. When the sliding doors finally decided to close, Noon had already reached an obtuse slouch in the nearest empty seat. News of the mediocre severance package had winded him, he was still feeling it.