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