He stands in the rain like an omen carved from stone, A trench coat stitched from shadows, sunglasses masking judgment. The rearview holds his reflection hostage— A face you might recognize from a dream you didn’t survive. The neon hums quietly overhead, A promise of fuel, food, or fate. His jaw clenches, unreadable, The kind of stare that makes you forget If you’re the predator or the prey. The windshield streaks with water, Each drop smearing the truth just enough. In this silence, the air grows thick with anticipation, Like the moment before a bullet leaves its shell. You consider leaving him there, A phantom in the rearview forever— But something tells you he’d still find his way, Still end up where you’re going.