A chrome beast roared through the frozen dark, firelight gnashing at the snow-choked plains. Tied to its back, a burning tree — like some twisted torch for the damned. Stuffed reindeer stared into the void, grinning through the plastic apocalypse. Exhaust fumes blurred reality, turning silence into a forgotten hymn. Somewhere in the rearview, civilization’s last flicker faded. Nothing left but tire tracks and frostbite, the kind of night where saints refused to walk. Accelerate. Because when the snow falls like ash, the road is the only prayer left.