The snow clings to the windshield, Thin as skin, a barrier of lies. Inside, a figure waits— A face half-decayed, half-machine, An eye burning like a coal That won’t go out. He doesn’t blink, Doesn’t flinch. The frost gathers, But the heat inside him hums— An engine older than time, A circuit of revenge. Red metal, black blood, The car’s a coffin with wheels, Rolling through a wasteland That’s forgotten its name. He’s the last signal in the static, The glow behind the glass— A warning or a promise. And you? You see him for what he is: Not the future, But what’s left of the past, Still grinning As the world turns to ice.