The green man moves slow, deliberate— A soldier of nowhere with nowhere to go. The ice cracks underfoot like a whispered warning, The kind you ignore when it’s already too late. Backlit by orange, the factory coughs its smoke— A dying dragon on the edge of the map. Behind him, a shadow pushes steel and silence, Indifferent as time, colder than the snow. Gloves stained with work he won’t finish, Eyes hollowed out by a sky that won’t blink. Whatever war they’re fighting here, It’s over. And they lost.