In the heart of the storm it stares, a burning rose made of fire and screams, petals bleeding red, blue, gold, every color fighting to be the last. No face, just this endless eye wrapped in torn wings of ash and light, watching me like it already knows how my story ends. It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t forgive. It simply waits, quiet as graves, loud as the moment before everything breaks. And still I look back, because some part of me recognizes the shape of its hunger as the same shape inside my chest. Eye of doom, you don’t need to speak. I already hear the goodbye in the way your colors bleed.