It was a heart, but made of glass. Built by hands that knew sweat and silence, it stood still and cold, yet it carried the promise of thunder. There were no lies in its shape—only gears, pistons, and truth. The kind of truth that roars when woken. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission. It wasn’t built to be admired. It was built to endure, to burn, to push forward when men could not.