China's Death Vans

They don't make a sound, just roll through the streets at night, metal doors closing on guilt. No trial, no pleadings, just a final breath in the back of a van that knows no mercy. The engine hums like a secret no one wants to hear, shaking the last thoughts from a man as the cold air turns to lead. In the back, there's no room for regret, no room for last words. You just sit, a few moments left, as they drive you to the end. They pass the smog, the lights, through the dark streets they glide, no headlines, no cameras, just a job that's done in silence. They don't tell you what's coming, but you know. The van's empty when it returns. And the streets go back to their noise.