A vast, broken-down train yard deep within an industrial wasteland, painted in gritty oilpunk impressionism. The landscape is soaked in oil, smoke, and decay. Collapsed rail lines twist across the cracked concrete, while rusted locomotives lie half-buried in pools of black sludge. Thick, gestural brushstrokes smear copper, steel, and grime across the canvas like a storm of textures. In the distance, burning refineries cast a muted orange haze, contrasted by the cold reflection of pale blue light from leaking gas lines and shattered neon panels. Massive gears and cranes stand idle, covered in oxidized paint and soot, casting jagged shadows onto dripping walls. The air is heavy with smoke and static — every surface looks alive with corrosion. Discarded mechanical limbs, tangled wiring, and flickering drones lie scattered through the debris. The atmosphere is dense, textured, vibrating with tension — as if the entire space is about to collapse in on itself or come back to life. The scene feels like it was painted in desperation, with urgency and weight — each stroke a scar on a dying world that refuses to fade quietly.