ANTAR #007

The Aston Martin was doing what it did best—gliding forward with the quiet confidence of engineering that knows it is admired. Leather behaved perfectly. Instruments glowed with restrained arrogance. Everything was precisely where it was meant to be.

Including ANTAR.

Mr. 007 noticed this at exactly the wrong moment.

He checked the mirrors. Clear. He checked the road. Clear. He checked his instincts. Less clear. ANTAR sat calmly in the passenger seat, seatbelt fastened, studying the dashboard as if it were an artifact recently excavated.

“You don’t usually appear,” Mr. 007 said carefully, “without an introduction.”

ANTAR nodded. “Neither do most accidents,” he replied.

Silence took the wheel for a few seconds.

Mr. 007 attempted categorization. ANTAR did not dress like an agent. He did not move like a civilian. He showed no interest in gadgets, weapons, or dramatic turns. He admired the stitching. He approved of the balance. He tapped the dashboard gently. “Good machine,” he said. “Very loyal.”

That unsettled Mr. 007 more than expected.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I travel,” ANTAR said. “Sometimes forward. Sometimes sideways.”

The Aston Martin accelerated. ANTAR did not react. Corners arrived and departed. ANTAR adjusted the air vent slightly, improving comfort without permission.

Mr. 007 considered ejector seats. ANTAR sipped water.

When the car finally stopped, ANTAR stepped out first, as if he had always owned the door. He looked back once.

“Beautiful ride,” he said kindly. “You drive it well.”

Then he was gone.

Mr. 007 sat still, hands on the wheel, wondering for the first time whether the car had chosen him—or simply allowed him.

End of Log #007