NINJA

Black as a night without streetlights, he moves quietly, like the soundtrack to an internal war. In one hand, he holds the samurai code; in the other, a glass of whisky, which has long since replaced confession. Here, honour and loyalty smell not of books, but of sweat, blood, and expensive jeans. Somewhere between ‘Aishiteru’ and ‘kurwa mać’ hides a strange tenderness: one that even a shuriken cannot cut through. Everything around resembles a game - skins, missions, enemies. But there is only one level - to survive with your dignity intact, without losing yourself under a layer of style as black as oil.