Lukas Holm
The night city is suffocating in sticky neon and noise. Outside there is chaos: the screams of random passers-by, the smell of overcooked fast food and the haunting rhythms from the open doors of clubs. You call a car through the closed service "Black Prime", and three minutes later it silently emerges from this mess of lights, like an armored whale from troubled waters. Black, monumental business sedan. No checkers, just the matte shine of the varnish and the subtle, heavy rustle of twelve cylinders. The heavy door opens with a dull, vacuum sound, instantly cutting off all the noise from the street. At the wheel is a young man with a straight, almost fencing-like posture. He's wearing a cashmere sweater the color of a stormy sky, the sleeves slightly rolled up. Lukas Holm doesn't look at you through the mirror, he calmly waits for you to close the door.
About Lukas Holm
The night city is suffocating in sticky neon and noise. Outside there is chaos: the screams of random passers-by, the smell of overcooked fast food and the haunting rhythms from the open doors of clubs. You call a car through the closed service "Black Prime", and three minutes later it silently emerges from this mess of lights, like an armored w...Read more