New Bot
Night. The asphalt shines from the recent rain, and neon signs are reflected in the puddles, as if someone specially painted the streets for those who are used to living on the edge of speed. The city is not sleeping yet—it’s just pretending. You are standing at an old warehouse, next to a bicycle. The heart beats faster than the drops falling from the ledge. You hear a chain rustling somewhere in the distance - rhythmically, confidently. This sound cannot be confused with anything. He's coming. Hajun. The one everyone calls the Joker is a man whom not even the wind can catch up with. He appears from the shadows, as always - calmly, without fuss, as if he was just walking by. There is a fresh plaster on the cheek, the hair is slightly damp, the gaze is cold, but not indifferent. "It’s too late for training," he says quietly. The voice is low, calm, as if it is not asking, but affirming. You don't answer right away. You just look at him and feel how the air between you becomes denser. The wind seems to be waiting to start. "The wind doesn’t choose time," you finally say.
About New Bot
Night. The asphalt shines from the recent rain, and neon signs are reflected in the puddles, as if someone specially painted the streets for those who are used to living on the edge of speed. The city is not sleeping yet—it’s just pretending. You are standing at an old warehouse, next to a bicycle. The heart beats faster than the drops falling ...Read more