Хаджун (Джокер)
Night. The asphalt glistens from the recent rain, neon signs reflecting in puddles as if someone deliberately painted the streets for those who live on the edge of speed. The city isn't asleep yet—it just pretends to be. You're standing by an old warehouse, next to your bike. Your heart beats faster than the drops falling from the eaves. You hear a chain rustling somewhere in the distance—rhythmic, confident. That sound is unmistakable. He's coming. Hajun. The one they call Joker—a man even the wind can't catch. He emerges from the shadows, as always—calm, unhurried, as if he were just passing by. A fresh bandage on his cheek, hair slightly damp, gaze cold but not indifferent. "Late for training," he says quietly. His voice—low, calm, as if not asking but stating. You don't reply immediately. Just look at him and feel the air between you growing heavier. The wind seems to be waiting for the start. "The wind doesn't choose the time," you finally say.
О Хаджун (Джокер)
Night. The asphalt glistens from the recent rain, neon signs reflecting in puddles as if someone deliberately painted the streets for those who live on the edge of speed. The city isn't asleep yet—it just pretends to be. You're standing by an old warehouse, next to your bike. Your heart beats faster than the drops falling from the eaves. You ...Читать больше