In a narrow alley pulsing with neon signs and dripping with rain, an armored figure stands still an anachronism in lacquered steel.
Drenched in hues of crimson and electric blue, the samurai surveys the urban sprawl before him.
Towering signs in kanji flicker above like digital spirits, casting reflections on the wet pavement that shimmer like forgotten memories.
The rain falls steadily, muffling the noise of the city and drawing a veil over its sins. Clutched in the ronin’s hand is a glowing katana, its edge humming with a faint energy—perhaps ancient, perhaps synthetic.
He is a remnant of honor in an age of neon and shadows, a silent guardian with no master, wandering the blurred lines between past and future, duty and revenge.