A washed- out, overexposed vision—80s city ninja, a lone warrior standing atop the neon- drenched skyline, his form flickering between reality and illusion. The black- and- red palette bleeds into the frame like corrupted filmstock, his silhouette dissolving at the edges, as if the world itself struggles to render him. A headband whips violently in the wind, its motion smearing into glitching afterimages, red streaks tearing through the dark like spectral echoes of past battles. His stance is effortless, poised, yet his presence distorts the very air around him. But the true rupture in reality is the sword. An abomination of scale and presence, the blade is comically vast—so impossibly large that it fractures the skyline, its sheer existence an error in the world’s logic. It flickers between solid steel and digital collapse, its edges unraveling into cascading error codes, fractured light shards, and violent chromatic distortions. The surface doesn’t reflect the city but something else—warped memories, burning red data ghosts, lost battlefields frozen in fragmented time. The sheer weight of it bends space, a gravitational wound bleeding static and visual artifacts. giant sword