Balafre

The frames click like a pulse - pure film noir with a hint of asphalt. Chains glisten in the shop window, the text mentions a folding knife “just in case,” 150 roses as a check for an illusion, and that very phrase about two types of people: those who have a loaded gun and those who dig. The beat smokes like exhaust fumes at the entrance, the jokes are sharp, like a manicure, and tenderness, if it appears at all, is only wrapped in sarcasm.

Everything plays into the big city cowboy game: cold calculation, jewelry “around the neck of guilt,” and ritual bravado to drown out the silence. Here, romance is the kind that doesn't bloom but shines; danger is the kind that smells of lacquer and gunpowder. It looks bold, is easy to listen to, and leaves you with that aftertaste of a movie theater, where the credits are rolling and the story still has you by the throat.