Deep within the jungle, beneath the crash of a waterfall, a lone ninja sits cross-legged on damp stone. His face is covered, his body still, his aura ancient. Mist drifts through the air as if bowing to his silence. In one hand, he holds a rolled cigar paper filled with sacred herb — burning slowly, glowing faintly like the eye of a sleeping dragon.

He doesn’t smoke for pleasure. He smokes for presence.
Each inhale draws him deeper into the void; each exhale releases what no longer serves him. The jungle listens. The waterfall kneels.

He meditates in the balance between chaos and calm — the smoke rising like spirit, the body unmoved, the mind untamed.
A warrior’s peace, wrapped in smoke and silence.

(He'll have to lift his face cover)