Black ink spills across a white void like a pack of shadows set loose. Some strokes howl, some prowl, others snap at invisible chains.

The smudges and scratches look accidental, but nothing about this is random—it’s movement frozen mid-sprint, an urban jungle mapped in raw energy.

Jagged lines cut through the chaos like warning signs, but it’s too late.

The dogs are already out.

This isn’t about animals. It’s about instincts.

It’s the sound of breaking free, the thrill of running without looking back. The ink bleeds into aggression, into rebellion, into something that can’t be tamed. The question isn’t who let the dogs out.

It’s why they were locked up in the first place.

Levinsky doesn’t just paint. He unleashes.