A lone Mandalorian bounty hunter looms in the foreground, his beskar armor swallowing the last dying light of a sun long set. The deep, bruised shades of crimson and violet stain the horizon, casting jagged edges around his imposing silhouette. His helmet—featureless, expressionless—reflects nothing, a cold void where a face should be. No warmth lingers in the air. Mist coils around his legs like spectral hands, devouring the ground beneath him, as if the planet itself seeks to reclaim him. His gloved fingers rest lightly on the worn grip of his blaster, the weapon hanging heavy at his side, waiting. The weight of unseen violence presses against the silence, coiled and patient. Behind him, the monolithic shape of a fortress rises from the black abyss, its jagged towers like the broken teeth of some ancient beast. Faint, cold lights flicker from within—distant, hollow, watching. The wind carries no sound but a whisper, a suggestion of movement just beyond sight. The Mandalorian does not shift, does not breathe—he simply exists, a relentless force of fate standing between survival and the abyss