A squad of Stormtroopers looms in the foreground, their forms reduced to shadow—faceless enforcers swallowed by darkness. Their armor, once pristine, is now stripped of detail, absorbed into the void of the night. The last dying embers of a sun long set stain the horizon in deep, bruised shades of crimson and violet, casting faint, jagged edges around their silhouettes. No light reflects from their visors. No warmth lingers in the air. They stand motionless, statues of control and obedience, their presence a silent warning carved into the night. Mist coils around their legs like spectral hands, devouring their lower bodies, as if the ground itself seeks to reclaim them. Their blasters hang at their sides, heavy and waiting, the weight of unseen violence pressing against the silence. Behind them, 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 its depths—distant, hollow, watching. The wind carries no sound but a whisper, a suggestion of movement just beyond sight. In this suffocating void, the troopers do not breathe, do not shift. They simply exist, an immovable wall between order and the abyss.