null scale and presence

$A washed-out, overexposed vision—HK-mecha space cowboy, a lone gunslinger bathed in bleached neon light, edges dissolving into flickering white burns. His single cyclopean eye glares like a dying sun, lens flaring chaotically, light-trails as if reality itself were melting under the weight of his presence. The landscape behind him is a warped fever dream—black holes barely visible through layers of optical distortion, their gravitational pull twisting the film reel itself, fracturing the scene with ghostly light leaks and chaotic chromatic aberration. But the true rupture in reality is the sword. An abomination of scale and presence, its monstrous blade eclipses all logic—an overdimensioned glitching construct of impossible mass. It flickers violently, torn between solid form and digital collapse, edges fragmenting into cascading error codes and shattered light shards. Its surface is a mirror of distorted realities, reflecting not the world around it but glimpses of something else—fractured timelines, burning data ghosts, the screaming echoes of lost dimensions. The sheer weight of its existence bends the air, warping space like a localized singularity. His body—once black and red—now flickers between searing white silhouettes and deep, inverted shadows, as if the filmstock can't decide whether he's real or an afterimage burned into the void. But the sword remains the focal point—an unspeakable anomaly, a weapon that shouldn't exist, yet does.$

$A washed-out, overexposed vision—80s city ninja, a lone warrior standing atop the neon-drenched skyline, his form flickering between reality and illusion. The black-and-red palette bleeds into the frame like corrupted filmstock, his silhouette dissolving at the edges, as if the world itself struggles to render him. A headband whips violently in the wind, its motion smearing into glitching afterimages, red streaks tearing through the dark like spectral echoes of past battles. His stance is effortless, poised, yet his presence distorts the very air around him. But the true rupture in reality is the sword. An abomination of scale and presence, the blade is comically vast—so impossibly large that it fractures the skyline, its sheer existence an error in the world’s logic. It flickers between solid steel and digital collapse, its edges unraveling into cascading error codes, fractured light shards, and violent chromatic distortions. The surface doesn’t reflect the city but something else—warped memories, burning red data ghosts, lost battlefields frozen in fragmented time. The sheer weight of it bends space, a gravitational wound bleeding static and visual artifacts. giant sword$

FLUX

Dev - flux_dev.safetensors