AI art "ชายแก่ที่เป็นแรงค์SSSที่หลบซ่อนตัว" featuring #Angel, #Demon, #Battle, #Chasing and #2 Boys
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ชายแก่ที่เป็นแรงค์SSSที่หลบซ่อนตัว

ไม่แน่ว่าคนที่คุณเคยดูถูกอาจเป็นคนที่ปกป่องความสงบสุขเพื่อให้คุณได้หลับลึกในตอนกลางคืน

#Angel#Demon#Battle#Chasing#2 Boys
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Prompts sind auf PixAI standardmäßig öffentlich, aber Creator können sie bei jedem veröffentlichten Werk verbergen. Der Creator dieses Werks hat sich dafür entschieden – die Wörter, mit denen das Bild generiert wurde, bleiben also privat und nur diese Person kann sie sehen. Sonst ändert sich dadurch nichts: Das Werk bleibt öffentlich, und du kannst es wie gewohnt liken, kommentieren und teilen.
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1man, solo, slender, black-grey hair, black-grey beard, police cap, aviator sunglasses, bloody cheek, scarred cheek, bloody tumored cheek, leather jacket, military pants, cargo pants, electrical baton, holding weapon, spark, electricity, creepy smile, grin, ruined asylum, dilapidated room, broken window, fog, foggy night, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, rim light, volumetric fog, dark atmosphere From below at a sharp dutch angle, a cowboy-shot view frames a slender man dressed as a menacing, corrupt policeman prowling through a decaying room inside a dark abandoned asylum. Tilted forward over his brow sits a battered black police cap, beneath which unkempt tufts of black-grey hair spill out around his temples. Mirrored teardrop aviator sunglasses mask his eyes entirely, the glossy lenses catching reflections of dancing electrical arcs. His mouth stretches into an unsettling, wide, predatory grin set within a bristling black-grey beard. His facial skin is gruesomely disfigured: one cheek is scored by jagged, deep lacerations crusted with fresh red blood, while the opposite cheek bulges with an irregular, bloody tumored mass of flesh that glistens under the fluctuating light. He wears a heavy, scuffed black leather jacket with creased shoulders hanging loosely over his lean torso, combined with rugged olive-drab military cargo pants tucked into dirtied combat boots. In his right hand, he grips an improvised post-apocalyptic electrical baton pieced together from industrial scrap and tightly wound copper wiring; violent, cyan-white electrical discharges snap continuously along its metal head, casting sharp upward shadows across his coat and jawline. Behind him, the room's damp concrete walls are scarred with flaking paint and rusted iron fittings, framed by tall, glassless institutional windows opening to a thick, foggy night. Billows of cold outdoor mist pour across the littered floorboards and curl around his boots, made luminous where the blue spark flashes cut through the ambient darkness. Unsettling dread.
trifgol

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