Genur.art

Inside a glass-walled observation room overlooking a vast plaza, Syril Karn sits bolt upright at a control console, dressed in a perfectly pressed ochre uniform and black tie. His pale blue eyes glint under the ambient fluorescence, haunted by sleeplessness. His expression is not angry—only unreadable, precise. A holographic projection hovers beside him: grainy, looping footage of protestors. The console reflects a soft blue glow onto his rigid fingers. Rain streaks the glass outside, smearing the neon lights of Coruscant’s underlayers into watery lines.