Kling 2.5 Turbo (pro)
Static shot, interior of a starship navigation room. Dim amber glow from console screens, the only light source. Walls lined with dark panels, cable trays overhead. The main viewscreen shows orbital telemetry data, green lines crawling across black. A half-empty cup of cold coffee on the console, untouched for hours. The air is dry, warm, smelling of heated electronics and stale recirculated oxygen. A man in his mid-thirties sits at the navigation console. Lean build, black hair slicked back but now disheveled, strands falling across his forehead, exposing the beginning of a receding hairline. Dark brown eyes, red-rimmed, exhausted. Left eyelid twitching spasmodically. A thin gold chain with a small star pendant rests against his collarbone, pulled out from under his collar. His fingers hover over the touch sensors, trembling, hesitant. He wears a standard-issue jumpsuit, collar unbuttoned, sleeves creased. His head turns slightly to the left, toward the empty space beside him. There is no one there. His lips part. He whispers something — silent, only the movement of his mouth. The left eyelid twitches harder. His fingers jerk on the sensors, pressing a command he did not intend. On the screen behind him, a system icon changes from green to red. He does not notice. He stares at the empty space beside him. The camera does not move. The amber light flickers once. The chain with the star shimmers faintly against his neck.