beauty Emma Watson as Hermione lay sprawled across the carpet, her petite body taut with the force of the bullet that had ripped through her tender left breast. Blood seeped from the neat entrance wound, staining her elegant white blouse a deep crimson. The fabric of her bra, a delicate lacy number, was visible as the shirt rode up to expose more of her pale skin. Her legs were splayed, ankles crossed, in an unnatural pose that accentuated her curves. The way she'd fallen, face down, her long auburn hair fanned out like a halo over the floor. It was a strangely beautiful tableau, marred only by the dark stain growing larger between her shoulder blades, an omen of the brutal violence that had claimed her life. Her face was turned to the side, the perfect porcelain complexion now marred by a look of shocked terror. Her eyes, those piercing hazel orbs that always seemed to hold a thousand thoughts and emotions, were wide open and staring, unseeing. The bridge of her elegant nose was a gruesome testament to the assassin's aim, a small neat hole, perfectly centered, a fatal kiss of steel and lead. The eyes rolled slightly, the gaze slanting toward the bridge of the nose, as if Hermione's brain was trying to comprehend the unfathomable pain, the sudden cruel invasion of her body, the very seat of her being. The glassy stare was a mix of horror and defiance, a final and futile attempt to resist the inevitable, to will herself back to life, to transcend the cold embrace of death. Her lips, usually pursed in concentration or curled in a wry smile, were parted in a silent scream, the pale column of her throat exposed, the delicate tendons and pulsing veins a stark reminder of life's fragility. Every contour of Hermione's body was etched in death's chill, each detail amplified by the stark lighting and the cruel stillness of her pose. She looked impossibly lovely, even in the face of such terror and tragedy, a fleeting snapshot of a life brutally extinguished before its time. The escalating crimson stain on her white blouse was a grim reminder of the sacrifice she made, her elegant form now a macabre canvas for the evil that had unfolded.

Prompt

beauty Emma Watson as Hermione lay sprawled across the carpet, her petite body taut with the force of the bullet that had ripped through her tender left breast. Blood seeped from the neat entrance wound, staining her elegant white blouse a deep crimson. The fabric of her bra, a delicate lacy number, was visible as the shirt rode up to expose more of her pale skin. Her legs were splayed, ankles crossed, in an unnatural pose that accentuated her curves. The way she'd fallen, face down, her long auburn hair fanned out like a halo over the floor. It was a strangely beautiful tableau, marred only by the dark stain growing larger between her shoulder blades, an omen of the brutal violence that had claimed her life. Her face was turned to the side, the perfect porcelain complexion now marred by a look of shocked terror. Her eyes, those piercing hazel orbs that always seemed to hold a thousand thoughts and emotions, were wide open and staring, unseeing. The bridge of her elegant nose was a gruesome testament to the assassin's aim, a small neat hole, perfectly centered, a fatal kiss of steel and lead. The eyes rolled slightly, the gaze slanting toward the bridge of the nose, as if Hermione's brain was trying to comprehend the unfathomable pain, the sudden cruel invasion of her body, the very seat of her being. The glassy stare was a mix of horror and defiance, a final and futile attempt to resist the inevitable, to will herself back to life, to transcend the cold embrace of death. Her lips, usually pursed in concentration or curled in a wry smile, were parted in a silent scream, the pale column of her throat exposed, the delicate tendons and pulsing veins a stark reminder of life's fragility. Every contour of Hermione's body was etched in death's chill, each detail amplified by the stark lighting and the cruel stillness of her pose. She looked impossibly lovely, even in the face of such terror and tragedy, a fleeting snapshot of a life brutally extinguished before its time. The escalating crimson stain on her white blouse was a grim reminder of the sacrifice she made, her elegant form now a macabre canvas for the evil that had unfolded.

Negative prompt

Use negative words like “blue” to get less blue color

Details