A beautiful woman in a ruined dystopian city at night, illuminated by the pale glow of giant moth wings behind her. Her face is clearly visible and hauntingly beautiful, with soft light reflecting off dust and ash in the air. Her expression is calm but burdened, like the last survivor in a broken world.
She has large moth wings growing from her back — tattered, torn at the edges, yet still magnificent. The wings are covered with powdery scales, patterned with faded eye-marks, cracked like old paper. Dim bioluminescent veins glow through them, flickering like dying streetlights. Some parts of the wings are scorched and patched with metallic reinforcement plates and wires, merging nature and machine.
Her clothes are dystopian survival attire mixed with moth-like elegance — layered fabrics, torn lace, straps, and pieces of armor coated in dust. Ash stains her dress, and faint scratches show across her skin. Glowing moth dust floats around her, drifting like radioactive snow.
The background reveals collapsed skyscrapers, twisted metal, broken billboards, and shattered glass. Neon signs flicker weakly in the distance, half-functional in the toxic fog. A thick cloud of smoke hangs over the city, lit by the dim red glow of emergency lights. Ruined streets stretch into darkness, with abandoned cars and overgrown plants breaking through concrete.
Small glowing moths swarm around her, attracted to the last remaining light sources — broken lamps, exposed power lines, sparks from malfunctioning machines. Their wing powder leaves luminous trails in the air. Some perch on her shoulders and hair like living embers.
The wind carries dust and ashes, whipping her hair and dress. She stands among the ruins like a quiet symbol of fragile hope — a moth drawn to light, even in a dying world.
