He looks like he crawled out of a television tuned to static and sin — wings made of oil slick and ash, face dripping through the pixels, eyes burning red against the rave of corrosion. The background isn’t color; it’s a migraine pretending to be light. Everything bleeds neon, everything buzzes wrong. He’s not fallen so much as he’s crashed — into a puddle of data and decay, half-angel, half-error message, the kind of thing that whispers you were never meant to see him and maybe you weren’t.
