He came out of the neon rot like a walking sermon nobody asked for—hood draped in static, eyes like reruns of a televangelist meltdown, dragging two genetic mistakes in chainmail collars. The dogs didn’t bark; they stared, vibrating with the kind of loyalty only trauma can buy. Behind him, the city pulsed like a dying arcade—sick with chrome guilt and synth paranoia. People said he preached something, but no one listened—just watched him ghost by with his hellhounds, lit like a holy glitch, selling salvation by the leash and charging extra for the bite.
