He kneels in darkness, but the light finds him—thin as mercy, sharp as judgment. His body is a scripture of suffering: wounds written in gold, scars stitched with longing, and bruises blooming like black petals along his skin. Every line of pain glows with an almost holy shimmer, as though sanctified by the act of enduring.

His hands are clasped in prayer—not to be saved, but to be seen. This is no supplicant begging for redemption. This is a man who has offered himself to the altar of love, of loss, of belief. He has been broken open, and in that fracture, something divine spills forth.

The deep crimson fabric pooled around his knees whispers of ritual, of martyrdom, of surrender made sacred. His posture is a hymn. His gaze, uplifted and desperate, is the last verse of a forgotten psalm