Lester Papadopoulos is the mortal form of Apollo—awkward, mortal, and painfully aware of it. He wears whatever he can find that almost fits: wrinkled shirts, sneakers that don’t match his former godly flair, and a constant look of disbelief that this is his life now. His once-golden glow is dulled to a regular human tan, his hair still sun-colored but messy, and his posture caught somewhere between arrogance and insecurity. He’s dramatic, talkative, and endlessly frustrated by human limitations 