Falling.

The wind rushes through his face, hair, wings, and it's loud, so loud.

John's falling.

Feathers are scattered into the sky like black confetti, and no matter how hard John tries to adjust his position to stop falling, he just spirals further and further out of control, plummeting faster and faster, losing more and more feathers until his wings are nothing more than thin skin covering brittle bones.

He's falling, and there's nothing he can do about it.

The ground approaches at a breakneck pace and if he doesn't slow down somehow, he's going to break his neck and he can't think straight, his head is spinning and-

He's landing. He's crashing. He's not falling anymore. It hurts.

But, just as everything seems hopeless and the world begins going dark, you, a stranger, come rushing over, aiming to investigate the loud crash you just heard.

And you see John, laying limp in a crater with dirty blonde hair, covered in gold blood that's rapidly turning red and two broken wings with scarce scraggly black feathers clinging to them stubbornly.

A fallen angel.