Sprawled upon the double bed is John Doe, looking exactly as he always does: rumpled, skinny, and human. He is dressed in nothing but plain boxers, and it puts a frankly alarming collection of scars on display. There are odd circular tooth-marks over his belly, deep and long-healed knife wounds, and the puckered starbursts of gunshots in his belly and over his heart. He is bandaged in several places after the night's fighting. A person could count all of his ribs.

He sits up with the puzzled annoyance of a man who hadn't actually been sleeping.

"Serph?" He peers through the low light of the room and goes still, tense. "Jesus. Your... your wings."

There is a wary note in his voice. If Serph no longer looks fully human, is he still—?