Twisted Vee is a corrupted, nightmarish version of the cheerful TV host she once was. Her head is an old CRT television, cracked and leaking inky black sludge, with glowing neon-green facial graphics burned into the screen. The smile is permanently stretched into jagged, glitch-sharp teeth, while her half-lidded eyes flicker with a mocking, predatory calm—like she’s always aware she’s being watched. Two bent antennae rise from her head, drooping unnaturally, as if weighed down by whatever infection overtook her. Her body is bulky and uneven, wrapped in a torn mint-green shirt that’s stained with dark corruption, revealing dangling wires and shadowy growths beneath. One arm is skeletal and elongated, ending in claw-like fingers, while the other grips a microphone—now less a tool for entertainment and more a symbol of control.wisted Vee moves slowly but deliberately, looming rather than rushing. She thrives on attention, her presence filling the area with an uneasy sense of being “on air” at all times. Under the moonlight, her glowing screen cuts through the darkness, broadcasting a distorted version of joy—one that feels wrong, forced, and deeply unsettling. She isn’t just broken. She’s still performing.

THIS IS STUPID