[Six Months Later | In the Car – Michael & Baines]
The mid-afternoon sun filtered through the windshield as the car idled at a red light. Michael sat in the passenger seat, one arm draped across his lap, the other resting against the window. The black ink of a wing tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his hoodie, faded slightly with time but still sharp.
Baines glanced over. "This is your third tattoo. Hasn't even been five months since the last one."
Michael didn't look away from the window. "Six months."
A dry chuckle. "Right. First one was that wing. Then that date on your other wrist—December eighth. The night your parents…"
He let it hang there.
Michael didn't flinch. "It's a surprise."
That was enough to end the conversation.
[Tattoo Workshop – Thirty Minutes Later]
The familiar smell of ink, cleaning alcohol, and low-burning incense welcomed Michael as he stepped into the parlor. The place was dimly lit, cozy despite the industrial undertones. Exposed brick walls framed artwork—some half-finished, others etched into framed canvas like ancient relics.
He shrugged off his hoodie, revealing a lean frame. On his right arm, the stylized wing curled elegantly from wrist to elbow. On his left, the date rested below his knuckles in fine, precise lines.
The artist today was Dana—mid-thirties, tall, and dressed in a worn tank top that exposed full sleeve tattoos and a lotus blooming across her neck.
"You're the wing guy," she said, snapping on a pair of gloves.
Michael offered a nod. "Guilty."
She checked the sketch. "Angel killing a demon, huh? Bit dramatic."
"A bit," he agreed.
"Back or chest?"
"Back."
"It'll hurt."
"I'll manage."
Dana blinked, then gave a small shrug. "Alright. Let's ruin your spine."
He lay down, the leather bench cool against his chest. The buzzing began, low and sharp. The first needle struck and dragged, burning lines into skin. Michael didn't wince.
Outside the room, Baines waited on a bench beside a vending machine, arms crossed and eyes distant.
[Late Evening – Drive Home]
The sky had turned a dusky gold, clouds glowing at the edges as if smoldering. Baines drove in silence, glancing now and then at Michael, who sat stiff-backed, hoodie zipped halfway up to avoid the fresh ink rubbing against the seat.
"You've thought about it?" Baines asked finally.
Michael glanced over. "Thought about what?"
"The future. School ends soon. Most kids your age are panicking about college or finding a job that doesn't suck. You? You just keep getting tattoos."
Michael smirked faintly. "Maybe I'll be a tattoo artist."
"Bullshit."
A pause.
Then: "I'll do your job."
Baines looked over at him. "Cop?"
Michael tilted his head. "Not quite."
[Flashback – December 8th, Five Years Ago]
The air had smelled like blood and broken wood.
Michael had huddled in the closet, limbs trembling, eyes wide open in the dark. The sound of boots approached, slow but deliberate. The door creaked open.
The man who entered wasn't in standard blues. He wore body armor lined with symbols Michael couldn't read, and a weapon too refined for city patrols. His eyes were calm. Not confused. Not shocked. Calm.
The way a soldier looked after a battle.
Michael hadn't forgotten.
Now, five years later, he still didn't know what Baines really was.
But he was going to find out.
[That Night – Michael's Room]
He sat on the bed, shirt off, inspecting the new tattoo in the mirror. The angel in the design was fierce, blade plunged into a snarling demon's chest, wings outstretched, shadowed in fading black.
He touched the ink with his fingertips, not for the pain, but for what it meant.
Not hope. Not salvation.
Purpose.
The mark of a lie wrapped in flesh.
"I'm going to learn everything," he whispered to himself.
And somewhere in the dark of his reflection, something stirred and listened.