Michael was walking the darker streets of Los Angeles when it happened. It was very late, and he was in his element. The darkness was his friend, and he knew its secrets well. But they were his to keep, for the darkness kept his too. Every slice of his knife had been seen by no one but the night. Michael liked the night.
It was more than he could say for himself.
Michale had been in a good mood, having just heard the young girls cries from the next street over. If he was lucky, her attacker would still be around when he arrived, and he could steal them both away.
And then his world fell apart. He felt, rather than heard, an infrasonic groan pulse from the East. He gasped as he felt pain sprout from his shoulders, and grow to spread through his wings. Suddenly, there was a wet tearing noise, and his world exploded into a conflagration of pain. As the black feathers fluttered down around him, Michael collapsed into a ball and was still.