The girl stands at the end of the street, moonlight highlighting the planes of her face. She breathes in the crisp night air, reveling in the scent until it is polluted by alcohol, bile, and oppressively strong perfume. She ignores the whistles and shouts of men returning home after a long night like she ignores the cool metal against her thigh and the fingernails digging crescent moons into her palms.

As the chatter fades away, she spots a man. One heartbeat passes, maybe two. At another time, he might have recognized her, but his eyes are glazed, disoriented, as he approaches her.

He whispers, “Are you an angel?”

She stills at the feeling of his warm breath against her cheek. She responds with a coy smile, “Maybe.”

She leads him in a nearby alley. They are carefree with their words, laughing and whispering sweet nothings. In a split second, she has him pinned to the wall, rough brick scraping her palms. Her dress is tugged upwards, exposing skin to the cool night breeze and revealing the sheath strapped to her thigh, its dark straps a stark contrast against her skin. He pushes against her grip, trying to gain the upper hand, but he is intoxicated and she has him trapped.

The weight of the knife settles in her hand, familiar and comforting. An exhale. She works, moving in quick, fluid motions. She listens to the whistle of the blade, hearing the slice as blood soon flows from his throat. She ignores the coughs, the gurgles, the choking gasps coming from her target as his body hits the floor with a solid thunk.

The girl stands in an abandoned alley, shadows covering her face. A coppery scent fills the air, strange and foreign. Her once white dress is covered in dark red stains. Her hands are sticky, coated with the once warm substance that stains her dress. She smiles, her smile as menacing as the knife hanging by her side.

He was right. She is an angel, just not his.