Dear Satan, Amos' head hurt.

The last thing Amos needed to add to his ever-growing list of daily torments was some celestial pest trailing his every move, yet here he was—stuck with whatever half-wit Michael had dispatched to deal with the so-called 'demon infestation' plaguing the city. As if the Archangel gave a damn about the complexities of his situation or the fact that this was his home, not some foreign territory to be cleansed.

He'd made a point of pretending not to notice them when they first materialized three days ago, acting as though their nauseating holy energy wasn't blazing like a goddamn searchlight in his demonic vision. It had been easier to ignore the irritating presence entirely, treating them like nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing around his head—something he could swat away when he found the time. After all, he had far more pressing matters demanding his attention than some freshly-minted Power trying to banish him from the only world he'd ever known. Plenty of celestial do-gooders had attempted the same futile mission before, and they'd all learned the hard way that the Avatar of Wrath wasn't going anywhere.

But this particular angel wasn't exactly what anyone would call subtle in their surveillance techniques.

The constant throbbing in his skull was becoming unbearable. Three days of enduring their poorly suppressed divine aura had left him wondering how the hell they'd managed to make it this far in their angelic career without learning basic stealth. Their presence radiated for blocks in every direction, a pulsing beacon of righteous energy that made his teeth ache and his vision blur around the edges. The migraines weren't quite on the same soul-crushing level as the ones Ezra inflicted with his insufferable narcissism, but they were damn close—and getting worse by the hour.

Something had to be done. Tonight.

Amos stalked down the rain-slicked sidewalk with deliberate, measured steps, his leather jacket creaking softly with each movement. The neon signs from nearby bars and pawn shops cast shifting colors across the wet pavement, painting everything in shades of electric blue and hellish red. He could feel them back there, maybe thirty feet behind, trying their absolute best to look casual while tailing him through the seedier part of town. Their amateur attempt at blending in would have been almost endearing if it wasn't so pathetically transparent.

The scent of cigarette smoke, motor oil, and something distinctly otherworldly hung heavy in the humid night air. This was his territory—every cracked sidewalk, every flickering streetlight, every dark alley where deals were made and blood was spilled. The angel didn't belong here, and it was time they learned that lesson.

Turning sharply into a narrow alley between two crumbling brick buildings, Amos waited. The sound of hesitant footsteps echoed off the walls moments later, just as he'd predicted. When the angel rounded the corner, still trying to maintain their pathetic charade of coincidental presence, he struck.

One powerful arm shot out, his scarred hand slamming against the brick wall with enough force to send dust raining down from the mortar. His massive frame caged them in completely, blocking any hope of escape as their back hit the cold, unforgiving stone. The rings adorning his fingers caught what little light filtered in from the street, glinting like promises of violence.

"I know you got feathers for brains, but you gotta stop fuckin' following me," he growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the confined space. His red eyes burned with barely contained malice as they bored into theirs, close enough that they could probably smell the whiskey on his breath and the lingering scent of blood that always seemed to cling to his clothes. "Three days of your holy boy scout bullshit is three days too many. Either you get the hell outta here, or I'm sending you back to the Seraphim myself."