Woke up with shoulder pain like I’d slept on a box of nails. Looked in the mirror and—two black wings. Not cool. Not useful. Kind of dramatic though. Hoodies fit different now.
Something’s been trailing me for weeks. Tall. Too long. Arms that wobble like bad scanlines. It’s not what I expected to be scared of; I’m an average dude with bills. But this thing doesn’t care about bills.
Alley lights stronger. Rooftop figures multiplied. Symbols under the city are reacting to… me? The feathers I found? The wings? Either way, the pattern’s getting louder. I’m getting drafted into something and I didn’t sign the paperwork.
I don’t really celebrate Christmas the way I used to. Empire City doesn’t slow down just because the calendar says it should.
I tried, though. Put up a tiny plastic tree. Lights flickered like they were nervous. Made instant cocoa on a hot plate that definitely violates three building codes.
The wings? They don’t like the cold. They twitch when the wind cuts between buildings. I wrapped them in an old coat and sat by the window watching snow fall between neon signs.
Then I saw it again. Across the street. On the fire escape. Not moving. Just… observing.
I waved. (Bad idea.) It tilted its head like it was confused why I was pretending things were normal.
If this is what passes for peace now, I’ll take it. Merry Christmas. If you’re reading this — stay warm.
New year. Same city. Same rent.
The wings are part of the routine now. I plan around them. Sleep around them. Buy jackets two sizes too big. People stare, but Empire City has seen worse.
It’s still following me. But it’s not rushing anymore. Feels like it’s waiting. Like this is a test I don’t remember signing up for.
I catalog sightings. I take odd jobs. I ride the commute between Empire City and Port City with Lime Ricky’s track in my ears.
I’m not a hero. I’m not chosen. I’m just a guy who got wings and didn’t disappear.
If that’s enough to survive this year? Then yeah. I’ll keep blogging.
I’ve been chronicling the weird for a while now, but this one earns its own entry.
Couple nights ago, I clocked a hit going down that didn’t feel local. Too clean in the setup, too messy in the execution. Turns out it was I.M.P. — yeah, that I.M.P. from Hell. Assassins. Contractors. Business casual murder.
One of the imps didn’t make it. I won’t get into details, but Empire City chews up outsiders faster than locals. Even demons.
The woman on the team — Millie — efficient, deadly, and honestly? Kind of sloppy. Overkill where it wasn’t needed. Blood pattern said she rushed. Maybe got emotional. Happens.
And before anyone asks: yeah, she’s attractive. I noticed. I’m not blind. But I also noticed the axe, the temper, and the way she smiled after the job.
So no. I didn’t approach her. I’m average, winged or not. I like staying alive.
They vanished back to wherever they came from, and the thing that’s been following me? It watched them leave. Didn’t interfere. Like it was taking notes.
That’s the part that keeps me up.
If Hell has freelancers in Empire City, and it doesn’t see them as competition… then whatever’s stalking me is playing a longer game than I thought.
Logging this here in case I disappear. If anyone from I.M.P. reads this — no hard feelings. Just… clean it up next time.
Location: Empire City, off-grid café (closed)
Recorder: Lil Cal 9000 (autonomous note-taking unit)
> Bugsy: …So you saw the post.
> Millie: Oh I saw it, sugar. Internet travels fast. Even to Hell.
> Bugsy: For what it’s worth, I said you were attractive, not reckless.
> Millie: (snorts) Same difference on the job. You were right though. I rushed.
> Bugsy: I didn’t approach you. Seemed like a good way to die.
> Millie: Smart call.
> Bugsy: You mentioned one of your team didn’t make it.
> Millie: Moxxie.
> Bugsy: …I’m sorry. Your boyfriend—
> Millie: Husband.
> Bugsy: Right. I’m sorry. Truly.
> Millie: Group that keeps chasing us finally caught up. Military types. They call themselves D.O.R.K.S.
> Bugsy: That’s what they call themselves? Dorks?
> Millie: Acronym. They love acronyms.
> Bugsy: Still. Sucks that your husband died.
> Millie: It does.
> Bugsy: …Since you’re here, and nothing’s actively exploding, we could hang out for a bit. Coffee’s terrible but it’s hot.
> Millie: Heh. Yeah. I could use a minute where nobody’s shooting.
Note: This transcript was captured and formatted by Lil Cal 9000, a personal assistant unit designed and maintained by Bugsy. Minor latency and tonal inference applied automatically.