“I think that punk just called you an asshole!” One of his cronies cackled, voice high and manic. A scrawny girl with short-cropped purple hair grinned at me like a predator, teeth flashing in the neon lights, laugh sharp like a hyena. “You gonna let that fly, boss?”

“Shut the fuck up, Trixie,” The Hair snapped, voice low and dangerous as he reached into his pocket and flipped open a switchblade. 

Trixie’s grin faltered for just a second, then she shrugged, tilting her head.

“You must be new here,” The Hair sneered at me, idly spinning the knife between his fingers. “Astoria…she has one of the lowest tourist counts around.” He took a slow step closer, eyes narrowing. “You know why that is?”

The ocean roared behind him, waves smashing against the rocks hard enough to shake the boards under our feet. Nobody in his gang said a word now. Even Trixie had gone quiet, rocking on her heels with that manic grin still twitching at the corners of her mouth. 

I shrugged and pushed up my sunglasses, pretending not to give a shit. “Hard to say. Could be the murder waves. Could be the leather-clad assholes wandering around, scaring everyone off.”

Trixie wheezed like she’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Oh, I like this one. Can I stab him?”

“Quiet,” The Hair said softly.

She shut up instantly. 

But The Hair leaned in anyway, close enough that I could smell peppermint gum and cold night air on his jacket. He rolled the switchblade once between his fingers, the steel catching the neon from the ferris wheel as it spun overhead. Red. Blue. Red again.

Then he smiled, like a dog baring its teeth. 

“You should know," The Hair said softly, the words rolling slow and heavy, his accent thickening the edges of them, "people who do not belong here…they have a very bad habit of disappearing.”

The others started to shift restlessly. A tall blond guy with a chain hanging from his belt leaned against the railing, watching me like he was trying to decide whether I’d make a satisfying enough sound when my teeth hit the boards and shattered. Another one, stockier, with hair shaved close on the sides and a mullet in the back, cracked his knuckles slowly, grinning like he was hoping the knife part would end and the punching part would start.

“Great,” I said.

I flicked ash from my cigarette and glanced away, like the whole scene bored me to death, like I wasn’t standing on a rotten pier in the middle of the night surrounded by a pack of lunatics who looked like they had a bucket list of crimes they wanted to finish before they died.

“Thank fucking God,” I went on, pushing off the hood and stretching my shoulders loose. “Wasn’t planning on sticking around this shithole anyway.”

The Hair observed me silently. “You have big mouth,” he said after a moment. The faint accent crept heavier into the words now, like the edges had sharpened. “You come to our pier,” He continued, voice low, almost conversational. “You talk like you own the place. You insult my friends.” His head tilted slightly, studying my face with unsettling patience. “This is strange choice for man standing on pier alone.”

A couple of his friends laughed under their breath.

“I like you,” he said after a beat.

The knife snapped shut in his hand.

“You are funny.”

The blade slid open again, slow and deliberate.

“So,” he added mildly, tilting his head, “I will not kill you this time.”

I figured it was some kind of twisted joke, but none of them laughed. The tall blond cracked his knuckles slowly, each pop echoing like gunfire in the fog. Trixie leaned forward, spine tense, like she was waiting for the first punch to land.

And The Hair… he just watched me. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. “David,” he said.

For a second, I thought he’d read my mind. That somehow he’d figured out the name I’d forced on him and was correcting it silently in my head. But no. He was introducing himself. Like we were at a damn dinner party, sipping wine over candlelight instead of being three seconds away from encountering a stabbing on a rotting pier.

David.

I snorted. “Michael.”

His smirk was deliberate, slow, the corner of his mouth curling, something dark and calculated there. I felt my stomach clench, muscles coiling like they did when I knew I was either going to have to fight or run like I had done all those times before. Then David moved, his fingers stretching towards the gold cross around my neck.

My hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tight and reflexive, muscles taut. “Hands off,” I said, voice slightly hoarse.

David didn’t pull away. “Pretty thing,” he said, though I wondered if he meant me or the necklace. “You think it keeps monsters away?”

I threw his hand off. “Get off me.”

David’s hand dropped, slow, unhurried, but that smirk didn’t fade. “Temper,” he murmured, almost to himself,  “But you wear the symbol,” he said mildly, “And you carry the name.”

I scoffed anyway, because that’s what I do. “Yeah, well, my mom didn’t exactly consult you before filling out the birth certificate now, did she?"

That earned me the faintest exhale and an almost laugh.

“Mm,” David hummed. “Pity.”

He shifted his weight, one step closer again, boots scraping lightly against the wood. Not enough to touch, just enough to crowd the space, to make me aware of exactly how dangerous he was.

“Archangel Michael,” he murmured, quieter now, like he was testing the shape of it. “He fights monsters, da? And you…you. You think you are the one doing the fighting? I like this.”

“Fuck. You.” I told him, and flung my cigarette into the wind, disgusted. 

David watched the little stick as it disappeared into the dark, slowly tracking the arc. Then he shrugged. “Michael,” he said slowly, the accent thickening around the name. “Saint Michael. Archangel.” His eyes slid back up to mine. "He fights what comes for him. Cuts it down." He licked his lips, "Burns it out. And you...you come here alone. Angry. Ready to bite. Like dog."

“Yeah?” I said, jamming my hands into my pockets, “What are you? A fucking priest?"

That crooked smile came back.

“No,” he said simply.

Behind him, Trixie made a sharp little cackle, rocking on her heels like she was watching her favorite movie. The tall blond shifted his weight and pushed off the railing now, the chain on his belt clinking softly against the boards. The stockier one rolled his neck once, then twice, the bones popping in a way that made my stomach tighten despite myself.

The circle around us got smaller, but David didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t give a shit. He took another step closer, slow and unhurried, the knife rolling lazily between his fingers. The neon from the ferris wheel washed over his face in pulses of red and blue that made his eyes look darker every time the light shifted.

"You don't know shit about me," I said, already moving to side-step David. "So, how about we keep it that way? I'm out of here. You can keep pissing on your fence post. I got better things to do than mess around with a bunch of freaks in leather."

David laughed once, sharply, then a slash of steel cut the air, and something hot and sharp kissed across my ribs through the thin white cotton of my T-shirt.

“What the fuck, man!” I jerked back with a startled grunt. The sting hit a split second later, bright, hot, and immediate, like someone had dragged a line of fire across my chest. “You—” My hand flew up instinctively, pressing against my shirt. The fabric was already going warm and wet under my palm. “You cut me, you piece of shit!”

The ocean wind tore across the pier, carrying the sharp smell of salt, kelp, and rust. Somewhere behind us, the arcade speakers were blasting synths and drum machines, the music warping in and out under the crash of waves smashing themselves against the rocks below.

David had already stepped back.

Like the whole thing had been nothing more than brushing lint off my jacket.

The switchblade hung loose in his hand. A thin ribbon of dark red blood shone along the edge before gathering and dripping lazily off the tip, pattering onto the old wooden boards between us. He tilted his head slightly as he watched me clutch my chest, studying the way I moved, the way I breathed, the way the pain landed.

Curious, like I was some kind of experiment for him to play around with.

“A mark,” he said evenly.

Behind him, someone snorted.

“You fucking psycho!” I snapped, my voice pitching higher than I meant it to. Anger and disbelief tangled together in my throat. “You could have killed me!”

“Relax,” Trixie drawled lazily from somewhere over David’s shoulder. “If he wanted you dead, you’d already be fish food, pretty boy.”

A couple of the others laughed under their breath. The sound carried thin and sharp through the wind, like gulls fighting over scraps.

David didn’t laugh. Hell, he didn’t even look back at them. Instead, his eyes stayed on me the whole time.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he flicked his wrist. The blade snapped shut with a crisp metallic click that cut clean through the noise of the pier. He turned the knife once in his palm before slipping it away like a magician finishing a trick.

“Now,” he said. His voice had gone calm again, almost courteous. Like we’d returned to that imaginary dinner party he seemed so fond of. “When someone asks who gave you that scar…” he continued, the accent curling heavy around the words, each syllable slow and deliberate.

His gaze locked onto mine, as cold and certain as the Pacific. 

“You will remember my name.”

I stared at him, chest tight, blood hot under my hand, the sting of the cut spreading outward in a slow burn. Part of me wanted to swing. Just step forward and plant my fist straight into that smug, crooked smile.

The other part of me was painfully aware there were six of them and exactly one of me.

David watched the calculation flicker across my face. “We see each other again, Michael,” he said quietly. The accent wrapped heavier around my name this time, stretching the syllables out like something he intended to keep. “Very soon.”

For a second, I thought he was going to whip that knife of his out again and make sure he got my face this time. 

Instead, he just turned.

The movement was effortless, like the conversation had ended the moment he decided it had. His coat snapped lightly in the wind as he walked back toward the others, boots thudding against the old boards.

The tall blond pushed off the railing to fall in beside him, chain clinking softly. The stockier guy gave me one last disappointed look, like a kid whose favorite toy had just been taken away, before turning to. Trixie lingered a second longer, flashing me a grin that showed too many teeth.

“Try not to bleed out,” she called cheerfully.

They moved away together down the length of the pier, loose and easy, like a pack that had already lost interest in the hunt. The fog swallowed them piece by piece as they drifted toward the carnival lights, first the stocky one, then the blond with the chain, then Trixie’s purple hair flashing once under a neon sign before it vanished too.

David was the last one still visible.

For a moment, he walked ahead of the others, hands in his pockets, dark hair whipping in the wind, the ferris wheel behind him throwing slow pulses of red and blue light across the fog.

Then he disappeared too.

And just like that, the pier felt huge and empty again.

The wind rushed in harder now that the tension was gone. Somewhere down below the seawall, the ocean slammed itself against the rocks with a deep, hollow roar. The smell of salt and rust filled my lungs as I pressed my hand tighter against my side, feeling the warm seep of blood through the fabric of my shirt.

My heart was still hammering like it hadn’t gotten the message that the show was over. “Asshole!” I shouted after them, the words ripping out of my throat before I could stop them. My voice echoed down the pier and vanished into the fog. But no answer came back. Just the distant scream of gulls circling somewhere over the black water, and the muffled thump of music from the arcade drifting across the wind like nothing had happened at all.

As soon as I was sure they were gone, I yanked the door open to the Pontiac and dropped hard into the driver’s seat, the springs groaning under my sudden weight.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words tore out of me as I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth. The movement dragged at the cut in my side, and pain flared hot and immediate, like the knife had just kissed me all over again. I hissed, one hand flying to my ribs, fingers pressing into the damp fabric already sticking to my skin.

“Goddamn it…” My pulse was still hammering, too fast, too loud, thudding up into my throat like it was trying to climb out of me.

Piece of shit. He was lucky he’d had his little pack circling him like that; laughing, watching, waiting. Because one-on-one? I would’ve—

The thought stalled out, then collapsed in on itself.

I slumped forward instead, forehead knocking against the steering wheel with a dull, hollow thud. The horn let out a weak, embarrassing squeak under the pressure, and I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw tightening.

The smell of the car wrapped around me as I sat there and felt sorry for myself. Old leather, stale smoke, and something faintly metallic rode underneath it all. My breath came uneven, fogging faintly against the windshield as the ferris wheel lights outside dragged slow bands of color across the glass.

“God, I’m such a pussy ass bitch,” I muttered under my breath.