The day you found the angel was already going poorly.
Your leg stump was already hurting in the socket of its prosthetic–you needed to gain weight like Stephan–fucking Stephan–was always lecturing you about. Fuck Stephan. He could rot. And it was hot outside, sticky August humidity, and you were sweating like hell into your leg’s liner, but the other option was your crutch or god forbid your fucking wheelchair, and you needed to be at your most operational when you checked your traps.
Mostly there was nothing. In one of your roadside ones is a small goblin chittering around, and you press your lighter to the glass chamber until it shrivels up under the heat. Your traps never caught anything big or interesting anymore. Nothing that could kill you in a fair fight.
By the time you found the angel, you were winding down. Your alleyway trap hardly ever caught anything, so you were expecting this to be yet another disappointment. But nothing ever goes how you expect i