Yep, better get involved.

The hallway is shadows and old cigarette smoke, but he can make out the four figures involved. The centerpoint is a tall, tough-looking dude in jeans and a tee-shirt that proudly announces the wearer as a Real American. The man's face is lit red with rage, and he's got his hand hooked into the hair of a petite blonde, her skirt disheveled, and her shirt-collar torn, exposing the slight pale pink of her throat. To their left, just out of reach from Aden's door, is a thickset bull of a man in a leather coat and cowboy hat. Cowboy has the girl's purse, and he's rifling through it, looking for something. The last one is another woman, a short Oriental, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her face deadly serious, the glint of naked steel in her left hand, a blade, ready to use if needed.

Nick is two seconds away from closing the door when he sees the blood on the blonde's lip where one of the others smacked her. Her posture says real fear, not just a hooker getting pushed around by her pimp. She's afraid for her life. Without wanting to, Nick's eyes process the scene, the angles, the surroundings. The monster licks it's lips, hungry. Within the time it takes them to notice him, Nick has already played the fight out in his head, knows he will win, knows they aren't good enough to take him. That's when Cowboy looks over, sneers. "Fuck off, scarface," the man growls. "This ain't got nothin' to do with you."

"You shouldn't be doing it out in my hallway, then," Nick sighs, moving out into the hall, about four feet from them. Well inside the lethal distance. Although he seems relaxed and clam, his eyes scan constantly, taking in data, adjusting and readjusting the response.

Jeans pushes the girl back into the wall hard enough to make an audible thump. "This faggot owes us money, and he either coughs it up, or we'll help ourselves to whatever he's got. You better fuck off before you get hurt, slick."

For a moment, Nick is caught out. He hadn't picked up that the victim was a man in women's clothes. Not that it matters, really. The point is, the monster is hungry now. Aden smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. "How much?"

Jeans scowls at him, non-plussed. "What the fuck you mean?"

"How much does she owe you?"

Cowboy opens his mouth to speak, but Jeans waves him off. "Look, stupid, I already told you, that's a fag in a dress. You talking about paying his debts? What are you, Santa-fuckin-Claus?"

None of them have picked up on the monster, the way the smile is slowly fading from his face. They can't hear the ticking of the clock, the rapidly diminishing amount of time they have left. "On my countertop, there's a shoebox with ten thousand in cash. Let her go, and you can try to go get it."

Jeans' eyes widen as the full meaning of that sinks in. The Oriental girl spins the knife around her fingers, and smirks. Cowboy has turned and squared off, risen to his full height, several inches above Aden. He cracks his knuckles. Jeans smiles a fake smile, and nods.

"If you want to leave, miss, now's the time to do it," Aden says to Blondie, motioning toward the stairs. "Your friends and I are going to have a quick conversation."

Jeans lets go of the victim, who immediately slips out from under his arm and flees down the stairs. "You are a stupid mother-fucker," Jeans says. "That cocksleeve ain't worth it."

"We are gonna fuck you up, boy!" says Cowboy, pushing his coat back to reveal a paunchy belly and the black handle of a revolver ticked in his waistband. Oriental Girl slips over to the right, clearing her way around her partners. She'll come in fast from the side when Cowboy engages, the monster whispers.

Jeans steps left, so there's room for the three of them to work. "Maybe if you ask real nice, we'll let you live when we're done."

Cowboy makes his play, weight shifting forward to act. Aden takes a slow breath, and lets the monster go. Before the man can even get his foot off the ground, Aden is in under his arms, two quick blows to the chest, left-right, hard, cracking ribs and driving Cowboy back toward his friends. Aden plants a heavy kick into the center of the man's chest, feels the concrete hardness of ribcage give way, lifting Cowboy into the air and tossing him back toward the stairs, the man's revolver sliding across the floor. Knife girl is caught totally flat-footed, her gaze following her partner's falling body involuntarily. Aden shifts right, inside block, grasping her knife-hand by the wrist. Dropping his weight downward and spinning left, Aden dislocates her shoulder, tearing muscles and ligaments, pitching her over his right hip and into the wall face first. Before her body has even hit the floor, before Jeans can do anything but inhale to scream, Aden clears the space between them, his fist rocketing into the left side of the man's head, smashing his jaw and dropping him as well.

Aden pauses to check the scene. Cowboy has fallen down the stairs and is already coughing up blood. The Oriental girl is twitching and moaning, the plasterboard of the wall where she hit smeared with blood. Jeans is flat, rolling in pain, blood and teeth dripping from his mouth, jaw hanging at an obscene angle. All Aden can feel is the cold hatred, the evil inside, and he bends down next to Jeans, picking up Cowboy's revolver and bringing it close to the fallen man's temple. It's heavy, solid, familiar. The monster puts the cold steel barrel right on Jeans' temple, and eases the hammer back with a strangely loud click. "You hear that?" Aden asks quietly, looking into Jeans' terrified eyes. "That's the sound of the angel of , coming to take you to Hell." He takes up the slack on the trigger, part of him wondering if he'll dream about this killing, too-

"No." The voice comes from the girl, her eyes cornflower blue and so bright in the shadowed hallway it actually makes his breath catch a little. She's standing at the top of the stairs, blood on her chin, her eyes pleading with him not to do it.

"You care about these people?" Aden grunts, his finger tight on the trigger.

"Not even a little bit," she answers, her voice soft and feminine. She comes toward him, her hands up. "But if you kill them, you'd get arrested and go to prison."

Nick restrains the urge to laugh. "Probably not." He rises to his feet again, then uncocks the weapon and flips it open, dumping the shells onto the hardwood floor with a rattle. "Your lucky day," he murmurs to the fallen thugs. "I'd tell you to apologize to her, but I don't think any of you can talk." He turns and walks back to his hovel of a room. Flipping the laptop closed, he grabs his backpack and scoops up what few belongings he has. He hears the girl come to the door behind him, her breathing as soft as her voice. Somehow, she smells like cinnamon and honeysuckle. His cock shifts in his underwear, twitching into life in a way it hasn't in over a year.

"I don't see a shoebox full of money on your counter," she whispers.

He turns toward her, taking in her slender frame, her elfin features, narrow cheekbones, short blonde hair held back by a pink headband. Now that she's better lit, he can see she's flat-chested, her hips dipping in and then back out to a tight bottom barely concealed by her short black skirt. He's still taking her in when he sees her looking down at his groin, her cheeks flushing slightly as she gazes at his rapidly growing erection. "I really hope that's not because you just wiped those bastards out."

He can't think of what to say to that, so he shoulders the bag and pushes past her and back into the hall. "I lied about the money. Gave me an edge." He starts down the stairs, stepping over Cowboy who has begun struggling for breath. Nick expects that, with nothing to gain, the blonde will go her own way; instead, he hears her light steps behind him, cautious, tentative. At the next landing, he stops, and turns to face her.

He doesn't say anything, just waits for her to answer. "I've got nowhere else to go," she says, by way of explaining. "Those guys were just the second-string. They work for the man I owe."

Aden nods. "How much?"

"Ten thousand. This month." She blushes.

"How much total?"

"Fifty. With interest." He's walking again, and she hurries to follow, staying close behind him. "It's not for or anything."

"Don't care." He sees her wince, and realizes he's hurt her. Nick stops long enough to reach out to squeeze her shoulder. Part of him realizes the girl didn't pull away; everybody he's been near since the blast has flinched when he gets near them. "I meany I don't care what you did. I don't judge. People are people. Some are good, some are bad."

"Which am I?" she asks, only half-joking.

"Amazing," he answers without thinking, then immediately wishes he could retract it. "Sorry, I'm not very good with people."

"I dunno," she giggles. "You seem to be doing pretty well with me." She follows him down another flight of stairs, and out through the lobby and onto the street. "Where are you going?"

"The airport. I have a friend who needs help." He stands there on the curb, looking at her, and trying not to. He can't figure out why, but he wants her. He wants her like he hasn't wanted anybody in a very long time.

She smiles hesitantly, nervous. She can't quite meet his eyes, looking down at her knee socks and tennis shoes as if they are telling her something important. "I can be very helpful," she offers, shyly.

"Nickolas Aden," he grunts, holding out his hand. Her grip is light, a slight squeeze, and he can feel heat resonating through her palm.

"Tommy," she says, and for a moment she does look at him. Instead of revulsion at his destroyed looks, she looks curious, fragile. "I like to fly," she says, almost a question.

"Great." He flags down a taxi, and when it stops, holds the door open for her. "I fucking hate it."