Mr. Tar
07:20 AM. In Henry Barthow's small apartment, an alarm clock rang in the cold hours of the morning. The sound echoed through the minimalistic room for exactly two seconds before the detective's hand snapped on the switch and turned it off. Without a grumble, Henry threw the covers to the side and rose out of bed. Stumbling in his recently-risen step, he undressed and turned on his shower.
Water washed over him and he stretched at its light chill. Before he fell, being bothered by heat and being hurt by fire were unknowns. He adapted to that loss of resistance in cover, but in many ways he remained more comfortable with the cold.
His true form had come to feel empowering. Henry thought a lot about that lately. He wasn't sure what it said about him, or about him being himself.
Slowly, he closed the water and made his way out of the bath. Like the day before, he picked out his usual combination of clothes. Unlike the day before, he put a kevlar vest under his shirt. His simple breakfast for that morning consisted of simple cereals and cold milk. He followed it by brewing a topped mug of coffee of out his coffee machine, with two sugar cubes.
Quietly sipping the dark liquid, he walked past his living room with its modest furnishings and his modern tv, to the slightly ajar door next to his room. The detective pushed it open and turned on the light.
Walls covered in photos, notes and newspaper excerpts came into view, connected by a web of multicolored strings so wide anyone would have trouble walking through. Gulping down coffee, Henry looked to the newest additions to his archive.
An immaculately drawn, almost photo-like portrayal of the man from last night who had made his cover shake was pinned to a wall, the label "Angel-like" stuck to it. A single red string connected it to a photo pinned on the opposite wall, of the crime scene of also the previous night.
The detective removed his gaze from it just one second after, before turning off the light and shutting the room. It was not that he strictly needed any of it, after all. But it was "detective-like".
Leaving his empty mug on the dishwasher, he moved on to pack his usual gear. As he threw on his trenchcoat and locked his apartment, his day to day, stressed half-scowl returned to his face. And sighing to himself, he came down from the second floor to walk the short distance to the police precinct in the slight bite of the morning air.
Sarse
The angel gave Than a slightely dazed look for an instant, then slowly blinked.
"I was planning to rent a hotel room tonight. I don't mind sharing the space," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I could frankly use some rest too, even in a couch."
