A hand is what Xas' hand finds instead, but not for long.

Long fingered, conventionally mannish and sporting neat nails, an arm that extends from the shadows and makes sure the angel is not granted the indignity of falling back. That grasp transforms even before Xas can get a sense of who helped him, turning into steel jutting from concrete, like this is how it had always been.

Through the gutted interior of the skeletal skyscraper, a moment of someone that intrinsically owned the hand, but further away. They pause like a spotted predator before disappearing into the inner spine of the building, a blasted stairwell that creaks and moments beneath movement, but has enough concrete and iron to it to conceal as much as it supports.

The klaxon that Xas had heard continues to sound out. Maybe a little closer than before.