Melek knew he'd regret drinking that lady's wine, but the cherry-red bottle poking out of her grocery bag called to him and his parched throat. How could he possibly resist?

His migraine was harrowing. It was as if someone repeatedly stabbed his temple with an icepick. The bang of metal hitting metal, the buzz from the automatic welding machines, and the loud hum from the dozens of industrial fans joined forces to break him; yet he refused to fold.

Melek looked up at the enormous digital clock above him and a sigh escaped his lips. Only thirty minutes left. Pick up the driveshaft, place it in the straightener, press the button ad nauseam. It was monotonous work, but if he got into a good enough rhythm, he would sometimes enter a zen-like state. During these fleeting moments, the memories that constantly attacked his psyche quieted down, and the otherwise backbreaking manual labor seemed tolerable.

Tony, his supervisor, waddled toward him and leaned against one of the machines. The man was short, middle-aged, and onion shaped. He wore a baseball cap to hide his thinning hair, and his crooked teeth had turned a bright yellow from the decades of smoking. His black wedding band contrasted against his pasty white skin. Melek assumed that—at one time—he was at least moderately in shape, considering the fact that the band was now tight around his ring finger. "Yo, Melek," Tony said. "A couple of us are going out for drinks after work. You down?"

Melek blew away the strands of dishwater-blonde hair obstructing his vision. "I don't drink."

"That sexy new temp is going out with us. She's been checking you out nonstop since she got here, and tonight is the perfect opportunity to get to know her a little better." He cracked a hideous smile, sending shivers down Melek's spine.

"I already have plans. Sorry."

"Your loss. What I wouldn't do for a piece of that—"

The bell signaling a shift change came to Melek's rescue. After removing his work gloves, he clocked out and bolted out of the factory.

Of all the places Melek had lived, New York was easily the most bizarre. The idea of an adult purposefully not owning a car never even crossed his mind until he got there. After a few days of constant bumper to bumper traffic and having to cross his fingers before searching for a parking spot, he sold his car and never looked back. Besides, the walk home let him clear his head, or more accurately, it let him try.

On his way home, he would occasionally stop at a bodega that sold the best beef patties in New York. The thought of biting into one of those tasty morsels made him quicken his pace.

Outside the bodega, two young boys were playing with a basketball. It looked like the older boy was helping the younger one learn how to dribble. A feeling of nostalgia lifted Melek's mood as he reminisced about the games he used to play with his older brother. Then, like clockwork, an even more powerful wave of melancholy replaced the joy associated with those memories.

He peered up at the sign that read Bartholomew's Deli and patted his stomach before taking a step inside. The raging hangover caused by downing copious amounts of cheap wine still plagued him, so he was in desperate need of some comfort food.

Once inside, he was bombarded by an array of brightly colored packaged foodstuffs. The owner's cat meowed softly in the corner as the smell of freshly brewed coffee blended with the savory aroma of bacon and eggs sizzling on the nearby grill.

The owner, Mr Bartholomew himself, was in the area behind the counter, alternating between cooking and checking out a customer. Melek had to squint his eyes to see him through the smudge covered bulletproof barriers lining the counter. He sauntered through the unorganized food aisles until he heard a yelp come from Mr. Bartholomew's direction.

"Is that who I think it is?" Mr. Bartholomew asked. His high-pitched voice and thick Eastern European accent spread like a wave throughout the bodega.

Melek responded with a head nod, but then quickly realized that Mr. Bartholomew probably couldn't see him through the smudged barrier.

"Seriously?" Mr. Bartholomew yelled. "All I get is a head nod?"

Oh. "Uh, how you been?"

"Terrible. What the hell is going on in this city? Three murders this week alone, and it's only Tuesday! Even for New York, this shit is ridiculous."

A large knot formed in the pit of Melek's stomach. He recalled the bearded demon's red eyes gleaming as he was on his knees, unaware of the hatchet about to end his worthless existence. Melek was used to seeing demons. Hell, killing them was what got him up in the morning. But they rarely openly interacted with humans. Something was emboldening them, and not knowing what irked Melek to his core.

Mr. Bartholomew gave the eggs on the grill a flip. "Don't worry about it, kid. How've you been?"

Melek snapped back to the present, forcing a warm smile. "Working. You know, same old shit."

"So, what brings you here today? Wait, lemme guess. You're craving some of my world famous beef patties?"

"They went from the best in New York to world famous. Seems like you've been keeping busy."

Mr. Bartholomew smiled, his veneers beaming in the dimly lit bodega. "A lot can happen in a couple of weeks. I would have filled you in but you're no longer a regular."

"I had to slow down. I was gaining weight, and I need to be in great shape for my job."

"You can afford to gain a couple of pounds. So what if you go from the body of a supermodel to one of a regular model?"

Melek chuckled for the first time in what felt like months. "Mr. Bartholomew," he said. "Give me two beef patties. I'm fighting this horrible hangover and it's currently winning."

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"Coming right up." Mr. Bartholomew bustled through the doors that led to his storage room. He returned with six of the triangle shaped pastries in hand. "So, what drink caused you all of this trouble?"

"Ever heard of a brand of wine called—"

"Wine did this to you? Did you drink it before or after you popped some Midol?"

"Are you seriously breaking my balls over the fact that I drank some wine?"

"To be fair, I would have made fun of you regardless."

"Why do I come here again?"

"Because I have the best beef patties in the Milky Way."

Melek walked up to the counter and peered at the trays of deep fried deliciousness on display. Below the chicken wings was a row of already cooked beef patties. Mr. Bartholomew always made sure that Melek's food was as fresh as possible, so they must have been left out for a while.

"Melek." His light-hearted tone of voice disappeared. "My daughter couldn't sleep last night because she was having nightmares. These murders are ruining my love of this city."

"I wish I knew what the hell was going on." He had a working theory, but he would never share that part of his life with Mr. Bartholomew. Melek leaned on the counter and looked toward the kids playing with the basketball outside. "I heard that a crop of police just straight up quit. Can you believe it? I never thought I'd see the day when New York police officers would actually throw in the towel."

Mr. Bartholomew checked on the patties in the deep frier. "How old are you now?"

Melek turned his attention away from the two boys and met Mr. Bartholomew's gaze. "Twenty-two. Why?"

"When I was your age, I already had my first son. You ever think about settling down?"

"What's up with these questions? You a psychiatrist now?"

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. I've been looking at some real estate in Vermont—"

"Please don't tell me you're actually thinking about moving."

"I am. And I suggest you do the same. You're a good kid, Mel. You should settle down and start thinking about your future."

"You're talking like you've already moved."

"I love New York, but if I have to choose between the city I love and my family, I'm choosing my people ten times out of ten."

Melek moved away from the counter, allowing a customer to check out. He glanced over at the kids and noticed the older one running toward the basketball, now rolling across the street.

Without thinking, he sprinted out of the bodega.

A bus appeared in Melek's peripheral vision, turning the corner and speeding toward the boy. A loud screech scratched at his ears as the bus attempted to slow down. He scooped the boy up and leapt onto the sidewalk.

The bus driver opened the window and stuck her head out. "Oh my god! Are you two okay?"

Melek looked down at the boy. "We're fine," he said. The kid's eyes were closed, and he was shaking—his fingers indenting the ball. "Hey kid, what's your name?" Melek asked in a soothing tone.

The kid finally opened his eyes and slowly looked up at Melek. "J-Josh."

"You saved my brother!" the younger boy exclaimed. He was now on their side of the street, staring at Melek with a look of astonishment. "You ran by me so fast, I almost didn't even see you!"

"You're welcome," Melek said casually, trying not to let his ego swell. "What's your name?"

The younger one glanced at his brother, still tightly clinging to Melek. "Colton."

Melek put Josh down and inspected him for injuries. "Hey Josh, are you hurt?"

Josh composed himself. He then started dribbling the ball as his gaze met the sidewalk. "No."

"Ya'll good?" the bus driver asked. The car rumbled violently while idling.

"We'll be okay," Melek said.

The bus driver rolled her windows up and drove away; her passengers staring at the three of them until the bus turned the corner. Small crowds formed nearby. Mr. Bartholomew stood in front of his bodega with his hands on his hips, gawking at the three of them.

Colton tried to pry the ball from Josh's hands, but Josh yanked it away.

Melek smiled and put a hand on Colton's shoulder. "Hey, I just saved your brother, so I'm going to need something in return."

Colton eyed Melek suspiciously. "What?"

"I need you to look out for him, okay? I know he's probably always talking about how he's supposed to look after you and stuff, but—"

"It's so annoying! He thinks he can tell me what to do because he's bigger than me."

Melek contained his laughter. "My brother was the same way. Let me tell you a little secret. We sometimes have to protect our big brothers too. They may be bigger, but we're usually smarter."

"Did you hear that Josh? I'm smarter than you!"

"No, you're not!" Josh exclaimed

"Are too!"

"Are not!"

"Guys," Melek said. "Where are your parents?"

"We're staying with our mom this weekend and she lets us do whatever we want," Josh said while pointing to an apartment building a couple of blocks away.

"Check in with her," Melek said.

Josh looked at Melek like he had just said the dumbest thing ever. "Why? All she does is watch TV all day. She doesn't care."

Oh, how nostalgic...

"Colton," Melek said with a wink. "Remember what I just said?"

Colton repeatedly tapped the side of his head with his pointer finger, signaling that he was the brains of this little duo. "Josh, I'm hungry," he whined.

Josh gave Colton a glare, then eventually let out a sigh. "Alright, I'll make you something to eat."

"I'll walk with you guys. Just lead the way."

They started toward the run-down apartment building. Melek asked for the ball from Colton and began spinning it on his finger. The kids counted how long he could keep the ball going. After almost breaking his recently established record of ten seconds, they finally made it to the front entrance of the apartment.

"Alright, this is where we part ways," Melek said. Josh snatched the ball and sprinted toward the entrance.

Colton ran after his brother, stopping at the top of the steps. He tapped the side of his head with his pointer finger one last time before turning back around and running through the two graffiti-covered doors.

By the time Melek made it back to Mr. Bartholomew, the crowds had completely dissipated. When he entered the bodega, Mr. Bartholomew threw a grease-stained brown paper bag at him. Melek opened it and took a whiff of the four beef patties inside.

"A little extra for the hero," Mr. Bartholomew said with his eyes glued to the food sizzling on his grill.

"You're the best," Melek said.

"I know."

Melek devoured two beef patties on the walk home, saving the other two for later. All that extra food was only going to weigh him down. He opened the door to his studio apartment and immediately ran to his kitchen to put the patties in the freezer, closing the freezer door slowly. If he shut the door too quickly, it wouldn't close properly. He learned that the hard way after he slammed it shut one night and woke up to melted ice cream and defrosted TV dinners.

One could best describe Melek's apartment as cozy. He had two pieces of furniture. His queen sized mattress lay on the floor, and the tiny TV stand Mr. Bartholomew gifted him was in a corner, collecting dust. Sunlight passed through the black bars on his windows, casting square shadows onto his carpet. He oftentimes felt like he came home to a jail cell.

After giving each article of clothing the sniff test, he concluded that everything but his boxers were clean enough to wear again. Laundry day wasn't for another three days, so he couldn't afford to be too picky.

He hanged his clothes and grabbed the portable CD player resting behind his hamper. Memories of his brother crept into his mind’s eye as he admired its black and gold casing, but he pushed them to the side, shooting a glance at his earbuds charging on the TV stand.

He grabbed the sheath holster tucked away in his closet and removed the hatchet to inspect its blade—ash particles dotting the steel. He wiped it with a cloth, put it back in its holster, and hopped onto his bed, setting the timer on his phone for three hours.