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Summary
Her first descent was not graceful. The air pulled at the ragged edges of her, and every feather that caught wind seared in pain she was sure she shouldn't be able to feel. She dove into a crowd, people gathered in some kind of group brawl, and the sinners scattered like prey at a predator's approach. Their terror was sweet as honey, she had been taught to think— and Lute let herself enjoy it for just a heartbeat. Enjoy it like medicine, like a prescription she hadn’t gotten filled since she last dug her teeth into something living. Until a fist full of rusted, stained chains snapped across her forearm, and an improvised iron bar sang a note against her thigh.
It hurt. She tasted copper and tin and the bright, foreign sting of real violence. Her talons closed on an arm that tried to reach for the bar once again; the sinner's skin was too soft, too breakable— human, and for the first time since the world had tilted, Lute understood that this place hurt in more than one way.
Or:
A fallen angel wakes up on a rooftop in hell, a twisted image of what she once was. Everything changes.