Nick jerks back, winding back in preparation of deliverance of a blow. He knows where t' slip a blade, jam it between the ribs and stick it in where no one'll hurt him. He got raised in streets gray-streaked, rain-flecked, he knows how to fight and how to read the lines and angles in the body before it all goes to shite, it's how he got where he is and how he'll keep going 'till he gets a scholarship and gets the fuck out, and he knows this fuck is gathering himself to grip him, grab him, touch him. The older boys know how he hates it. They know what names to call him.

He's got a blade, he knows how to chib someone who's not backing off. He can do it. He's had to learn how.

"Nae such thing as angels," he spits, low and scornful. "Tha' means fuck-all t'me. An' I don' want yer bloody help."