Redlea, a sprawl of steel and concrete, full of life, dark corners, and death. A city of hunters and the hunted, of heroes and monsters, of the hungry and the herd. (Are you sure you meant to use 'hungry'? That doesn't contrast against herd very well. Predators, perhaps?) Three of these hunters come now, down towards this shadowy dead end.
The first is a short, broad man. He is dressed all in black, his over large trenchcoat dragging slightly on the ground and giving him an almost comedic appearance. A ginger beard hangs down to his belt, and he walks calmly, without a worry in the world. Beneath the coat is a much more serious arsenal - axes, daggers and stakes of all sizes and materials.
His partner, the second, is a gaunt, tall figure. Eyes dart from side to side beneath bushy brows, the only hair on his face. He wears a leather jacket, tassels and all, stained from decades of wear. The jacket hides a pair of pistols that look almost handmade, which his fingers now find.
The third is not a hunter today. (But she was just described as a hunter.) She is the prey. (If she is being followed, it feels counterintuative to have her as the third; the narrative structure would suggest she is the last one when that is not the case.) She seems human, if a little pale, but for the black blood leaking from a gash in her brow. Her dark jeans hide another wound on her leg, causing her retreat to be a halting, limping thing. As she reaches the dead end, she turns, and her iris turns black. Blood rushes into her skin as she rapidly sidesteps a bullet, exhausting her reserves still further. The short one is close now, and a pair of cold iron axes glint in the moonlight. Blood wells to her skin again, (Did it go away from rushingto her skin before?) and her back rips open. A pair of dark wings tear apart her top, the displaced skin (This implies her top was made of skin. Displaced skin and cloth, perhaps?)sloughing to the ground. She rises into the air with a single powerful beat of her wings, barely staying aloft as an axe is hurled through the newly formed leathery skin. Still she manages to flop onto the rooftop before the tall one can ready his aim. (If she's beating her wings more, it might be suitable to mention that at some point in the previous sentences.)
The short one grunts, frustrated by his own complacency. (Complacency in what?) With two fingers he picks up the lost skin, and examines it for a moment, shaking his head. Then he motions to a nearby drainpipe, and they climb. He reaches the roof to find the tall one on his knees, inspecting a pool of black blood. The trail of a dragged wing leads away towards a smashed skylight. The drop is short, and the two hunters take up positions on opposite sides before leaping down.
The interior is abandoned, spare a pair of mattresses in the corner. A whimpering noise comes from a nearby room, and the hunters approach in time to see the body of a squatter thud to the ground. The hunted turns to face them, no longer afraid. The tear in her wing is gone, and as she wipes away the blood from her forehead, no more follows in its wake. A bullet flies towards her, only to be swatted aside by a wing momentarily as hard as iron. The blackness has spread to fill her whole eye, an abyss that causes the tall one to shift his aim, and a bullet strikes the short one in the leg. He collapses to the floor as another bullet strikes his head, and the tall one steps over the corpse into the hunter’s arms. A minute later, he too collapses, body drained of all blood.
The hunter wipes her mouth clean, and takes the shirt off the squatter. A snug fit even with wings retracted, but a fit nonetheless. She leaves through the front door, just another shadow in the night.