Under normal circumstances, Draven would have fought back, but exhaustion weighed him down. His limbs felt like lead as Brandon snatched the letter from his trembling hands.
Brandon's eyes darted across the page, his expression darkening with every word. The rage that burned in his gaze threatened to consume them both.
"You took away my mother's love—and now, my mother as well," he said bitterly, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion.
Draven took a hesitant step forward. "That's not true. She loved us both—equally."
Brandon scoffed, holding up the letter like it was evidence in a trial. "Equally? Oh, give me a break. Look at this! She mentions me twice. Twice! You? A thousand times. This entire thing is addressed to you, and I'm just an afterthought. A by-the-way!"
"It's not what you think," Draven pleaded, his voice cracking. "You're making a mistake—"
"A mistake?" Brandon's laugh was hollow, filled with venom. "No, Draven. The mistake was believing you could live under the same roof as me after what you've done."
Draven's heart sank as Brandon stormed toward him, his grip tightening on his arm. Brandon dragged him to the door and threw it open, shoving him outside with a force that knocked the breath out of him.
"I don't ever want to see your face again!" Brandon shouted, his voice breaking with rage. "I can't live with a murderer!"
"Brandon, please. I have nowhere to go. You're all I have left."
Brandon's eyes glistened with tears, but his voice was ice. "Where you go is none of my concern. I don't care if you live or die. As far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell."
Draven stood there, frozen in the doorway. For a moment, he considered begging, but something inside him snapped. He collected himself, straightened his shoulders, and stepped away.
If the only family he had left didn't want him, he wouldn't force them to. He'd survive on his own—or not.
---
The city was a blur around him as he wandered aimlessly, his mind spiraling into dark corners. His father's curse echoed in his ears: You'll live a miserable, lonely life, full of tears.
Draven clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The old man had been right. He was cursed. His mother died hating him. His brother despised him. And his father's blood still stained his hands.
His thoughts darkened further. Maybe his brother was right. Maybe he had taken everything away from Brandon. What was left for him now? His mother had been wrong—there was no redemption for someone like him.
He stopped abruptly, staring down at his own shadow on the cracked pavement. "Even you won't follow me," he muttered bitterly, stepping into the darkness of an alley.
---
Hours passed, though Draven barely noticed. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the storm raging inside him. He wandered the streets until the darkness of night enveloped the city.
He was crossing a deserted road, lost in thought, when the blinding headlights of a speeding car appeared out of nowhere.
Draven barely had time to look up before it struck him. The impact stole the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling. Pain erupted in every fiber of his being as the world around him faded to black.
---
When Draven opened his eyes, sunlight streamed down, blinding him momentarily. He blinked against the harsh light and sat up, his body stiff but miraculously pain-free.
He looked around, confused. He was lying on the roadside, the faint smell of asphalt and exhaust lingering in the air. His hand brushed against his ribs—no fractures, no bruises.
Had it all been a dream? The impact, the pain—it had felt so real.
Shaking off the disorientation, he stood and resumed his aimless wandering. The gnawing hunger in his stomach reminded him that he needed to find food. But with no family, no money, and no prospects, he was left with only one option: crime.
---
Draven knew nothing about theft or violence, but desperation made him bold. He sought out the dark alleys and hidden corners of the city where rumors of gang activity lingered.
The first gang he approached didn't welcome him. They beat him to a pulp and left him limping through the streets, his pride as bruised as his body.
As he stumbled away, pain radiating through his ribs, rage bubbled up inside him. He wanted to retaliate, to teach them a lesson—but the memory of their fists was enough to make him think twice.
Determined not to give up, Draven tried again. After several humiliating rejections, a small gang finally took notice of him.
---
They were a ragtag group—barely more than teenagers themselves—but they saw an opportunity for entertainment when they looked at Draven.
"You wanna join us?" one of them sneered, a boy with a scar running down his cheek. "Show us what you've got."
Draven squared his shoulders, ignoring the gnawing fear in his chest. "What do you want me to do?"
The boy gestured toward another member of the gang—a hulking figure named Wade, who stood at least a foot taller than Draven. "Fight him."
Draven's heart sank. Wade was a giant, his arms corded with muscle. But Draven didn't back down. He couldn't afford to.
The gang formed a loose circle around them, jeering and shouting as the fight began.
Draven darted forward, aiming a quick left jab at Wade's jaw. Wade blocked it effortlessly and retaliated with a heavy right hook that sent Draven staggering.
The gang roared with laughter.
Draven shook off the dizziness and tried again, weaving to avoid Wade's massive fists. His speed was his only advantage, but Wade's sheer power made every landed punch feel like a sledgehammer.
A minute in, Draven was panting, his vision swimming. Wade, by contrast, looked fresh as ever, a cruel grin on his face.
Desperation fueled Draven's next move. He landed a right uppercut, followed by a left jab and a right hook. For a fleeting moment, hope flared in his chest.
But Wade dodged his next punch and countered with a brutal blow to Draven's chin. The impact sent him crashing to the ground, the world tilting around him.
The gang cheered as Wade stood over Draven, his foot raised for the finishing blow.
Draven's vision blurred, his body refusing to move. He braced himself for the pain, for the darkness that would follow.
And yet, deep inside, a spark of defiance flickered, refusing to be snuffed out.