Draven tried to roll away, but his body refused to cooperate. Energyless, he felt the crushing weight land on his ribs. A sickening crack echoed in his ears, and pain flared, sharp and unforgiving.
He cursed himself for ever thinking he could take on Wade. This wasn't a challenge; it was suicide. The gang's bloodthirsty cheers roared in the background, amplifying his humiliation.
Draven growled in pain, coughing up blood as his vision blurred. Wade's next stomp felt like the final blow. He was dying, not in a blaze of glory, but as a joke—a nameless sacrifice for these deranged spectators.
Through the haze of pain, he noticed Wade raising his leg for a final, brutal strike aimed at his head. This was it. He closed his eyes, preparing for darkness.
But then, silence.
Draven's eyes shot open. He couldn't feel Wade's foot coming down. Instead, his hand gripped Wade's leg with a strength he didn't know he had. His vision sharpened, and something primal surged through his veins—an unrelenting fury, an unstoppable force.
Before he knew it, he twisted Wade's leg, eliciting a sharp scream. His own fists moved with precision, striking Wade's kneecap, then his face. The world around him faded; there was only Wade, the target of his wrath.
One strike after another landed with terrifying force. The crowd's cheers turned into gasps. Wade stumbled and screamed, his knee dislocated, his face bloodied.
Draven's final stomp landed on Wade's head, and the man collapsed into unconsciousness. Draven might have continued, lost in his blind rage, had the gang not grabbed him, holding him back with all their might.
It took several moments for Draven to snap back to reality. He looked down at Wade's limp form, breathing heavily. "How did you do that?" someone whispered in awe.
Draven didn't have an answer. He didn't even remember most of what happened. His hands trembled as he replayed the fight in his mind, but the details were blurry.
"You're something else," a voice broke the silence. A man with a commanding presence stepped forward. "I'm George, the leader of this merry band. Welcome to the gang."
George extended a hand, and Draven shook it, his movements mechanical, his mind still reeling.
"By the way, did anyone else see his eyes just now? They looked... lilac," someone whispered.
Draven flinched. What did they mean? He dismissed the thought and focused on the present.
---
The gang's energy shifted. Draven, who minutes ago had been their entertainment, was suddenly their prized recruit. George introduced him to everyone, the tone of admiration starkly different from the earlier jeers.
Despite the warm welcome, Draven remained wary. These weren't people to be trusted. He could already sense they'd use him for the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs.
"Since you're one of us now, you'll need this," George said, handing him a dagger. Its blade gleamed menacingly under the dim light. "You'll need it often when we go treasure hunting."
Treasure hunting? Draven's stomach twisted. He was sure that was code for something illegal.
George kept talking, detailing the gang's ambitions to climb the city's criminal hierarchy. But Draven had one pressing question. "When do we eat?"
The gang erupted into laughter.
"Look at the new guy, already thinking with his stomach!" someone joked.
Draven's cheeks burned, but George clapped him on the back. "Don't be embarrassed, kid. We're all men here. The basement's where you'll find food. Go on, fill up. You'll need your strength."
---
In the basement, Draven met the rest of the gang. Seventeen members in total, including himself. Most were indifferent, but a few greeted him warmly.
George paired him with a tall, well-built man named Michael. He had sharp brown eyes and an aura of quiet menace. "You're with me, kid," Michael said, offering a friendly smile.
Draven felt an odd sense of relief. Michael seemed trustworthy—at least compared to the others.
"Don't let his demeanor fool you," George teased. "Michael might seem harmless, but he could reduce you to ashes with a flick of his finger."
Draven chuckled nervously. Michael smiled but didn't deny the claim.
---
Michael showed Draven around, introducing him to their shared quarters and the kitchen. For the first time in what felt like forever, Draven ate a proper meal. Exhausted, he fell into bed, his body aching but his mind racing.
As he drifted into sleep, he couldn't shake the nagging questions. What had happened during the fight? Where had that strength come from?
And why had someone mentioned his eyes turning lilac?
He left Michael having a check at his gun. " When will I get one?" Draven asked innocently.
" Just go to sleep boy. I will tell you all about it tomorrow" Michael said softly.
Draven fell back on the bed and shut his eyes.