Draven's dreams of post-school freedom—lounging in bed till noon—were obliterated when Michael barged in at precisely 5 a.m., wearing an expression that suggested he enjoyed torturing the sleep-deprived.
"Get up. Meeting starts in fifteen minutes," Michael declared.
Draven groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. "It's 5 a.m. This isn't school. I thought gangs had flexible hours?"
Michael snorted. "This isn't a job for slackers. We're criminals, not vacationers. Now move."
Reluctantly, Draven stumbled out of bed, half-dressed and entirely annoyed. By the time he made it to the hall, everyone was seated, looking equally miserable. At least he wasn't the only one suffering.
George stood at the front, radiating his usual self-importance. He surveyed the group like a general addressing his troops. "As you all know, we're currently a third-class gang. It's our collective duty to rise above this rank. First class isn't going to achieve itself."
Draven stifled a yawn, wishing George would skip the motivational speech and get to the point.
"Draven," George continued, turning his attention to the newest recruit, "what would you like as a reward after completing your first mission?"
Without hesitation, Draven blurted, "A gun."
The room fell silent. Some members raised their eyebrows, others exchanged knowing looks. George, however, smirked like he'd just heard a promising answer.
"A gun, huh? Ambitious for a first mission," George said, his tone laced with approval. "Fine. You'll get your gun, but you'll need to earn it. Tonight, you'll retrieve something for us from Club 2000. And you'll be going alone."
Draven blinked, taken aback. "Alone?"
Before he could ask for details, Michael stood up, his face a mix of disbelief and frustration. "That's insane! He's still new. You can't send him out there alone!"
George's eyes narrowed, his voice calm but laced with authority. "Every gangster has to prove himself. If he doesn't want to go, he's free to quit now."
Draven's pride flared. "I'll do it," he said firmly, ignoring the icy glare Michael shot his way.
George clapped once, looking pleased. "That's the spirit." Then, his expression hardened as he turned back to Michael. "And one more thing—don't you ever raise your voice at me again."
Michael sank back into his chair, visibly chastened. Draven couldn't help but notice the fear in his eyes. George wasn't someone to cross lightly.
---
After the meeting, Michael cornered Draven, his earlier anger still simmering beneath the surface.
"Do you even understand what you've just agreed to?" Michael demanded.
"I'm sure I can handle it," Draven replied, trying to sound confident.
Michael scoffed. "Handle it? You're walking into one of the most dangerous places in town. You're not fighting a kitten—you're walking into a pit of wolves."
Draven hesitated. "It can't be that bad, right?"
Michael crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "If you think you'll waltz in and out without getting killed, you're delusional. The people there don't play fair. They don't care if you're new or clueless."
Draven's resolve wavered, but he refused to back down. "I'm not giving up. I'll prove myself to George."
Michael shook his head, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Fine. But don't come crying to me when you end up six feet under."
---
Left alone with his thoughts, Draven couldn't help but feel a pang of doubt. His mind replayed Michael's warnings, his father's curse, and the look on his mother's face when she had once spoken about the reality of curses.
"You may or may not receive blessings," she had said, "but curses? Those are always real. You can't escape them."
His father's final words echoed in his head: "You'll suffer, Draven. You'll die of guilt. You'll never know peace."
What if the curse was real? What if this was all a punishment he couldn't avoid?
Draven shook his head, trying to banish the thought. Dwelling on it wouldn't help. He needed to focus. This mission was his chance to prove himself, to finally belong somewhere, even if that "somewhere" was a gang led by a man who seemed to enjoy dangling danger like a carrot on a stick.
Still, the what-ifs clawed at his mind. What if Michael was right? What if he didn't survive the night?
He let out a long breath. "If death is the price, so be it," he muttered.
With renewed determination, Draven straightened his shoulders and made his way to George's quarters. Knocking on the door, he entered when George called him in.
"I'm ready," Draven announced, hoping he sounded braver than he felt.
George leaned back in his chair, a pleased smile spreading across his face. "Good. Don't disappoint me, rookie. And remember—failure isn't an option."
Draven nodded, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. As he left, the knot in his stomach tightened, but he pushed the fear aside. He had chosen this path. Now, all he could do was walk it.