Draven sat at a dimly lit corner in Club 2000, his eyes locked onto his target. The man was ordinary in every way except for the briefcase he clutched as if it contained the cure for all humanity's woes. George's instructions had been crystal clear: retrieve the briefcase, no questions asked.
The man checked his watch repeatedly, his impatience palpable. Draven smirked. "Big client running late?" he muttered under his breath. The man, evidently frustrated, finally rose from his seat, clutching the briefcase like it was his child.
When the man headed for the restroom, Draven knew this was his moment. Slipping from his seat, he followed with the casual air of someone simply in need of the facilities.
Inside, the man stood at the sink, washing his hands. The sound of running water masked Draven's approach until the man glanced up at the mirror and froze. Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment before the man's hand darted to his waistband.
"Not today," Draven hissed, lunging forward with the agility of a predator.
He grabbed the man's head and slammed it against the sink. Once. Twice. By the third strike, the man slumped unconscious, sliding to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Draven caught the briefcase just before it hit the ground and exhaled sharply.
"Easy enough," he murmured, unaware of the security camera discreetly recording every moment.
Draven exited through the back as George had instructed, navigating the labyrinthine layout of the club's back corridors. But his relief was short-lived. The cold night air greeted him along with the sight of several burly bouncers, their gazes locked onto the briefcase.
"Well, this escalated quickly," he muttered before bolting.
The bouncers gave chase, their heavy footsteps thundering behind him. Draven zigzagged through the alleyways, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He rounded a corner, only to collide with a wall of muscle.
"Watch where you're—" The man didn't finish his sentence. Draven headbutted him with all his might, sending him reeling backward, clutching his now-bloodied nose.
But there was no time to celebrate. The bouncers had caught up, encircling him like vultures around carrion.
"Hand over the briefcase," one of them barked.
"Over my dead body," Draven snarled, clutching the briefcase tighter.
"That can be arranged."
Before Draven could react, a kick to his stomach sent him sprawling to the ground. The briefcase flew out of his hands but landed close enough for him to grab. He curled around it protectively as the men laid into him with brutal kicks.
Through the haze of pain, a deep, commanding voice rang out.
"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"
The bouncers turned toward the source of the voice, momentarily distracted. Draven squinted through swollen eyes and saw a masked figure standing at the mouth of the alley.
"Get him!" one of the bouncers roared.
The masked man moved like a shadow, fluid and lethal. The first bouncer's punch was effortlessly dodged, and a counterstrike landed squarely in his throat. A liver punch followed, and the man crumpled to the ground.
Two more charged, but the masked man dispatched them with brutal efficiency. A dagger appeared in his hand, gleaming under the streetlight, before it sliced through one man's throat. The last bouncer hesitated, clearly rethinking his life choices, but the masked man didn't give him a chance to retreat. A series of rapid strikes left him groaning on the ground.
Draven tried to crawl away amidst the chaos, but his body protested every movement. Suddenly, the masked man was towering over him.
"Give me the briefcase," he demanded.
Draven clutched it tighter. "Not a chance."
The masked man sighed. "You really are an idiot."
Before Draven could respond, a kick to his chest sent him flying backward. The briefcase tumbled from his grasp, landing a few feet away.
The man removed his mask, revealing a face that made Draven's jaw drop.
"Michael?!"
Michael smirked, though there was no humor in his eyes. "Surprised?"
Draven scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. "You—you followed me?"
"I warned you," Michael said, his tone dark. "This isn't a game, Draven. You don't belong here."
"I'm not a kid!" Draven shot back, fists clenched.
Michael's expression softened briefly, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. "You're right. You're not a kid. But you're not a monster either. Not yet. And if you keep this up, you'll wish you were dead before you become one."
Draven hesitated. "You're not much older than me, Michael. Don't act like you're so wise."
Michael let out a bitter laugh. "I'm nineteen. And the sins I've committed would make even the devil flinch. If I could go back and undo everything, I would. But I can't. And I won't let you follow the same path."
"Then why are you here? Why did you help me?" Draven asked, his voice trembling.
Michael stared at him for a long moment before speaking. "Because despite everything, I still think there's hope for you. Now go home, Draven. While you still have one."
With that, Michael picked up the briefcase and walked away, leaving Draven alone in the dark alley, bloodied, bruised, and more conflicted than ever.