The silence between Draven and Michael stretched for a moment too long, the tension palpable. Then, Draven broke it, blurting out words that landed like a grenade.
"I am not a saint either. I killed my own father."
Michael stared at him, stunned. Michael, however, seemed unfazed by his own admission, spinning the revelation out as casually as one might mention the weather.
But then, Michael's expression hardened, and his eyes burned with contempt. "Don't you go joking around with such matters," he snapped. "Some of us never even got to meet our parents, and here you are, feeling proud about killing your own blood?"
Draven opened his mouth to protest but quickly realized Michael had misunderstood him.
"It's not what you think," he began, his voice steady but edged with guilt. "I didn't mean to kill him... It wasn't intentional."
Michael scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Save it. Intent doesn't change the result, kid."
Draven sighed, deciding to recount the truth—about the abuse, the broken family, the night that ended in tragedy. By the time he finished, Michael's hardened expression softened just slightly.
"Do you ever miss your dad?" Michael asked, his tone unusually subdued.
Draven hesitated, then replied, "I think about him sometimes. But missing him? Never."
Michael chuckled softly, a sound that was almost sympathetic. "Figures. From what you just told me, it wasn't murder. It was survival."
Draven wasn't sure how to respond to that.
But Michael, ever the master of deflection, quickly returned to his usual sarcastic self. "Not enough to qualify as my partner, though," he said with a smirk.
Draven clenched his fists, feeling a mixture of frustration and admiration. He'd seen Michael fight, and he knew he was leagues ahead of him in skill. Draven wanted that kind of power, that confidence. He was tired of being the one who always had to run.
"Please," Draven said, his voice firm. "Give me a chance to prove myself. I won't disappoint you."
Michael raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Today, you proved how much of a fool you are. To survive in this world, you need to know when to fight and when to run."
Draven nodded reluctantly, knowing Michael was right. He'd risked everything on a failed mission and barely escaped with his life.
Michael's gaze bore into him. "The weak boy I saw today can't be the same one who reduced Wade to that condition."
Draven's shoulders slumped. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I only beat Wade by chance... I've never been a skilled fighter."
Michael shook his head. "There's no such thing as chance in this life. Every move is calculated. Every outcome, deliberate. If you think otherwise, you're in the wrong line of work."
Despite Michael's scorn, Draven couldn't shake the feeling that he could be more—that he could achieve something, even if it meant enduring Michael's brutal mentorship.
"Are you willing to assassinate someone when needed?" Michael asked abruptly, his tone cutting through Draven's thoughts.
Draven didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Michael smirked, as if he'd been expecting that answer. Without another word, he disappeared into the shadows, only to return moments later dragging a struggling man by the collar.
Draven's stomach sank as he recognized the man—one of the thugs he'd attacked at the club earlier.
Michael forced the man to his knees and pulled a gun from his coat, pressing it into Draven's hands.
"Blast his brains out," Michael ordered. "Prove yourself."
Draven's hands trembled as he gripped the gun. He'd never held one before, and the weight of it felt unnatural, wrong.
He pointed it at the man's head, his finger hovering over the trigger. His breathing quickened, and images flooded his mind—blood, lifeless bodies, the echo of a gunshot.
Draven closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger.
The gun slipped from his hands, clattering to the ground.
Michael let out a harsh laugh. "Aren't you the same person who was crying for a gun this morning? Do you take it for a toy or something?"
Draven's face burned with shame, but he didn't look away.
"This isn't Robin Hood, kid," Michael said coldly. "We don't play games here. You hesitated for hours over a single decision. In real life, hesitation gets you killed."
Draven bit his lip, unsure of what to say.
"I promise I won't let you down again," he said finally.
Michael sneered. "The world would've stopped rotating if it relied on promises like yours."
With a sigh, Michael grabbed the hostage by the chin and tilted his head back, inspecting him like a butcher evaluating meat.
"Do you still have that dagger?" Michael asked.
Draven handed it over reluctantly. Michael ran his thumb along the blade, testing its sharpness. "Perfect," he muttered.
"Are you going to kill him?" Draven asked hesitantly.
Michael shot him a withering look. "What do you think?"
Draven didn't know how to answer. He didn't want to order Michael not to kill the man, but he couldn't stomach the thought of watching another death.
"You know what they would've done to you if they'd caught you?" Michael said calmly. "Your fate would've been worse than his."
Draven swallowed hard. "I think... you should spare him."
Michael raised an eyebrow, then let out a low chuckle. "You hear that, lucky soul? The boy wants you alive."
He turned back to the hostage, who looked utterly relieved.
" You should probably thank your lucky stars"
Draven saw a relief in the eyes of the hostage. He could not believe that Michael had chosen to listen to him.