Draven blinked, convinced for a moment that his vision had betrayed him. The blood trickling down the man's throat was surreal, almost artistic in the way it glistened under the faint moonlight. A cruel slice, deliberate and efficient. He hadn't even noticed Michael's hand move.
Michael stood there, smiling with what could only be described as smug satisfaction, like a chef admiring a perfectly executed dish. The poor man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his neck as the life drained out of him. Draven could only watch, anger bubbling under his skin.
"Really, Michael?" Draven growled, his voice laced with disgust. "Was that necessary?"
Michael tilted his head, his expression one of innocent curiosity. "What? I didn't do anything wrong." He gestured to the lifeless body. "He was going to betray us. I just... expedited the inevitable."
"You gave him hope," Draven spat. "You made him think he'd live, then did that. There's no worse death than dying with broken hope, you heartless bastard!"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Heartless? I think you're confusing me with someone who cares. I'm practical, Draven. Efficient. But sure, call me names if it makes you feel better."
"You're a ruthless demon," Draven yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
Michael smirked. "Why, thank you. I am, quite literally and metaphorically."
Draven stepped closer, his fists clenched. "You're not even a demon. You're just—" He paused, searching for the right insult, "—an arrogant prick who thinks he's untouchable."
Michael's smile widened. "Untouchable? I like that. Thanks for the compliment."
Draven's anger flared, but he held back. Not because he wanted to but because Michael's reputation for breaking bones with little effort was well-earned. And Draven's body was still recovering from his last misadventure with him. He could practically hear his ribs pleading, Not again, please.
Michael took a step closer, his tone dropping to a mock whisper. "But at least I don't kill my family members. Unlike some people I know."
The jab landed like a slap. Draven stiffened, the words cutting deeper than Michael probably realized—or maybe exactly as deep as he intended. Michael shrugged and turned away, his departure so casual it was infuriating.
"Coward," Draven muttered under his breath.
Michael paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Draven said quickly.
"That's what I thought," Michael said, walking away with a laugh that echoed like nails on a chalkboard.
For a brief moment, Draven considered leaving. Michael was right—he wasn't cut out for this. Killing wasn't just about ending lives; it was about embracing a darkness Draven wasn't sure he had in him. The only time he'd killed was an accident, a mistake that haunted him every waking moment.
But where would he go? He had no home. No family. Brandon would rather wrestle a bear than take him back. Proving himself to George and the team was his only option.
Draven clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. If he could take his father's life—if he could survive that nightmare—then he could survive this.
"You're right," he said aloud, surprising even himself.
Michael, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, did you just say I'm right? Quick, someone write this down."
Draven smirked, his voice steady. "But I'm not going anywhere until I've taken double the lives you have."
The humor drained from Michael's face. He stared at Draven, his eyes narrowing. "You're insane."
"Maybe," Draven said, shrugging. "But at least I'm committed."
Michael laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "You think this life is fun? If only you knew how much I hate it. How much I'd give to walk away."
"Then why don't you?" Draven shot back.
Michael's expression darkened. "Because some of us don't get a choice."
The weight of his words lingered in the air as Michael turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows. Draven felt a pang of guilt but shoved it aside.
When they reached the basement, George was waiting, his arms crossed and his face a thundercloud of displeasure. Michael handed him the briefcase without a word.
"I told you not to interfere," George barked, his voice reverberating off the cold, damp walls. "How dare you disobey my orders?"
Michael didn't respond. He simply walked past George, his indifference a statement in itself.
George turned his frustration to Draven, his glare cutting through the air like a knife. "And you," he said, his voice icy. "You've failed. Do you know what this means?"
Draven swallowed hard, shaking his head.
"It means you're a liability," George said. "We don't need weaklings. If you can't keep up, you don't belong here."
Draven felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He had failed, but he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
"I'll prove myself," Draven said, his voice firm. "This isn't over."
George studied him for a moment, then turned away with a dismissive wave. "We'll see."
As George left, Draven stood alone, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. He knew this path would break him. But if he was already broken, what did he have to lose?