Draven sat in the corner of the dimly lit basement, staring at his trembling hands. They still felt heavy with the memory of the gun he had dropped earlier. He thought he had steeled himself, but every moment spent with Michael and George's gang reminded him just how hollow his resolve was. The weight of belonging to something felt suffocating, yet the fear of being cast out clawed at him with equal intensity.
Across the room, Michael leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable. He had been silent since returning from the failed mission. Draven had expected more mockery or at least some cold remarks, but Michael's silence was unnerving.
"You didn't have to kill him," Draven said finally, his voice cracking.
Michael's gaze shifted to him, his sharp eyes catching the faint light. "Spare me the lecture, boy. You think sparing him would've changed anything? Do you know what kind of monsters we deal with every day?"
Draven flinched but didn't back down. "I just think he deserved—"
"Deserved?" Michael interrupted with a bitter laugh. "You think this is about what people deserve? The streets don't care about your morals. That man would've slit your throat the moment you turned your back."
Draven felt anger rising in his chest. "That doesn't mean we have to be like them! If we're no better than they are, then what's the point of all this?"
Michael's jaw tightened, and for a moment, Draven thought he might lash out. Instead, Michael exhaled slowly and pushed himself off the wall. He walked over and sat across from Draven, his tone softer now but no less cutting.
"You think this life is about points or justice? You think any of this is a choice for me?" Michael's eyes burned with something Draven couldn't quite place—anger, pain, or perhaps a mix of both. "You don't know a damn thing about what it means to survive."
The words hit harder than Draven cared to admit.
"I didn't ask to be here," Draven muttered, his voice barely audible.
Michael leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Neither did I."
The tension between them was palpable, but before either could say more, George's heavy footsteps echoed through the basement. He looked furious, but his anger wasn't directed at Michael or Draven for once.
"We've got a situation," George announced, his tone brisk. "The Crimson Serpents are moving in on our turf. They've already hit two of our warehouses. If we don't strike back, we're finished."
Michael stood, his expression darkening. "What's the plan?"
George hesitated, his eyes flicking to Draven. "The plan doesn't involve liabilities."
Draven's fists clenched, shame and frustration bubbling to the surface. Before he could protest, Michael spoke.
"He's coming."
George's eyes narrowed. "Michael, he's not ready—"
"He'll never be ready if you keep coddling him," Michael snapped. "Let him prove himself."
George looked like he wanted to argue, but after a tense moment, he nodded. "Fine. But if he screws this up, it's on you."
Draven didn't know whether to feel grateful or resentful. He wanted to prove himself, but Michael's unwavering confidence in him felt like a double-edged sword.
The gang's plan was simple but dangerous. They would ambush a Crimson Serpents' convoy transporting stolen goods. It was a high-risk move, but success would cripple their rivals and send a clear message.
Draven found himself in the passenger seat of a battered van, his nerves frayed as Michael drove with an unsettling calm.
"You're scared," Michael said without looking at him.
"Is it that obvious?" Draven muttered.
Michael smirked. "Good. Fear keeps you alive."
Draven didn't respond, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. He glanced at Michael, who seemed completely unfazed, almost bored.
"How do you do it?" Draven asked.
"Do what?"
"Stay so calm. You act like none of this bothers you."
Michael's grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. "Maybe it doesn't."
Draven didn't believe him, but he didn't press further.
---
The convoy rolled into view just as the gang had anticipated. Draven's heart pounded as Michael gave the signal. The van screeched to a halt, blocking the road, and chaos erupted.
Gunfire filled the air, and Draven found himself ducking behind the van for cover. He could see Michael moving with inhuman speed and precision, taking down enemy after enemy with an almost eerie efficiency.
Draven tried to focus, but the violence was overwhelming. He saw one of the Serpents charging at him and froze. Before he could react, Michael appeared out of nowhere, taking the man down with a swift, brutal motion.
"Pay attention, boy!" Michael barked.
Draven nodded, his hands shaking as he gripped his weapon tighter.
The fight was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The gang had succeeded, but the victory felt hollow to Draven. He couldn't shake the images of the bloodshed, the lifeless bodies strewn across the road.
---
Back at the basement, George was ecstatic, praising Michael and the team for their success. Draven, however, couldn't share in the celebration.
"You did well," Michael said, approaching him.
Draven looked at him, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Did I? I didn't even do anything. You saved me—again."
Michael shrugged. "You didn't run. That's something."
Draven shook his head. "I don't think I can do this, Michael. I'm not like you."
Michael's expression darkened. "You think I enjoy this? You think I want to spend my life killing and running?"
Draven was taken aback by the intensity of Michael's words.
"Then why do you do it?" Draven asked.
Michael hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Because I don't have a choice. And soon, neither will you."
Draven didn't know what to make of that. He wanted to ask more, but Michael walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
For the first time, Draven began to wonder if Michael's calm and confidence were a mask hiding something far darker.
---
The chapter ends with Draven sitting alone, staring at his hands once more, the blood he didn't shed weighing just as heavily as the blood he saw spilled.