Draven sat on the cold concrete floor of the basement, his head leaning back against the damp wall. The adrenaline of the ambush had long since faded, leaving behind a hollow ache in his chest. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, yet his mind refused to quiet. The images of the dead—both those he had seen and those he had caused—flashed in an endless loop behind his eyelids.
There was no solace here.
Across the room, Michael leaned against a wooden support beam, his arms crossed and his face obscured by shadow. The faint flicker of a single bulb overhead did little to dispel the darkness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. Draven had been stealing glances at him for the past hour, watching as Michael remained unnaturally still, as if carved from stone.
He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something… wrong with Michael. Something he couldn't quite put into words.
"Stop staring," Michael said suddenly, his voice breaking the oppressive silence.
Draven startled, his eyes darting away. "I wasn't—"
"You were," Michael interrupted, his tone flat but not unkind. He stepped out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. "If you've got something to say, say it."
Draven hesitated. The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he forced them out. "Who are you, really?"
Michael arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. "You already know who I am."
"No," Draven said, shaking his head. "I mean, who are you? You don't act like the others. You don't even act human sometimes."
Michael's smile didn't reach his eyes. "What makes you think I am?"
The air between them seemed to shift, growing colder, heavier. Draven's chest tightened as an unexplainable sense of dread washed over him.
"Stop playing games," Draven said, trying to sound braver than he felt. "I saw you during the ambush. The way you moved, the way you fought—it wasn't normal. You were… faster than anyone I've ever seen."
Michael chuckled softly, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Normal is overrated, don't you think?"
Draven clenched his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm serious, Michael. What are you hiding?"
For a long moment, Michael didn't respond. He simply stared at Draven, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper.
"Do you really want to know?"
Draven's breath caught in his throat. The weight of the question pressed down on him, but he couldn't back down now. "Yes," he said firmly.
Michael stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. The shadows seemed to follow him, clinging to his frame like a living thing. He stopped just short of Draven, leaning down until their faces were mere inches apart.
"Careful what you wish for," Michael murmured, his voice like a cold wind slicing through the room.
Draven's heart raced, but he refused to look away. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in Michael's eyes—something unnatural, something inhuman. But then Michael straightened, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.
"You wouldn't understand," Michael said, turning away. "And even if you did, it wouldn't change anything."
Draven wanted to argue, but his words caught in his throat. There was something in Michael's tone—something almost... mournful.
---
The following days passed in a blur. George's gang celebrated their victory over the Crimson Serpents, their spirits high with the spoils of their ambush. But for Draven, there was no joy to be found.
He threw himself into every task George assigned him, hoping to drown out the noise in his head. But no matter how hard he worked, the guilt and doubt gnawed at him. He wasn't like them—he wasn't like Michael.
One night, as he sat alone in his room, the weight of it all became too much. He pressed his hands to his face, his shoulders shaking as silent tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I don't belong here," he whispered to himself.
But the words offered no comfort. Where else could he go? He had no family, no friends, no home to return to. The world had abandoned him long before he had abandoned it.
There was no rest for him in this world.
---
Draven's unease only grew as he continued to observe Michael. The man seemed almost invincible, his strength and skill far surpassing anyone else in the gang. But it wasn't just his physical abilities that set him apart—it was the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to know things he shouldn't.
One evening, as they sat around a fire in an abandoned warehouse, Draven decided to press the issue again.
"You said I wouldn't understand," Draven said, breaking the silence. "But how can I, if you won't tell me anything?"
Michael glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Why does it matter so much to you?"
"Because I need to know if I can trust you," Draven said.
Michael's lips curled into a faint smirk. "You already do. That's what scares you, isn't it?"
Draven frowned, his jaw tightening. "Stop dodging the question."
Michael's smile faded, and for a moment, he looked… tired.
"You want to know the truth?" Michael said, his voice low. "Fine. I'm not like you, Draven. I never was."
Draven's breath hitched. "What does that mean?"
Michael leaned back, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "It means I've seen things you can't even imagine. Done things I wish I could forget. And if you're smart, you'll stop digging before you find something you can't handle."
Draven's frustration boiled over. "Why won't you just tell me?"
Michael's eyes snapped to him, the firelight casting eerie shadows across his face. "Because once you know, you can't go back."
The intensity of his words sent a chill down Draven's spine.
---
As the days turned into weeks, the tension between Draven and Michael continued to grow. Draven couldn't shake the feeling that Michael was hiding something—something important.
But he also couldn't ignore the bond that had formed between them. Despite their differences, Michael had become the closest thing Draven had to a friend in this new, brutal world.
One night, as they sat together on the roof of an old building, Michael spoke without prompting.
"You're stronger than you think, you know," Michael said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Draven looked at him, surprised. "What makes you say that?"
Michael smirked. "Because you're still here. Most people would've run by now—or worse."
Draven chuckled bitterly. "Sometimes I think running would've been the smarter choice."
Michael's expression darkened. "Trust me, there's no escape from this life. Not for people like us."
Draven frowned. "And what kind of people are we?"
Michael didn't answer.
But as Draven stared at him, he couldn't shake the feeling that Michael's silence said more than words ever could.
There was no rest for the weary—and no escape for the damned.