The hideout felt colder in Michael's absence. It had been nearly a week since Draven last saw him, and the space seemed unnaturally silent without his sardonic remarks or unnerving presence. Michael's departure had been abrupt, leaving no explanation. George hadn't commented on it either, which only made the air heavier with tension.
Draven sat in the corner of the common room, nursing a deep cut on his forearm from a botched training exercise. The other gang members barely acknowledged his existence, their trust in him still tenuous. Without Michael as a buffer, he felt like an outsider again, a ghost haunting a place where he didn't belong.
But it wasn't just the loneliness gnawing at him—it was the realization of how much he had come to rely on Michael. Not just for his combat skills, but for the way he seemed to keep the world's chaos at bay. Without him, Draven felt exposed. Vulnerable.
---
"Draven, get in here," George's voice barked from the other room.
Draven set the bloodied cloth down and stood, his muscles aching from days of training and sleepless nights. When he entered George's office, the gang leader was hunched over a map spread across the desk, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
"We've got a problem," George said, his tone clipped. "One of our associates tipped us off about a shipment coming in tonight. Big haul. Drugs, weapons, cash—everything we need to cement our place in this city."
Draven nodded cautiously, unsure where this was leading.
"The problem," George continued, "is that the shipment's heavily guarded. And I mean heavily. Rival gang, mercenaries, maybe even crooked cops. We can't afford to lose this, but we're short on people."
Draven's stomach tightened. "And you want me to go?"
George looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. "You're not useless, Draven. But tonight, you're going to prove it. Michael's not here to babysit you. It's time you pull your weight."
Draven swallowed hard. "Who's coming with me?"
"A handful of the crew. But don't expect them to have your back. You're not family yet."
The words stung, but Draven forced himself to nod. "When do we leave?"
"Now."
---
The docks were shrouded in darkness, the faint glow of moonlight barely penetrating the thick fog that rolled in from the water. Draven's heart pounded in his chest as he crouched behind a stack of crates, his breath visible in the frigid air.
The plan was simple: infiltrate, secure the shipment, and eliminate any resistance. Simple didn't mean easy.
The first shots rang out before they even reached the main warehouse. The rival gang had anticipated their arrival, and chaos erupted as bullets tore through the night. Draven ducked as a spray of gunfire splintered the crate beside him, showering him with shards of wood.
"Move!" one of the gang members shouted, but Draven hesitated, his hands trembling as he gripped his pistol.
He wasn't ready for this.
The screams of the injured and dying filled the air, mingling with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood. Draven peeked around the crate, his heart sinking as he saw the carnage unfolding. Bodies littered the ground, their lifeblood pooling beneath them.
A rival gang member charged toward him, a machete gleaming in his hand. Draven raised his pistol and fired, the recoil jolting his arm. The man crumpled to the ground, his face contorted in agony.
But there were more coming. Too many.
As the gang member beside him was shot dead, Draven felt a wave of panic crash over him. He wasn't going to survive this.
---
"Draven."
The voice was faint, almost a whisper, but it cut through the chaos like a blade.
Draven froze, his vision blurring as something deep within him stirred. A darkness he had fought to suppress clawed its way to the surface, wrapping around his mind like a vice.
He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow as the voice spoke again.
"You've been hiding from me for too long."
Draven's grip on the pistol tightened, his knuckles turning white. When he opened his eyes, the world seemed sharper, more vivid. The screams were muted, the gunfire distant. All he could see were the enemies before him, their movements slow and predictable.
He moved without thinking, his body reacting on instinct. He grabbed a fallen knife and lunged at the nearest man, driving the blade deep into his throat. Blood sprayed across Draven's face, warm and sticky, but he didn't stop.
Another man came at him with a crowbar, but Draven sidestepped the attack, slashing the man's arm and kicking him to the ground. The knife found its mark again, and another life was extinguished.
The darkness within him surged, feeding on the violence. For the first time, Draven felt powerful. Invincible.
---
When the fight was over, the docks were eerily quiet. Draven stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving as he surveyed the bodies scattered around him. His clothes were soaked in blood, his hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade.
He looked down at the knife in his hand, the blade glinting in the moonlight. It felt like an extension of himself, a tool of destruction that he couldn't let go of.
"Draven."
He turned, half-expecting to see the source of the voice that had awakened the darkness within him. But there was no one there.
The surviving gang members approached, their expressions a mix of fear and awe.
"Guess you're not useless after all," one of them muttered, his voice tinged with unease.
Draven didn't respond. He felt hollow, the weight of what he had done settling over him like a shroud.
---
When they returned to the hideout, George greeted them with a grim expression.
"Good work," he said, his eyes lingering on Draven. "But we've got another problem."
Draven barely heard him, his mind still replaying the events of the night.
"There's a mole in the gang," George continued. "Someone's been feeding our enemies information. I don't know who it is yet, but trust me, I'll find out."
The room fell silent, the tension palpable.
Draven glanced around, his gaze landing on each of the gang members in turn. He didn't trust any of them, and now he had even more reason not to.
As he sat alone in his room that night, he couldn't shake the feeling that the voice he had heard wasn't done with him. And neither was the darkness he had unleashed.