The morning came with a biting chill, the kind that burrowed into Draven's bones. The makeshift headquarters was quieter than usual, save for the occasional murmurs among the gang. Tension crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Michael was still gone, and with each passing day, his absence gnawed at Draven like an old wound. He hated to admit it, but he had grown used to the man's unpredictable presence. Without Michael, the void left behind felt unbearable—like a missing limb he didn't realize he relied on until it was gone.
"Any news of him?" Draven asked George, who stood leaning against the wall, inspecting a map spread across the table.
George didn't look up. "None. He'll turn up when he's ready. Michael always does."
That didn't satisfy Draven. Something about Michael's disappearance didn't sit right. The man was enigmatic, sure, but he wasn't careless.
Before Draven could press further, George jabbed a finger at the map. "We've got work, and it won't wait for Michael."
The job was simple in theory but treacherous in execution: a high-value raid on a convoy rumored to be carrying contraband worth millions. It was heavily guarded, and failure meant death—or worse.
"You're leading this one, Draven," George said.
Draven froze. "Me?"
"You've proven yourself capable. Unless you'd like to forfeit the chance to someone else." George's tone was laced with challenge, daring Draven to refuse.
Draven swallowed his doubts. "I'll do it."
---
As dusk fell, the gang assembled, armed and restless. Draven felt their eyes on him, judgment simmering beneath their smirks and sidelong glances. He ignored it.
The plan was laid out: intercept the convoy on a secluded stretch of road, neutralize the guards, and secure the cargo. Simple, yet the weight of leadership made Draven's shoulders feel heavy.
The drive to the ambush site was suffocating, the silence in the vehicle thick with unspoken doubts. Draven gripped the edge of his seat, replaying the plan in his head. Without Michael's reassuring presence, every decision felt like a potential misstep.
When they arrived, the night greeted them with an eerie stillness. The convoy was late. Draven's pulse quickened as unease crept in.
"Something's not right," one of the gang members muttered.
Draven scanned the darkness, his hand hovering near his weapon. And then he heard it—a faint hum in the distance, growing louder. Headlights pierced the black, illuminating the road ahead.
"Positions!" Draven ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos brewing inside him.
The convoy rolled into view, a sleek armored vehicle flanked by two smaller SUVs. Draven's crew sprang into action, blocking the road with their van. The guards wasted no time, stepping out with guns drawn.
Draven's breath hitched as gunfire erupted, shattering the night. He ducked behind cover, adrenaline surging. Bullets ricocheted off the van, the metallic clangs echoing in his ears.
One of his men screamed as a guard's bullet found its mark. Blood sprayed across the pavement, glistening under the headlights.
Draven felt something stir within him—an old, dark instinct clawing its way to the surface. He tried to suppress it, but as the chaos unfolded, it became clear he had no choice. Survival demanded it.
He emerged from cover, his eyes cold and calculating. Grabbing a discarded dagger, he moved with a precision that felt foreign, almost unnatural. Within seconds, he was upon the nearest guard, slashing his throat in a single, fluid motion.
The man's gurgling cries were drowned out by the roar of gunfire. Draven didn't flinch as blood splattered across his face. He moved to the next target, his movements swift and efficient.
The crew watched in stunned silence as Draven carved through the guards like a predator among prey. Even George, who had stayed back to monitor the operation, seemed momentarily taken aback.
By the time the convoy was secured, the road was littered with bodies. Blood pooled beneath the fallen guards, staining the asphalt.
Draven stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. The dagger slipped from his trembling hand, clattering to the ground.
"You all right?" one of the crew asked hesitantly.
Draven didn't answer. He stared at his hands, slick with blood, and felt a sickening mix of pride and revulsion.
---
Back at the hideout, George inspected the loot with a rare grin. "Good work, Draven. Better than I expected."
The others muttered their agreement, though their gazes lingered on Draven with a mix of fear and respect.
Draven didn't share their enthusiasm. The weight of what he had done pressed down on him like a shroud. He retreated to his room, desperate for solitude.
As he sat on the edge of his bed, the memories of the ambush replayed in his mind. He tried to justify his actions—it was kill or be killed—but the hollow ache in his chest wouldn't subside.
A knock at the door startled him. George stepped in, his expression unreadable.
"There's something you should know," George said.
Draven looked up, his eyes weary. "What now?"
"We've got a mole. Someone's been feeding information to our rivals."
Draven frowned. "Who?"
George shook his head. "No idea. But it's someone close. I can feel it."
The news sent a chill down Draven's spine. The thought of betrayal within their ranks added another layer of uncertainty to his already fragile existence.
As George left, Draven leaned back against the wall, his mind racing. Michael's absence, the ambush, the mole—everything felt like pieces of a puzzle he couldn't solve.
Sleep eluded him that night. Shadows danced across the walls, whispering secrets he couldn't understand. And as dawn broke, Draven realized something with chilling clarity: there was no escape from the darkness he had stepped into.