The hideout was suffocatingly quiet, its dim light casting grotesque shadows on the walls. The air reeked of damp wood, stale sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood—a scent that had grown far too familiar to Draven. The gang had grown considerably in both numbers and resources, bolstered by their recent successes. Yet, the tension within their ranks was palpable, as rumors of a mole continued to linger like a disease.
Draven sat in the corner of the room, his jaw tight, his thoughts spiraling into chaos. The mission had been bloody, brutal, and almost catastrophic. But what haunted him wasn't the violence; it was the sight of the man they'd captured. He was ordinary, unremarkable, save for one detail—a tattered leather bracelet hanging from his wrist.
Draven recognized it instantly. It was Michael's.
The realization had ignited something in Draven, something primal and uncontrollable. He'd nearly killed the man on the spot, his hands trembling with rage, but he held back. He needed answers. Michael had been missing for days, and the sight of the bracelet clawed at Draven's mind like a vulture picking apart a corpse.
Now, the man sat tied to a chair in the hideout's basement, his head slumped forward, blood already dripping from his split lip. George and the others had given Draven free rein—an unusual show of trust—and left him alone to extract information.
Draven leaned in close, his voice a low growl. "Where did you get that bracelet?"
The man groaned, barely conscious.
Draven's patience snapped. He grabbed the man by the hair, yanking his head back. "Answer me!"
"I...I found it…" the man rasped, his voice cracking.
"Liar." Draven's voice was ice. He drew a dagger from his belt, the blade catching the dim light as he pressed it against the man's cheek. The steel was cold, a cruel promise of what was to come.
"I swear! It was just lying there—"
The blade sliced through the man's skin, leaving a thin red line in its wake. His scream echoed off the stone walls, but Draven didn't flinch.
"That's the wrong answer," Draven said, his tone eerily calm.
He grabbed a pair of pliers from a nearby table, their rusted metal glinting ominously. Without hesitation, he clamped them around one of the man's fingernails and began to pull.
The man thrashed against his restraints, his screams turning into guttural cries of agony. Blood poured from the torn nail bed, pooling on the floor in thick, dark droplets.
"Let's try this again," Draven said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Where. Did. You. Get. It?"
The man sobbed, his breath hitching as pain overwhelmed him. "I...I took it off a body...I swear! I didn't know who it belonged to!"
"A body?" Draven's grip tightened on the pliers. His mind raced, images of Michael's lifeless form flashing before his eyes. No, it couldn't be. Michael was too strong, too calculating. But doubt began to creep in, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
"Whose body?" Draven demanded, his voice rising.
"I don't know! I didn't see his face—it was dark, I just grabbed what I could!"
Draven slammed the pliers onto the table, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed more.
He reached for a blowtorch, its flame hissing to life with a menacing blue glow. The man's eyes widened in terror as Draven brought the flame closer to his exposed arm.
"Please...please don't…" the man begged, his voice barely audible over his own sobs.
"Then tell me what I need to know," Draven said, his tone cold and unyielding.
The flame kissed the man's skin, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. His screams were inhuman, a raw, animalistic sound that reverberated deep in Draven's bones.
Draven stepped back, his hands shaking. The sight before him was horrifying—the man's arm was charred, the skin blistered and peeling. Blood and sweat mixed in grotesque rivulets, dripping onto the already stained floor.
But it wasn't enough. Draven needed the truth.
He grabbed a bucket of salt water, splashing it over the man's burns. The resulting screams were deafening, and Draven felt a sick sense of satisfaction. He was no stranger to pain, but inflicting it was a new, terrifying power.
"Talk," Draven ordered, his voice low and dangerous.
The man's head lolled to the side, his eyes glassy with pain. "I...I sold it...to someone...a man in the southern docks...he...he said he was looking for someone…"
Draven's mind snapped to attention. A man at the docks. Someone looking for Michael. The pieces didn't fit, but they hinted at something larger, something darker.
He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper. "What did he look like?"
"I...I don't remember…"
Draven's fist connected with the man's jaw, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the room. "You better start remembering, or I'll make sure you never forget this night."
The man sobbed, broken and bleeding. "He...he had a scar...across his left eye...dark coat...that's all I know, I swear…"
Draven stepped back, his chest heaving. He dropped the blowtorch, the flame sputtering out as it hit the ground. The room fell silent, save for the man's ragged breathing and the drip of blood onto the stone floor.
He felt sick. Not from the gore or the screams, but from the realization that he'd crossed a line he never thought he'd approach. He'd unleashed something dark within himself, something he wasn't sure he could contain.
But there was no turning back now.
Draven wiped the blood from his hands and turned to leave, his mind racing with questions. Who was the man at the docks? Why was he looking for Michael? And, most importantly, where was Michael now?
As he ascended the stairs, leaving the broken man behind, Draven couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking deeper into a shadowy labyrinth, one that promised only darkness and despair.
The gang was on the verge of ultimate power, but Draven knew that power came with a price. And he was beginning to wonder if it was a price he was willing to pay