The crack of the whip echoed through the basement, each strike landing with a sharp precision that made even the seasoned gang members flinch. Draven's face was a canvas of sweat and fury as he delivered blow after blow. The man strapped to the chair barely resembled a person anymore, his skin mottled with bruises, his eyes glassy and lifeless. The scene reeked of iron, sweat, and despair.
Draven dropped the whip, his chest heaving. "Speak, you bastard! Where is he?"
The body before him slumped further, blood dripping from the corners of its mouth. The man's head lolled to the side, his lifeless gaze fixed on a crack in the wall.
"He's gone," muttered one of the gang members behind him, the hesitation in his voice betraying his fear of Draven in this state. "You've... killed him."
Draven's hands trembled as he stepped back, staring at the mess he had made. His knuckles were white, his vision blurred with rage and regret. All that effort, all that bloodshed, and nothing to show for it.
"Clean this up," he growled, turning on his heel and storming out of the basement, the door slamming shut behind him.
As he climbed the stairs, Draven's mind spiraled. Michael's whereabouts remained a mystery, and George's lack of concern was infuriating. It was as though Michael's disappearance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
---
The common room buzzed with chatter, the sound of dice rolling and cards shuffling filling the air. Draven ignored the noise as he slumped onto a worn-out couch, burying his face in his hands.
"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?"
Draven looked up to see a lanky man with a mop of unruly blond hair and a grin that seemed permanently plastered on his face. He was holding a plate piled high with some questionable-looking stew, balancing it precariously as he plopped down on the couch next to Draven.
"Who the hell are you?" Draven muttered, narrowing his eyes.
"Name's Felix," the man said, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his mouth. "New recruit. Thought I'd introduce myself since you look like you could use some... uh, companionship?"
Draven snorted. "I don't need anything from you."
Felix shrugged, completely unbothered. "Suit yourself. But judging by that storm cloud over your head, I'd say you've got some issues. Wanna talk about it?"
Draven glared at him. "I'm not in the mood."
"Fair enough," Felix said, leaning back. "But just so you know, I'm a great listener. And I give excellent advice. Like, life-changing advice. People say I'm practically a therapist."
Draven's lips twitched despite himself. "A therapist? In this dump?"
Felix grinned. "Hey, everyone's gotta have a side hustle. Mine just happens to be counseling murderers and thieves."
---
Later that evening, George called a meeting. The room was crowded, the gang's numbers having swelled in recent weeks. New faces filled the ranks, their eyes eager and greedy as George outlined the details of their upcoming mission. Resources had been pouring in, bolstering their strength, and the gang was on the cusp of breaking into the upper echelons of the criminal world.
But Draven's mind was elsewhere. As George droned on about tactics and strategies, Draven's gaze wandered to Felix, who was juggling a knife with unnerving skill while making faces at the others to lighten the mood.
Draven caught himself smirking before quickly wiping the expression from his face. Felix was an odd one, but there was something about his carefree demeanor that was... refreshing.
---
The mission was set for the following night, but Draven's focus was still on Michael. Felix noticed and approached him after the meeting.
"Still brooding, huh?" Felix said, leaning against the wall.
"Go away," Draven muttered.
"No can do," Felix said cheerfully. "You're my new project."
Draven raised an eyebrow. "Project?"
"Yep. I'm gonna make you smile. Or at least stop looking like someone killed your cat."
Draven rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the small chuckle that escaped him.
"See? Progress!" Felix said triumphantly.
---
As the night deepened, Draven found himself alone in his room, staring at the bloodied shirt Michael had left behind. It was the only piece of him Draven had left, a grim reminder of his absence.
The laughter from the common room filtered through the walls, a stark contrast to the chaos in Draven's mind. Despite himself, he found Felix's antics oddly comforting.
But comfort was fleeting. In a world where bloodshed and betrayal were currency, Draven knew better than to trust too easily. As he lay down to sleep, the weight of Michael's absence pressed on him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt... alone.
And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, Felix's ridiculous grin lingered, a small spark of light in the darkness.