The clash of steel against steel resounded through the night. Draven's blade met his opponent's with a force that sent sparks flying, the impact jarring his arm to the bone. His breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Around him, chaos reigned. The mission had spiraled into a battlefield, and the streets ran red with blood.
Draven ducked under a wild swing, his reflexes sharpened by desperation. He plunged his knife into the man's side, feeling the blade sink deep before yanking it free. The man fell with a guttural cry, and Draven spun around, searching for his next target.
"Behind you!"
Felix's voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. Draven turned just in time to block another blow, the force of it nearly knocking him off balance. He drove his elbow into the attacker's face, the crunch of bone satisfying in its brutality.
As the last of the enemies fell, Draven straightened, wiping blood from his face. His gaze found Felix, who was leaning against a wall, grinning despite the gash on his forehead.
"Not bad, huh?" Felix said, gesturing to the carnage around them.
Draven said nothing, sheathing his blade. He began walking away, his footsteps heavy against the cobblestones. Felix jogged to catch up, his easy smile faltering at the coldness in Draven's expression.
"You know," Felix began, "we make a pretty good team. If you'd just—"
"Stop," Draven snapped, his tone cutting.
Felix blinked, taken aback. "What?"
Draven turned to face him, his eyes cold and unyielding. "I don't need your companionship, Felix. The dogs in the streets need some therapy too—why don't you try them?"
Felix's grin vanished, replaced by a look of hurt he quickly masked with a forced laugh. "Wow. You've got a way with words, don't you?"
Draven's jaw tightened. "Go bother someone else. I'm not interested."
Felix stared at him for a moment, his usual cheer dimmed. Then he shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. "Sure thing, boss. Enjoy your solitude."
---
Back at the hideout, Draven retreated to his room. He leaned against the door, his head resting against the wood as the weight of the night settled on him.
The scene in the alley replayed in his mind—the blood, the screams, the lifeless bodies piling up. This was his life now, a constant cycle of violence and death. And yet, in the midst of the chaos, Felix's voice had been there, a strange beacon of camaraderie that Draven had crushed without hesitation.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, his hands trembling as he stared at them. They were stained red, the blood seeping into the cracks of his skin. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the stains never seemed to fade.
Draven's mind drifted to Michael, to the days when he had someone who understood his darkness without trying to fix it. Michael's absence was a gaping void, one that Felix's antics could never fill.
But why did he feel guilty? Why did Felix's disappointed eyes linger in his thoughts?
He clenched his fists, the sharp pain grounding him. Felix didn't understand. No one did. And it was better that way.
---
Felix, meanwhile, sat in the common room, nursing his injuries with a bottle of cheap whiskey. The other gang members avoided him, wary of his unpredictable moods. He took a swig, wincing as the alcohol burned his throat.
"He's a real charmer, isn't he?" Felix muttered to no one in particular, his tone bitter.
One of the newer recruits, a wiry young man named Owen, hesitated before sitting beside him. "Draven's... complicated," Owen said cautiously.
Felix snorted. "That's one word for it."
"Give him time," Owen said. "He's been through a lot."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "Haven't we all?"
Owen didn't respond, and the two lapsed into silence, the weight of their lives pressing down on them.
---
In the dead of night, Draven found himself unable to sleep. He wandered the hideout, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. He paused outside the common room, hearing Felix's voice, low and slurred.
"...just trying to help. Guess that's a crime these days."
Draven's chest tightened, an unfamiliar pang of regret stabbing through him. He didn't enter the room. Instead, he turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long and thin in the dim light.
He had no right to feel guilty. Not after all the blood he'd spilled, the lives he'd ruined. Companionship was a luxury he couldn't afford.
But as he lay awake in the darkness, the memory of Felix's wounded expression refused to leave him. And for the first time in a long while, Draven wondered if he was truly as untouchable as he wanted to believe.