The silence of the dark alley was shattered by the sudden snap of a safety being switched off. Draven's cold eyes bore into Felix, his hand steady as the barrel of his gun pressed against the younger man's temple.
"I warned you," Draven growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake Felix to his core. "I have no need for your companionship. The dogs in the streets need therapy too—maybe you should focus on them."
Felix gulped but tried to muster a grin. "Come on, Draven. You don't scare me—"
The click of the hammer being cocked silenced him. The grin faltered.
"Try me."
After a long, tense moment, Draven pulled the gun back and holstered it, turning away with an air of finality. Felix stood frozen, his usual persistence extinguished.
The gang's convoy had been smooth so far—almost too smooth. Draven and the others were tasked with intercepting a shipment of weapons from a lesser-known rival gang. The plan had gone off without a hitch. George, watching from a distance, looked smugly pleased, though Draven's instincts buzzed with unease.
As they secured the last crate, the temperature seemed to drop. A cold sweat trickled down Draven's spine, and his grip on his gun tightened.
That was when he saw him.
A man—or at least something resembling one—stepped out from the shadows, his towering frame bathed in the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp. His face was a mask of scars, his eyes a void of emotion. But it was his aura that sent a chill through Draven. The air seemed heavier, darker, as if the night itself recoiled from this figure.
"Who the hell is that?" Owen whispered, his voice trembling.
The man didn't speak. He simply stepped forward, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Draven's skin prickled with goosebumps, but his instincts told him something more horrifying: he knew this presence. Somewhere deep in his buried memories, he had felt this same suffocating terror.
Before anyone could react, the figure lunged.
Chaos erupted. The rival gang members, initially cowering, joined the fight, but the creature moved like a storm through them. Bullets seemed to graze him but left no visible damage. Draven's heart raced as he fired shot after shot, each one feeling more futile than the last.
At one point, the figure's head snapped toward Draven, locking eyes with him. For a fleeting moment, Draven thought he saw recognition—or mockery—in the man's hollow gaze. It made his stomach churn.
In a desperate move, Draven grabbed a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and hurled it at the figure. The explosion rocked the alleyway, scattering debris and bodies. When the smoke cleared, the figure was gone.
The mission was declared a success, but Draven's mind was far from victory. As they returned to the hideout, his thoughts were consumed by the creature. How had it survived that onslaught? Why did it feel so familiar?
When they arrived, Draven stormed into George's office, slamming his fist on the table.
"You knew," Draven accused. "You knew there was something out there, didn't you?"
George's calm demeanor didn't waver. "You're imagining things, Draven. We got the shipment. That's all that matters."
"You expect me to believe that was just some rival thug?" Draven snarled. "I don't know what you're hiding, but I'm not your puppet."
George leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "Careful, Draven. You're valuable, but not irreplaceable. Don't make this personal."
Draven left the room, his blood boiling.
Meanwhile, Felix found a new distraction. Owen, with his easy-going nature and sharp wit, had taken to the younger man almost immediately. The two were soon inseparable, sharing laughs and swapping stories over drinks.
For Felix, it was a welcome change. For Draven, it was relief. He didn't need the boy shadowing him any longer.
But as Draven sat alone in the dim light of his room, replaying the encounter with the creature over and over in his mind, he realized something chilling.
There would be no peace for him. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't done with him.