Draven stood in an open field, yet it felt suffocating. The air was thick with smoke, and the ground beneath him was cracked and smoldering, veins of molten fire seeping through. The sky above was neither day nor night—it was blood-red, streaked with jagged black clouds that rumbled with distant thunder. Shadows slithered around his feet, whispering his name.
"Draven…"
It wasn't just a call; it was an accusation. The voices surrounded him, overlapping and disjointed. Some begged for mercy, others cursed his name, while a few simply laughed.
His heart raced as he stumbled forward, desperate to escape the cacophony. But no matter how far he ran, the shadows followed, growing longer, darker, hungrier.
And then he saw him.
His father.
The man stood by a crooked doorway that led to nowhere, clutching a bottle in one hand and a belt in the other. His grin was wolfish, teeth yellowed and sharp. "Look at you," his father sneered. "Still running, boy? After all these years, you still think you're better than me?"
Draven froze. His mouth felt dry, and his fists clenched. "You're dead," he muttered, his voice trembling. "I killed you."
"Oh, I know." His father chuckled, stepping closer. The bottle shattered, leaving jagged glass in his hand. "And you did a fine job of it, too. But you didn't kill me for her"—he pointed to a shadowy figure that looked like his mother, crumpled on the ground—"you killed me because it felt good. Admit it."
The shadows whispered louder, their voices now mocking laughter.
"I didn't…" Draven took a step back, shaking his head. "I didn't do it for that."
"Didn't you?" His father lunged, the broken bottle swinging toward Draven's face.
---
Draven blinked and found himself in a different place. The gang's hideout, but it was eerily quiet. Too quiet. The air smelled of copper and rot. He looked around and saw them—his comrades. Dead. Slumped over tables, sprawled across the floor, their lifeless eyes fixed on him.
George stood in the corner, a cigar in his mouth, clapping slowly. "Bravo, Draven. You've outdone yourself. Got the whole gang killed. What's next? A trophy?"
"I didn't…" Draven tried to speak, but his voice was lost.
"Oh, save it." George's smile was cruel. "We all knew you were a liability. Should've put you down when we had the chance."
The corpses began to rise, their hands reaching for him. "You did this," they whispered. "You killed us."
---
He blinked again.
Now he was standing in front of a mirror, but the reflection wasn't his. It was Michael. His smirk was as sharp as ever, his eyes gleaming with a knowing cruelty.
"You're pathetic," the reflection sneered. "You don't belong here, and you never will. Admit it, Draven. You're a coward. A fraud. You're just a scared little boy pretending to be a killer."
"I'm not!" Draven screamed, smashing the mirror with his fist. But instead of shattering, the glass rippled like water, swallowing his hand.
Michael's voice echoed, cruel and amused. "Keep lying to yourself, Draven. See where it gets you."
---
He was back in the field, standing over an open grave. The tombstone bore his name, but the date of death was smudged, unreadable.
"Go on," a voice whispered behind him.
He turned and saw Felix, grinning and holding a wilted bouquet of flowers. His face was pale, gaunt, and unnaturally stretched, like a caricature of himself.
"Don't keep us waiting, Draven," Felix said, gesturing to the grave. "It's cozy down there. Perfect for someone like you."
Draven's fists clenched. "Get out of my head!"
Felix's grin widened. "Oh, but we're not in your head, Draven. We're in your soul. And, let me tell you, it's a mess."
He began laughing—a shrill, maddening sound that echoed endlessly.
---
Draven woke with a jolt, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a war drum. The room was dark, the only sound his own ragged breathing.
He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair. "It's just a dream," he muttered, trying to convince himself. "Just a goddamn dream."
But as he looked down, he noticed his hands were trembling, blood staining his palms. He blinked, and the blood was gone.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "I'm losing it," he said to the empty room. "But maybe I deserve to."
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim him again.
He knew it wouldn't.