Draven dove behind a crate, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets that shredded the air around him. This was supposed to be an easy mission, he thought bitterly, unsheathing his knife as the sound of footsteps approached. He shot to his feet, slashing the first enemy across the throat before pivoting to drive the blade into another's chest.
"Easy, they said," he muttered, kicking the second man aside. "In and out, they said."
The basement was a maze of chaos. Shouts echoed off the stone walls, and the metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils. It was supposed to be reconnaissance—grab some files, maybe steal a weapon blueprint, and get out. But now, it was a massacre, and Draven was the main attraction.
He pressed himself against the wall, catching his breath, when his eyes landed on something odd—a small desk tucked into a corner of the room. Amidst the carnage and grime, it seemed out of place, almost pristine. Drawn by curiosity, Draven crept toward it, his instincts screaming at him to focus on survival.
On the desk sat a silver frame, its glass cracked but still holding together. Inside was a photograph. His breath caught as he stared at the image. A woman, radiant and captivating, smiled softly at the camera. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, and her eyes seemed to pull him in.
Draven blinked, shaking his head. What the hell are you doing, man?
But something about her struck a chord deep within him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He found himself reaching out to touch the photo when—
"Gotcha!"
A fist slammed into his side, and he doubled over, the frame clattering to the floor. He tried to recover, but a second blow to his temple sent him spiraling into darkness.
---
When Draven came to, his head throbbed like someone had set up a blacksmith's forge inside it. His hands were bound behind his back, and the rancid smell of sweat and blood filled his nostrils.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," a mocking voice greeted him.
Draven squinted, glaring at the man standing before him. He was tall, muscular, and had the kind of face only a mother could love.
"You've caused us quite a bit of trouble," the man said, pacing. "And now, you're gonna pay for it."
Draven smirked, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. "You sound like a cheap action movie villain. Let me guess—you're gonna monologue about your evil plans next?"
The man's smile faltered, but before he could respond, the door swung open, revealing a man with a commanding presence. He strode in, holding the photograph Draven had seen earlier.
"So," the newcomer said, his voice calm yet menacing. "You have a thing for my daughter?"
Draven's silence spoke volumes, and the gang leader's eyes darkened.
"You're lucky you're still breathing," he growled.
Draven leaned back, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Trust me, breathing hasn't been much of a treat lately."
---
Before the rival gang leader could deliver his punishment, the lights suddenly flickered and went out. Shouts erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Draven sat in the dark, listening as the chaos unfolded around him. When the lights returned, the room was a bloodbath. Standing amidst the carnage was a familiar figure, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his toned chest, and his signature smirk firmly in place.
"Michael," Draven muttered, half-relieved, half-annoyed.
"Miss me?" Michael asked, stepping over a corpse to untie Draven.
Draven glared at him. "Where the hell have you been?"
Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "Vacation."
Draven raised an eyebrow. "Vacation?"
Michael flashed a grin. "Yeah. You should try it sometime. I hear Fiji's lovely this time of year."
Draven's patience snapped. "You let me believe you were dead for weeks, and you were off sipping piña coladas?"
Michael chuckled. "Not exactly. But I did leave you a little gift."
Draven's jaw clenched. "The bracelet."
Michael nodded, his grin widening. "Had to push you a little, get you to stop holding back. And look at you—embracing your inner psychopath. I'm so proud."
Draven shook his head, muttering a string of curses under his breath. "You're insane."
"And you're welcome," Michael shot back, clapping him on the shoulder.
---
As they made their way out of the basement, Draven couldn't help but glance at Michael, a mixture of frustration and gratitude brewing within him.
"You're unbelievable," Draven said, shaking his head.
Michael smirked. "I get that a lot."
Before he could stop himself, Draven turned and pulled Michael into a brief, awkward embrace.
Michael froze, his eyes wide. "Uh… Draven? You okay there, buddy?"
Draven stepped back, his expression unreadable. "It's nice to have you back again."
Michael blinked, then grinned. "Aw, you missed me."
"Don't push it," Draven snapped, stalking off.
Michael chuckled, following him. "Admit it—you love me."
Draven didn't dignify that with a response.
Michael chuckled as he caught up to Draven. "Come on, admit it—you love me. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to your miserable life."
Draven stopped abruptly, turned on his heel, and without hesitation, swung his fist. It connected squarely with Michael's jaw, sending him stumbling back a step.
For a moment, there was silence. Michael touched his cheek, wincing slightly. "Well," he said, his voice laced with mock hurt, "that's one way to say 'thank you.'"
Draven crossed his arms, staring him down. "That's for the bracelet."
Michael tilted his head, considering. "Fair enough." Then, to Draven's surprise, he grinned.
Before Draven could react, Michael burst into laughter. It was contagious, and despite himself, Draven found his lips twitching.
"Alright, you lunatic," Draven muttered, shaking his head. He let out a short laugh, which quickly turned into a full, unrestrained chuckle.
The two stood there in the middle of the carnage, laughing like fools amidst the chaos they had created.