"You betrayed us, Quinn. Do you have any idea what that means?" George's voice was low but brimming with menace.
"I didn't—" Quinn stammered, his lips trembling. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his face pale.
"You did." George leaned in, his knife glinting under the dim light. "And now, you're going to pay for it."
Draven stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed. He'd seen this before—betrayal, punishment, execution. It was all so predictable. The only thing that kept him rooted was the nagging thought that Quinn's treachery wasn't the end of this chaos—it was only the beginning.
Michael leaned against the wall beside him, chewing on a toothpick with an air of detachment. "This should be fun," he muttered.
Draven shot him a look. "You have an odd definition of fun."
Before Michael could respond, George plunged the knife into Quinn's chest. The room fell silent except for Quinn's gasping breath as he collapsed to the floor. The men exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared speak.
George straightened, wiping the blood off his blade. "Let this be a lesson to anyone else thinking about betraying me," he snarled, his eyes sweeping the room.
The tension was broken by the sudden sound of an explosion outside. The walls trembled, and dust rained from the ceiling.
"What the hell was that?" someone shouted.
George's face darkened. "They're here," he growled. "Get ready."
---
The battle was chaos. Bullets flew, screams echoed, and blood splattered the grimy alleyways as George's gang clashed with their rivals. Draven moved like a shadow, his instincts guiding him through the carnage.
Amid the fight, he caught sight of George standing over a wounded man, kicking him mercilessly. There was something unhinged about the way George smiled—a sadistic glee that sent a chill down Draven's spine.
"What are you looking at?" George barked when he noticed Draven staring.
"Nothing," Draven muttered, turning away. But the image stuck with him. George wasn't just ruthless—he was dangerous, even to his own men.
---
When the dust settled, the streets were littered with bodies. George's gang had won, but it didn't feel like a victory.
Draven wandered through the wreckage, his mind heavy.
He decided to take a walk to cool his mind.
Draven stopped mid-stride when he saw her crouched by the roadside, gently stroking the head of an injured dog. The creature's leg was twisted at an awkward angle, and its fur was matted with blood, but her hands moved with tenderness, soothing the animal's trembling frame. Her voice, soft yet commanding, murmured words he couldn't quite make out.
For a moment, he forgot everything—the blood on his hands, the weight of his choices, even the ache in his chest that never seemed to fade. He only saw her. The sunlight caught strands of her dark hair, and her features, framed by a raw intensity, pulled at something deep within him.
"Hey," he said, stepping closer, his voice softer than he expected.
She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as if his presence was an insult. "What do you want?"
He raised his hands in mock surrender, taking a step back. "Just thought you might need a hand with the dog."
Her laugh was sharp and cold, cutting through the air like a blade. "Oh, sure. A random stranger is going to swoop in and save the day? Do I look like I need your help?"
He smiled, unfazed. "No, but the dog might."
The line earned him nothing but a glare. She turned her attention back to the dog, rummaging through a small bag at her side and pulling out a strip of fabric. She started wrapping the animal's leg with precision, her movements brisk but careful.
"Do you always approach people like this?" she muttered without looking up.
"Only when they're doing something interesting," he replied, leaning casually against a lamppost. "Or when they're interesting themselves."
She froze for a fraction of a second before resuming her work. "Flattery? Really? How original. Let me guess, you think I'll fall for your charm and we'll ride off into the sunset?"
Draven chuckled, more at himself than her. "I don't know about that. I'm not much for sunsets."
Finally, she looked at him, her expression a mix of annoyance and suspicion. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I don't have time for this. Go bother someone else."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You don't know me, but that doesn't mean I'm here to bother you. Just thought I'd say hi. Guess I chose the wrong time."
She scoffed, rising to her feet and brushing her hands on her jeans. "Yeah, you did."
The dog whined, looking up at her with pleading eyes. She crouched again, whispering something before picking up the animal in her arms. Draven stepped forward instinctively, offering to help, but she shot him a warning glare that stopped him in his tracks.
"I've got it," she snapped.
"Clearly," he replied, his tone light but his gaze unwavering. "You're good with animals."
"Better than I am with people," she said, turning on her heel and walking away.
He stood there for a moment, watching her retreating figure. Something about her struck a chord he couldn't quite identify—something raw and unpolished, a sharp contrast to the coldness she wore like armor.
Before he could follow, a group of young women appeared from around the corner, laughing and calling out to her.
"Klara! There you are!" one of them shouted, running up to her.
Draven's breath hitched. Klara. The name rang in his ears like a bell, clear and undeniable.
He stayed rooted to the spot, watching as the group fussed over her and the injured dog. She didn't look back at him, not even once, as she disappeared into the crowd.
When she was gone, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His lips curved into a faint, almost bittersweet smile.
"Klara," he murmured to himself. "Looks like I'll be seeing you again."
Back at the hideout, Draven found Michael waiting for him.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Michael said, his smirk betraying his amusement.
Draven ignored him and headed to his room. But as he lay on his cot, staring at the cracked ceiling, he realized he couldn't keep doing this. The blood, the violence, the endless cycle—it had to stop.
The next morning, he gathered his things and walked into the main hall, where Michael, Felix, and Owen were lounging.
"I'm done," Draven announced.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Done with what?"
"This. All of it. The gang, the killing, the madness. I'm out."
Felix opened his mouth to protest, but a glare from Michael silenced him.
"You think you can just walk away?" George's voice boomed as he entered the room.
Draven stood his ground. "Yes. I've had enough."
George's lips curled into a sneer. "You walk away, you're dead. That's how this works."
Michael stepped forward, his presence like a wall between Draven and George. "You really want to try that, George?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
George hesitated, his eyes darting between Michael and Draven. For the first time, Draven noticed a flicker of fear in George's expression.
"Fine," George spat. "But don't come crawling back when the world chews you up and spits you out."
Michael turned to Draven and smirked. "Go on, then. I'm sure we'll run into each other soon enough. Try not to get yourself killed in the meantime."
Draven managed a small smile. "Thanks, Michael."
As he walked away, Michael called out, "If you end up scrubbing toilets, let me know. I could use a good laugh."
Draven chuckled, shaking his head.
---
The quiet neighborhood felt like a different world. The air was clean, the streets were calm, and for the first time in years, Draven felt a glimmer of peace.
He found a small restaurant tucked away on a side street and stepped inside.
"We're not hiring," the manager said before Draven could even speak.
"I'll take anything," Draven said. "Dishwasher, janitor, whatever you've got."
The manager raised an eyebrow. "You desperate or something?"
"Something like that."
With a shrug, the manager handed him an apron. "Sink's in the back. Don't break anything."
As Draven rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the soapy water, he couldn't help but laugh. From a gang enforcer to washing dishes—it was almost poetic.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was starting over.