The city bled into shadows as the sirens died down, and all that remained was the stench of burnt copper in the air and silence—dead, thick silence. Black Hollow had changed. Gotham hadn't just bent under the weight of corruption; it had fractured. And as Draven stood atop the crumbling rooftop of a warehouse near the docks, overlooking the carnage Pulse had unleashed, he felt the pieces shift further apart.
The fractured organization, once a covert power manipulating the city from the shadows, had revealed its most dangerous splinter—Section M, a militant offshoot operating beyond even the original faction's brutal codes. And they were hunting tonight.
Below, Derek crouched behind the crumpled remains of a news van, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder. He'd barely escaped Pulse's ambush in time to relay what little intel he had. Evelyn was beside him, revolver in hand, eyes darting across the street like a hawk ready to pounce. Draven knew she hated standing still—but this wasn't their moment yet.
"There's movement inside," Evelyn whispered through the comm. "Five... maybe six. Pulse isn't here anymore. They're cleaning up."
Draven's eyes narrowed behind the visor. "Not cleaning. Silencing."
Inside the building was a small crew of whistleblowers—journalists, analysts, even a former Black Hollow operative—people brave enough to leak data on Project Halcyon. And now Section M was eliminating them. Draven wouldn't let that happen.
A blast tore through the second floor. Glass, screams, then gunfire. Draven moved.
He crashed through the skylight like a shadow made flesh. The first enforcer barely turned before Draven's gloved hand crushed his throat and spun him into the wall. The second raised a rifle, but a well-placed batarang cracked against his helmet, sending him spiraling into unconsciousness. Evelyn joined seconds later, slamming into the ground and firing two precise rounds into the legs of a gunman about to open fire on the survivors.
"GO!" she barked at the cowering group of civilians, ushering them toward the fire escape. One hesitated—a young woman, maybe nineteen, shaking, holding a flash drive as if it were her heart. Evelyn knelt. "You got something worth killing for?"
The girl nodded.
"Then live."
Draven and Evelyn covered them as they ran. Bullets ripped through the air. Derek limped through the back entrance, rifle gripped with trembling fingers. "I got your six!" he shouted, unleashing a spray of fire that dropped two more assailants.
And then the smoke moved.
From it emerged a figure clad in matte black armor with an emblem scorched into his chest—the symbol of Section M. Not Pulse. This was someone else.
"Target: Draven. Directive: Erasure."
His voice was robotic. Controlled. Enhanced.
Draven's jaw tightened. "New toy?"
"Not a toy," the enforcer said. "A prototype."
They charged. Blows rang out like thunderclaps. Metal met reinforced armor. Draven ducked a strike, retaliated with a spinning knee to the chest, then an elbow to the jaw. The enforcer didn't flinch—he absorbed the impact like concrete. But Draven had something else. Something deeper than technology. Fury.
He grappled the enforcer mid-swing, hoisted him into the air, and sent both of them crashing through the first-floor wall.
Outside, Evelyn screamed his name.
Derek fired after them, eyes wide. "We've got more incoming! Fracture's sweeping the perimeter!"
Draven hit the ground hard, his breath knocked from his lungs, but he didn't stop moving. He wrestled the enforcer into a headlock, activated an EMP charge on his gauntlet, and fired it into the enemy's back. Sparks flew. The enforcer twitched—then went still.
Not dead. But down.
Draven rose slowly, chest heaving. Around him, Section M agents emerged from alleys and vehicles, forming a loose perimeter. Trapped.
Evelyn ran to his side, revolver low. Derek caught up, grimacing, bleeding, but standing.
And then—
A sudden screech of tires.
A black bike—a strange hybrid of old-world tech and military grade steel—slid to a stop. The rider dismounted, helmet reflective, cape trailing slightly. Female. Young. Fast.
She fired smoke bombs into the center of the crowd.
"Name's Nova," she shouted over the chaos. "And I don't like uninvited parties."
She moved with precision and grace, dodging bullets, disabling agents with electric shock rounds, and giving Draven just the gap he needed.
"Move!" Draven growled. "We're not dying here!"
Together, the four vanished into the back alleys as fire rose behind them. They didn't stop running until the city swallowed them again.
Later, in the abandoned cathedral hideout…
Evelyn tended to Draven's bruises in silence. Her fingers trembled, but not from fear—from rage.
"They knew everything," she whispered. "The whistleblowers. They knew who was involved. Where the kids were taken. Pulse isn't the only monster... They've been experimenting on people, Draven."
Draven clenched his fists. "I know."
"You don't know," she said. "Because if you did, you wouldn't keep standing there like your world isn't cracking around you."
"I don't have the luxury of breaking."
"You have the luxury of being human."
She stared at him. Her voice softened. "Let yourself feel this, Draven. Or you'll lose what little soul you have left."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
But later that night, when Evelyn drifted into a light, exhausted sleep on the chapel bench, he sat beside her, gently draping his coat over her. And in that moment, he let his gloved fingers brush hers.
Silent. Subtle. But not cold.
Because maybe—just maybe—he wasn't completely lost yet.