The rain was unforgiving.
It slammed against the broken skylights of an abandoned metro station beneath Gotham's decaying East Ward—an old, forgotten artery of the city that once pulsed with life, now reduced to a crypt for secrets. The tracks below were rusted, flooded, overgrown with rot and silence. And in that silence, something moved.
Draven crouched beside a flickering light fixture, his breath steady, but his heart in turmoil. His suit was torn at the shoulder, blood seeping through from a graze wound—nothing fatal, but annoying enough to remind him that tonight, death was close.
Across from him, Evelyn knelt beside an old fuse box, her fingers dancing with wires like a pianist playing her final symphony. Sparks shot out, but she didn't flinch.
"They've rerouted all power to the lower sector," she muttered. "Whatever Pulse is guarding down here—it's drawing every watt the grid can offer."
Draven studied her face in the dim glow. She looked tired—bruised, hair wet, cheeks cut—but still, she burned with that same quiet fire. And for a second, he forgot the war. Forgot the city. Forgot the death.
"You could've walked away," he said quietly.
Evelyn looked at him, her eyes dark and unwavering. "So could you."
Their moment was broken by static in Draven's comm.
Derek's voice: "Draven. You need to see this."
Draven stood, eyes narrowing. "Where?"
"Old control room. South wing. Hurry."
The station's innards twisted like a labyrinth—corridors that pulsed with broken tech and whispering ghosts. As they moved, shadows slid alongside them. Old posters fluttered on moldy walls, relics of a city that used to believe in heroes.
They reached the control room.
Inside, Derek stood before a broken wall of monitors. One screen showed live footage—a camera feed from a nearby tunnel. Dozens of hostages. Tied, gagged. Men, women, even children. Guarded by Pulse's mercs—masked, armed, twitchy.
"What the hell is this?" Evelyn breathed.
"They're bait," Derek said. "He's making us choose. Save them… or stop what's coming below."
On another screen, a timer blinked in red. Thirty minutes. A pressure chamber in the lowest chamber of the station—detonators rigged into the support beams.
"Pulse rigged the underground vault," Derek added. "Whatever's in there… it'll bury this entire sector of the city if it goes."
Draven clenched his fists. Two paths. Both deadly.
Evelyn stepped forward, jaw tightening. "We split up. I'll override the detonation remotely. Derek secures the hostages. You… go after Pulse."
Draven looked at her. "Too risky."
She touched his arm. "You've carried too much alone. Let me carry some of it now."
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Then he nodded.
Lower Vault – 15 Minutes Left
The air in the vault was thick with steam and electricity. Machinery hummed like a dying beast. Draven moved like a shadow, his steps silent, eyes sharp. And then—there he was.
Pulse.
The villain stood atop a metal platform, surrounded by coils and generators. His suit shimmered with neon blue, veins of energy pulsing across the armor. He looked like a storm wrapped in flesh—faster than lightning, and just as deadly.
"You're late," Pulse called out. "The city's heart is rotting. I'm just cutting out the cancer."
"By becoming it?" Draven asked.
Pulse's visor lit up. "They made me this. Project Halcyon twisted me, broke me, rebuilt me. You think Gotham deserves mercy? It deserves rebirth through fire."
Draven drew his blades.
Pulse charged.
They collided in a blur of sparks and steel. Draven ducked under a surge of lightning, slashed upward, but Pulse vanished—reappearing behind him, landing a crushing kick that sent Draven through a rusted pipe.
Pain exploded in his ribs.
But he stood.
"I'm not the man you fought a year ago," Draven growled.
Pulse lunged again, hands crackling with energy.
Their battle tore through the vault—pipes bursting, wires catching fire, the ground shaking. Pulse was faster, stronger. But Draven was colder. Focused. He used Pulse's aggression, dodging just enough, striking when it hurt most—under the arm, across the knee.
Then—timing it perfectly—he triggered a collapsed scaffold above them.
It crashed down.
Pulse screamed as steel beams crushed his leg.
Draven limped toward him.
"You could've been more," Draven said, voice dark.
Pulse laughed bitterly. "I was never meant to be more. I was meant to be a weapon."
Then—he grinned.
"You're too late."
Above, alarms wailed.
Control Room – Countdown: 2 Minutes
Evelyn's fingers flew over the keys, sweat dripping down her temple.
"Come on, come on…" she muttered.
A firewall flared.
Then—a screen blinked green.
"Override Accepted."
She gasped, collapsed back in the chair.
"I did it…" she whispered.
But from the shadows behind her, a hand emerged.
Clapping.
A slow, mocking applause.
She turned.
A man in a pale mask stepped forward—the Harbinger. Not Pulse. Not a brute. A whisperer. A puppet master.
"You're clever, Evelyn. Pity it's wasted on him."
Her blood ran cold.
But just as he moved to strike—
A blade flew through the air.
Draven.
He crashed through the ceiling panel, landing between her and the Harbinger.
"You don't touch her," he snarled.
The Harbinger smiled. "Then let's begin the next game."
Above – Rooftop of East Ward
Derek stood with the freed hostages. Helicopters circled.
One of the kids, a small boy with dirt on his face, looked up.
"Was that the Batman?"
Derek smiled, faintly.
"No," he said. "Not yet. But soon."