The wail of sirens faded into the night, distant echoes swallowed by the storm building over Black Hollow. Rain lashed the rooftops like a judgment from the heavens, as if Gotham itself was mourning the lives lost and the souls still teetering on the edge.
Draven stood atop the crumbling clocktower overlooking Sector 9. His armored silhouette—still scarred from the last encounter with Pulse—was a black statue against the lightning-ripped sky. Beneath him, the city's veins pulsed with flickering neon and distant screams. But it was no longer just fear that stirred in those alleys—it was defiance. Whispers of rebellion. Whispers of him.
Beside him, Evelyn adjusted her hood, blood dried on the edge of her jaw. "The resistance is moving," she said quietly. "But they're terrified, Draven. Pulse's massacre... it broke something."
Draven's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. "Good. Let fear make them cautious—but not paralyzed. We strike back smarter. Harder."
She glanced at him. "And you?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was distant, lost in shadows cast by his own mind. The guilt from those he couldn't save still clung to him like the rain-soaked cape around his shoulders. But beneath the weight, a fire had started. Gotham didn't need a savior in white. It needed a monster cloaked in justice.
A knight, not in shining armor, but forged from the very darkness it sought to fight.
"I'm not the same man I was," he said finally. "Not after what Pulse did. Not after what they did to her." He looked at Evelyn, voice raw. "I won't let that happen again. To anyone."
Her expression softened. In a rare moment of vulnerability, she reached out and squeezed his hand. He didn't pull away.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a series of coordinated explosions in the Industrial Belt. Smoke bloomed into the sky. A second later, his comm crackled—Derek's voice came through, ragged.
"Draven—they hit the refugee center. I repeat—they've bombed the whole block! Survivors are running straight into an ambush. It's Pulse's people. They're not done."
Draven was already moving, cape whipping in the wind. "Get who you can out. Evelyn and I are heading in."
As they raced across rooftops, Evelyn's voice was tight. "We both know this is a trap."
"I'm counting on it," Draven replied grimly.
—
The scene at the center was a living nightmare—collapsed concrete, screaming civilians, gunfire rattling through the smoke. Among the chaos, Pulse stood tall, his black armor gleaming like obsidian beneath the fires. His eyes locked with Draven's the moment the vigilante dropped into the fray.
"You're late," Pulse sneered, stepping over a body. "But then again, heroes always are."
Draven didn't respond with words. He charged, fists flying like hammers. The two collided in an explosion of raw force—one forged by purpose, the other by madness. Pulse's fists cracked against Draven's armor, but Draven was relentless. He fought with fury honed by control, like a blade just shy of snapping.
Behind them, Evelyn was leading survivors through a narrow path in the rubble, taking bullets to the shoulder and still pushing on. She paused only once, turning to see Draven being slammed against a wall.
Her heart clenched. She pulled a flash-bomb from her belt and hurled it between them.
Light erupted.
Draven took the opening—an uppercut slammed into Pulse's jaw, snapping his head back. Then a kick to the chest. Pulse stumbled, blood on his lips. But he grinned.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said, panting. "You're not fighting to save this city. You're fighting because it's already lost. You're mourning it."
Draven's voice was ice. "No. I'm preparing to bury the disease that killed it."
With one last explosive effort, he slammed Pulse through a steel girder. The villain collapsed, unconscious—alive, but barely.
—
By the time the dust cleared, the building was half rubble. Sirens echoed again, but this time it wasn't too late. This time, people were saved.
Draven stood in the ruins, chest heaving, fists clenched. Evelyn approached, blood streaked across her face, but alive.
"You did it," she whispered.
"No," he replied. "We did. But this is only the beginning."
They stood together as the rain returned, washing blood and ash from the battlefield. For a moment, amid the ruin, they found a heartbeat of peace.
From a rooftop far beyond, a figure watched through a cracked lens. A clown mask dangled from his belt, forgotten… for now. His mouth twitched into a smile as he whispered:
"Dance, little knight. I'm almost ready for my curtain call."