The thunder cracked across the sky like a war drum. Gotham's skyline shimmered with lightning, casting long shadows over broken rooftops and shattered glass. Draven stood atop a derelict courthouse, cape flapping behind him, the rain soaking through the kevlar layers of his suit. Below him, chaos brewed like a tempest—sirens, gunfire, screams, and something far worse: silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The suffocating, unnatural hush that follows after something terrible has already happened.
His earpiece buzzed.
Nyx: "Draven. It's happening again. Pulse hit the old harbor district. We've got at least two buildings rigged with explosives. Hostages. GCPD's spread too thin."
Draven's jaw clenched. "Where's Evelyn?"
A pause.
Nyx: "With Derek. But... Pulse sent a message. Said if you don't come, he'll start the countdown."
The wind howled around him, cold and feral. Draven dropped into the night.
The harbor had become a ghost town. Once full of rusted ships and illicit trade, now it was cordoned off and humming with dread. The rain gave everything a silver sheen, masking the blood and soot that ran down the streets like veins. A twisted symphony of terror.
Draven moved silently between the alleys, his boots splashing through the murky puddles. He reached the warehouse—its windows boarded up, but light flickered inside, irregular and pulsing. Like a dying heartbeat.
Then he saw them—twelve civilians, bound and gagged. Men, women, even two children. All rigged with shock collars. A makeshift countdown clock was bolted to the center column. Twenty minutes remained.
"Looking for me?"
The voice came from the rafters. Pulse dropped down, his mechanical eye glowing blood red, his body wired with kinetic armor. He smiled beneath a cracked mask.
"You brought this city hope," Pulse said mockingly. "And hope is such... a delicate thing."
Draven didn't flinch. "Let them go."
Pulse laughed. "You really don't get how this works. This isn't a rescue mission, Draven. This is theater. These people? Props. You? The reluctant hero. And me... well—" he activated a remote. Sparks flew from the collars. "I'm the climax."
Draven moved.
He lunged forward, flinging a smoke capsule. The world exploded in gray haze. Screams echoed. Pulse swung a steel rod with shocking speed, but Draven blocked it mid-air with his forearm, grunting as the jolt of energy burned through his glove. He spun, elbowing Pulse in the throat.
"You're not the climax," Draven growled. "You're the warning."
They crashed into crates, wood splintering. Pulse released a concussive burst from his gauntlet, hurling Draven backward into a steel beam. He groaned, ribs aching.
"You always think you can save everyone," Pulse snarled. "But you're no savior. You're a man in a costume. Pretending you matter."
Draven dragged himself up. "Then let me show you what a man in a costume can do."
Outside, Nyx had bypassed the perimeter. She worked the lock on a side entrance, sliding in with feline precision. She tapped her comms.
Nyx: "Evelyn, I'm in. Preparing to disable the bombs."
Evelyn's voice came back, breathless but focused. "Derek's leading a unit from the other side. Be careful. Pulse isn't alone—he has others in masks. They call themselves 'The Fracture.'"
Nyx's eyes narrowed. "More costumed psychopaths. Great."
Inside the warehouse, the battle intensified. Pulse was faster now, his armor adapting to Draven's strikes. But Draven had been learning too. Every step, every move was refined pain. Each punch landed with purpose.
He ducked a plasma swipe, caught Pulse's arm, and slammed him into the column. The clock buzzed—eight minutes left.
Draven pulled a batarang and embedded it in Pulse's shoulder.
"Deactivate it," he growled.
Pulse laughed through gritted teeth. "What happens when you can't save them? What happens then?"
The question stabbed deeper than the batarang.
Because Draven had asked it before—when the orphanage burned, when his father died, when Evelyn cried in that alley.
He headbutted Pulse, cracking the mask in half.
"Then I learn to fight harder."
Nyx reached the hostages. Her hands moved like a blur, disconnecting wires, decoding frequencies. Sweat poured from her brow.
"Four minutes," she whispered. "Draven, I need more time."
He heard her.
Draven leapt onto Pulse's back and yanked out the main energy cell. Sparks exploded. Pulse screamed as his armor short-circuited. Draven pulled him to the ground and slammed his fist again—and again—until the villain lay still, blood trailing from his mouth.
Three minutes.
Draven limped over to Nyx.
"I've disabled the kill switch," she said, barely holding her breath. "Just one more—"
BOOM.
The far side of the warehouse erupted. Smoke poured in. A masked figure stepped through the flame.
Clapping.
The Joker.
Or... was it?
He was taller than expected. Lean. Sharp. Wearing a porcelain-white smile, painted crudely onto a gas mask.
"Well done, dear Draven. You saved twelve lives. Bravo. But what if next time it's twenty? Fifty? A school? A hospital?"
He stepped forward, arms open wide.
"Heroes chase the fire. I light the city."
He dropped a card.
And vanished into the smoke.
Draven picked it up.
It read:
"The real show hasn't begun. - J"
Back at the bunker, Evelyn was waiting. Her eyes widened as she saw the bruises, the burns.
"You should rest," she said, placing a hand on his chest.
Draven exhaled, his body aching from every nerve. "Can't. He's planning something bigger."
Her voice broke. "You're going to kill yourself doing this."
"I already died once," he murmured.
She reached up, brushing wet hair from his face. "Then let me be the reason you come back."
They kissed.
Not out of passion. But survival. Like two souls clinging to the last warmth in a city that forgot how to care.