Draven stood in silence, the cng of metal now long gone, repced by the eerie stillness of the blood-soaked warehouse. He pulled a bloodied earbud from his ear, wiping the crimson stain across the hem of his coat. As he inspected it for damage, he paused.
A whisper, low and rasping, slithered into his consciousness—the Deadman Whisper.
“…he begged for mercy… you didn’t blink…”
He blinked slowly, ignoring it. Voices of the dead were a common haunt to someone like him. Subhuman blood came with more than just monstrous strength; it brought ghosts too.
He shoved the earbuds back in, cutting off the whispers with a heavy bassline. The music surged, burying the remnants of the dead beneath rhythm and distortion. Draven exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders.
Before leaving, he stopped.
"Right... the stock."
He turned back into the carnage. With calm detachment, he grabbed a burp sack lying near the wall and began gathering remains—arms, legs, whatever hadn’t been vaporized. Flesh torn from the bones of those who tried to kill him. Methodical, almost casual.
The journalist, still kneeling by his daughter’s corpse, watched in silent horror.
"W-What are you doing?" he finally asked, voice shaking.
Draven didn’t look up. "Collecting food stock," he said ftly. "I’m a Subhuman. You know that, right?"
The journalist swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak.
“Does the Codex… allow that?” he asked, his voice strained, gesturing toward the sack of flesh in Draven’s hand. “Isn’t that—bsphemy?”
Draven paused, his hand tightening around the drawstring. Slowly, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, worn book—the Viren Codex, or at least, a copy of it. The edges were frayed, the cover stained from years of use.
He flipped through its pages with practiced ease, stopping at a passage marked by an old ribbon. Without looking at the journalist, he read aloud in a low, steady voice:
“For the fire that dwells within them shall not be fed by bread nor fruit, but by what was born of flesh and trial. To survive, they must consume the pain of the world and in their suffering, find strength.”
He snapped the book shut.
“That’s what it says,” he muttered, slipping it back into his coat. “You call it bsphemy. We call it survival."
The journalist looked away, jaw clenched, no longer sure which part unsettled him more—the verse, or how calmly Draven had recited it.
The journalist slumped against the wall, his voice barely more than a broken whisper.
“Survival?” he repeated bitterly. “I did everything—for her. For her future in this damned country. But now... there is no future. What am I even supposed to do now?”
His eyes gzed over as he stared into the distance, not really looking at Draven anymore—just looking for something that wasn’t there.
“What’s the point of any of this?” he asked, voice cracking. “What’s the meaning of a life like mine?”
Draven stopped by the doorway, the st remnants of moonlight casting a faint glow on his bde. He didn’t turn around.
“There is none,” he said coldly. “Life has no meaning… not until you die. Until then, it’s just noise.”
He walked off into the night, boots echoing against the bloodstained concrete, leaving the broken man and his silence behind.
Down in the dimly lit basement apartment, the smell of metal and dust hung in the air. Draven kicked the door shut behind him and walked wordlessly to a battered refrigerator humming in the corner. He unzipped the blood-stained sack and began pcing chunks of flesh onto the metal racks inside, one by one, with methodical indifference.
As he reached the st item, a severed head stared back at him with frozen hatred in its lifeless eyes. Its jaw slightly ajar, as if caught mid-curse.
Draven paused, then sighed.
“I don’t like heads,” he muttered.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the head into the rusted garbage bin beside the fridge, the cng of bone against metal echoing for a moment. He smmed the fridge door shut, grabbed his coat, and without looking back, stepped out into the bleak corridor of the basement.
**
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit office tucked behind a modest sign that read "Velmire Tax Consultation", the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Inside, a group of sharply dressed individuals sat around a long oak table, their conversation hushed and calcuted—until the door smmed open with a violent thud.
Drake Graves strutted in, his boots caked with dried blood. Without a word, he hurled a severed head onto the polished table. It rolled slightly before nding upright—eyes wide, mouth agape in frozen terror.
“I brought you the bootlicker’s head,” Drake said, cracking his neck. “Bon appétit, Mr. Politician.”
Mr. Geret, a slender man in a grey three-piece suit with sharp eyes and sharper words, barely flinched. He reached for a napkin, dabbing his lips before speaking calmly.
“There was no need to sully the floor of my office, Drake.”
Drake scoffed, casually tossing himself into a nearby chair.
“You told me, and I quote, ‘I want his head off his goddamn neck.’ So I figured I’d deliver exactly what you ordered.”
Mr. Geret sighed. “I won’t be issuing instructions with poetic diction next time. Now get out. Your payment will be processed shortly.”
Drake grinned, sharp and unbothered. “Fine by me. Just don’t compining when you get what you ask for.”
Without another word, he stood, turned, and strode out of the room—leaving behind the stench of blood, smoke, and unspoken threats.
As Drake stormed out of the meeting room, still muttering under his breath, he turned a corner and collided shoulder-first into someone.
It was Draven.
Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Watch it, corpse-breath,” he growled, taking a step back and cracking his knuckles.
Draven gnced at him for a split second, then kept walking as if nothing happened.
That only pissed Drake off more.
“Oh, that’s how you’re gonna py it?” he sneered, raising his voice. “Too good to talk now, huh? You think you're better than me, you pale bastard?”
Draven stopped, letting out a sigh. “I don’t have time for this.”
Drake didn’t wait. His fist cracked against Draven’s face, sending one of his earbuds cttering to the floor—bent and broken. The hallway fell into a tense silence.
Draven looked down at the shattered piece, slowly straightening his posture.
Drake barked a ugh. “What, gonna cry about your toy? Come on—drop that sword of yours. Fight me like a man. Just you, me, and our fists. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Draven’s gaze lingered on the broken earbud for a beat longer before he silently drew his sword—and pced it on the ground beside him.
Without a word, he slid into a close-range stance, his eyes locked onto Drake’s.
Drake grinned wide, licking his lips. “Now that’s more like it.”
He lunged forward with a heavy right hook. Draven stepped in to parry—but just as their arms connected, a sudden sting nced through his forearm.
Draven hissed and pulled back, blood trailing from a fresh gash. He gnced down to see a jagged bone spike protruding from Drake’s knuckles, smeared with crimson.
Drake ughed, savage and loud. “What’s the matter, Draven? Didn’t anyone tell you? Nothing’s fair in this garbage world. You py clean, you die dirty.”
Draven didn’t respond. His stance shifted subtly—lighter on his feet now, evasive.
The next blow came faster. Draven dodged. Another spike jabbed where his shoulder had been a second ago. A sweep, a jab, a spinning backfist—each attack carried hidden bones jutting out like knives from Drake’s skin.
Draven couldn’t nd a single hit. Every time he tried to retaliate, it was like trying to punch a walking bear trap. The hallway echoed with bone scraping stone, grunts of exertion, and Drake’s maniacal ughter.
“You’re quick, I’ll give you that,” Drake snarled, sshing through the air with another cwed jab, “but speed won’t mean a thing when you’re bleeding out from a thousand cuts.”
Draven’s breathing grew heavier, his injured arm dripping, but his eyes—those stayed cold. Calcuting. Waiting.
Draven’s breath steadied as he shifted his footing. His right hand began to glow faintly, veins pulsing with internal heat. A wisp of steam rose from his knuckles.
As Drake charged again, bone spikes jutting out like jagged knives, Draven ducked low, pivoting to the side. With a sharp movement, he swung a bzing punch toward Drake’s exposed ribs.
Crack.
The hit connected—hard enough to send a ripple through Drake’s torso—but the bone armor beneath only fractured, not broke.
Drake grunted, wincing, but his grin never faded. “Cute trick.”
Before Draven could react, Drake’s left hand whipped around, bone bursting from his forearm like a jagged spear. It smmed into Draven’s shoulder with a sickening crunch.
“Ghh—!” Draven flew back, crashing into the wall, dust raining from the impact.
Blood ran down his arm as he staggered to his feet. The world around him wavered.
And then—the voices returned.
“They never let you rest...”
“The blood calls you...”
“He’s not your enemy... you are.”
Draven clutched the side of his head, teeth gritted, his breathing uneven.
The Deadman Whisper. Louder than before, crawling into his ears through the ringing static of pain and memory.
Drake tilted his head, curious. “What’s wrong, hothead? Got ghosts in your skull or just hearing yourself lose?”
Draven didn’t answer. His eyes were distant for a heartbeat too long. Then they sharpened, heat fring again in his palm.
Drake stepped forward, cracks of bone reforming around his fists, his breath still steady. He pointed a jagged finger at Draven like a preacher at the pulpit.
“You think this world gives a damn about fairness?” he barked, pacing slowly, his voice rising. “You think being quiet, cold, and brooding makes you better? I’ve seen what this world does to those who py nice. It chews 'em up and spits out bones.”
He stopped in front of the slumped Draven, blood still dripping from the wound in his shoulder.
“People like us, we don’t get happy endings. We get used, tossed, and bmed. So stop acting like you’re above it all and say something, goddammit!”
There was silence. Then, through clenched teeth, Draven finally rasped out:
“You... empty-headed bastard.”
Drake’s grin twitched.
“The hell did you just say?!”
Fury fshed in his eyes as he charged, roaring. Bone spears exploded from both arms as he swung wildly in blind rage.
But he didn’t see the shift in Draven’s stance. Didn’t see the quiet resolve.
Didn’t see the sword.
In a blink, Draven gripped his katana now glowing a searing red, heat warping the air around it. With one precise movement, he brought it up and sliced clean through Drake’s bone-covered arm, the bde cutting through like butter.
Drake gasped, stumbling—but Draven didn’t stop.
“Tch.”
A single step forward—then a sideways arc.
Shhk—
The burning bde carved through Drake’s waist. In an instant, his body dropped to the floor, severed clean from the hips down.
The upper half of Drake's torso hit the cold tiles, eyes wide in stunned disbelief as steam rose from the cut.
Draven exhaled, finally standing tall, blood and heat dripping from his bde.
Drake’s breath hitched as he stared at his lower half sprawled yards away, blood pooling beneath his upper torso. Panic repced rage, his earlier bravado crumbling into raw desperation.
“W-Wait, wait! Don’t kill me! I—I can give you anything, man! Money, info, women—just name it!”
Draven narrowed his eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“Wallet,” he muttered coldly.
Drake blinked, confused. “Wh-what?”
“My earbuds,” Draven said, shaking his head, voice ft. “They’re fried.”
Realizing he was serious, Drake flinched and quickly pointed at his pants. “Right pocket! Take it—take it all!”
Draven crouched, rummaged through the blood-stained pocket, and pulled out a thick wallet. He flipped through the bills, took everything, then tossed the empty wallet back into Drake’s face.
“Cheap leather,” he muttered, turning away.
“W-Wait!” Drake whimpered again. “Come on, don’t leave me like this! I—I just wanna tell you something. My past... it’s real sad, man. You gotta hear it. It’s... tragic.”
Draven paused, exhaled, then silently stepped closer, eyes unreadable.
“Thanks, man... I knew you weren’t heartless...”
Then suddenly—
Whip!
A final jagged bone bde shot from Drake’s remaining arm in a desperate stab. But Draven was faster. Without flinching, he swung his bde in a fsh of red heat.
SHHKK!
The bone cttered uselessly to the floor, severed. Drake stared at his stump, stunned.
“Okay,” he gasped weakly. “You win...”
Draven stared down at him for a beat longer, then turned and walked away in silence, boots echoing through the hallway as Drake’s groans faded behind him.
