Rain returned to Gotham like a memory that wouldn't die—cold, persistent, and unforgiving. The city's skyline glimmered under a fractured moon, skyscrapers rising like jagged teeth in a beast's open maw. Beneath that skyline, in the underbelly of a broken world, the war for Gotham's soul raged on.
Draven stood atop an unfinished high-rise, his tattered cloak flaring in the wind. Evelyn patched into his earpiece from below, her voice steady despite the chaos that had torn through the city hours earlier.
"Building's clear now," she said. "Pulse vanished into the sewers before the drones could follow. Derek's still unconscious, but stable."
Draven didn't reply immediately. He gazed over the Narrows—smoke still curled from the ruins of the half-demolished building where Pulse had nearly annihilated an entire advocacy center. Dozens had died. Dozens more would have, if not for Evelyn rerouting the power grid and Derek's final stand at the door, broken ribs and all.
"He wasn't trying to kill them for the sake of it," Draven said finally. "He was testing something. A new frequency."
Evelyn's voice darkened. "Another prototype?"
"Worse. This was personal. Targeted."
He clenched his jaw. Every time they peeled back a layer, another horror revealed itself. And the Joker… the name hadn't come up since that night in the vault, but Draven couldn't forget the flicker of laughter behind the glass. The man pulling strings was still out there, still smiling behind monsters like Pulse and Harbinger.
A low beep echoed in his ear. "I found something," Evelyn said. "Old GCPD files. Redacted. A failed psychological warfare project—Project Echo. Sound-based trauma imprinting. Pulse didn't just develop his weapon... he is the weapon."
Draven turned from the edge and dropped into the building's hollow core. Steel scaffolding groaned as he descended in silence, his thoughts burning.
They weren't fighting gangs anymore.
This was war.
Underground Safehouse — 2:34 a.m.
Evelyn stood barefoot in the safehouse's command center, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, fingers dancing across keyboards. The glow of monitors lit up her face—files on Pulse, corrupted GCPD memos, and the psych profile of a boy who had vanished ten years ago.
"Jackson Vale," she murmured. "Parents died in a factory fire. Only survivor. Trauma-induced mutism. Resurfaced years later… as Pulse."
She closed the file, bile rising in her throat. Every villain in this city was born from someone's silence. Just like her.
Draven entered quietly, bruised and still bloodied, his silhouette cutting through the dim corridor like a blade.
"You need rest," he said.
She scoffed. "So do you."
He stepped closer, pulling off his gauntlets. "That blast took you down too."
Evelyn turned to face him, eyes locking. "You dragged me out, didn't you?"
"I wasn't going to leave you."
A silence hung between them, heavier than the tech buzzing around them. Finally, Evelyn spoke.
"When I was seventeen," she said, "I broke into the GCPD server to leak evidence of a police cover-up. My brother had been killed. They called it an overdose. I found the footage—he was beaten to death by two cops he'd reported for corruption."
Draven's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted—respect, pain, and something deeper.
"They raided our home," she continued. "I erased everything before they found it. Took the fall. They called it a hacktivist stunt. I was expelled, blacklisted. My parents never forgave me."
"That's why you knew so much," he murmured. "Why you joined them later. GCPD analyst, undercover."
Evelyn nodded. "I thought if I could work from inside, I could fix it. But the rot was too deep."
Draven took a slow breath. "You never told me."
"You never asked," she said. Then added, softly, "But you stayed. After all this. You keep staying."
"I don't know how to leave anymore."
Her hand brushed his for the briefest moment—a tremble of contact in a world built on silence and shadows. He didn't pull away.
"Then don't," she whispered.
Warehouse District – One Hour Later
A scream cut through the rain.
Draven's boot hit the pavement with a thud as he arrived at the scene. The warehouse was gutted, its metal doors blown off, scorch marks bleeding into brick. Inside, four bodies lay charred. On the far wall, words were scorched into steel.
"WE ARE THE CHOIR. LET THE CITY HEAR US."
Evelyn's voice broke the silence. "That's not Pulse."
"No," Draven said. "This is someone new."
He crouched near the bodies—ears destroyed, hands covering them in death. A weaponized frequency again. But the signatures didn't match Pulse's tech.
Evelyn confirmed it. "Not the same coding. More chaotic. Experimental. This one didn't come from Halcyon."
A new villain. Another ripple in the widening pool of chaos.
"We call him Choir," Draven said.
"Gotham's not just falling," Evelyn murmured. "It's being orchestrated."
Draven stood slowly. "Then we learn the song."
Black Hollow – Hours Later
As dawn began to creep over the ruined skyline, Draven returned to the place that had started it all: the edge of Black Hollow. The scars from Pulse's last assault were still visible—charred buildings, burned streets, lost lives.
But in the smoke, something had changed.
Graffiti marked the walls now—not the usual gang tags, but symbols. Stylized bats. Crude drawings of a hooded figure with piercing eyes.
The people were talking. Whispers in alleyways. Rumors in the slums. Not of Draven.
Of a shadow.
Of a guardian.
Evelyn joined him, her hand brushing his again. "They think you're something else now."
Draven looked out across the city. "Then I have to become it."
Not for fear. Not for vengeance.
For Gotham.
For the ones who couldn't fight.
The city didn't need another soldier.
It needed a symbol.
And tonight, the shadow began to take shape.