The rain whispered against the rooftop like secrets that refused to die. Gotham lay below, blanketed in a suffocating fog, its buildings standing like tombstones in a graveyard of forgotten hope.
Draven leaned against the edge of a rooftop, the ache in his ribs returning like a cold memory. His eyes scanned the city—hunting for meaning, for targets, for reasons not to give up. Beside him, Evelyn adjusted her headset, trying to trace Pulse's last signal. But even she looked distracted.
"Something's on your mind," Draven said quietly.
"It's not me," she replied. "It's her."
Behind them, Nyx stood in the shadows, watching the storm as if it had answers she'd been waiting years to hear. Her posture was always tense—calculated—but tonight, there was something else beneath her calm exterior. A wound, unhealed. Draven had seen it before. In himself.
"Nyx," he called.
She didn't respond.
He approached slowly. "Talk to me."
She turned, a faint smile curling her lips—but it didn't reach her eyes. "Ever hear of Lunaris?"
"Off-the-books training facility. Rumor says it doesn't exist."
"It did," she said, voice sharp and clipped. "It existed in a desert no map would admit. They trained us in silence. In shadows. They taught us to vanish, to kill, to forget who we were before."
Draven watched her carefully. "You were part of it."
"I was the part of it." She clenched her fists. "They took girls. Street orphans, runaways, those no one would miss. Told us we were special. Then they turned us into weapons."
She paused, eyes flickering with ghosts. "I was fourteen when I made my first kill. Seventeen when I escaped. I burned it down. I thought it was over."
"But it wasn't," Draven said softly.
Nyx looked out at the city again. "I tracked their recruiters here. Gotham is where the ashes landed. And the people rebuilding Lunaris… they're calling it something new now."
"Project Halcyon," Draven finished.
Nyx nodded.
Below them, Evelyn's voice broke through the quiet. "Guys… I just traced a signal. A hidden convoy moved out of Black Hollow fifteen minutes ago. Guess where it's headed?"
"Where?"
"The ruins of Arkham Asylum."
Draven's jaw tensed.
"Three armored trucks. Guards with Halcyon tech. They're moving something—or someone—important."
Nyx narrowed her eyes. "Then let's intercept."
South Gotham – 2:12 a.m.
The Arkham ruins weren't just haunted—they were cursed. Shattered stone, burned walls, and rusted gates greeted them like the mouth of hell. Moss clung to the walls like time's fingerprints, and the air stank of damp earth and madness.
They moved in silence. Evelyn stayed back, hidden in a van nearby, jamming surveillance. Draven and Nyx advanced into the structure's remains like phantoms.
And then they saw it—the convoy.
Three trucks, unloading crates. A fourth stood guarded more heavily. Inside, a figure was being wheeled out—restrained, masked. Not a victim.
A prisoner.
Nyx's eyes sharpened. "I know that posture. That's one of the directors."
"You sure?"
"Director Lysandros. Head of memory recalibration."
Draven clenched his fists. "Then tonight, he doesn't leave."
They split, flanking opposite sides of the convoy. Draven took the left—silent, precise, a ghost in black. His fists moved with brutal efficiency. One guard fell, then another. Blood spilled onto shattered tiles.
Nyx descended from above—blades flashing. She moved with practiced grace, dancing in shadows, leaving only silence behind.
Then the fourth truck's rear doors burst open.
A figure emerged.
Clad in a sleek, obsidian exosuit that pulsed with Halcyon energy, Pulse stepped into the fray.
"Back so soon?" he purred. "And you brought a friend."
Nyx's breath caught.
"Hello, little ghost," Pulse said, tilting his head. "Did you think you could outrun your creator?"
Draven stepped between them. "She's not alone."
Pulse grinned beneath his mask. "That's what makes it fun."
Then the air shimmered.
A flash grenade exploded.
And chaos began.
Arkham Ruins – Inner Courtyard
Pulse moved like lightning, his body vibrating with barely contained power. Every strike from him cracked stone, every movement distorted reality. He hurled Draven into a column, collapsing it in a cloud of dust.
Nyx charged Lysandros, her face a storm of vengeance. She pinned him to the truck, blade to his throat.
"You remember me?" she hissed.
His eyes widened. "Subject Thirteen…"
Her blade sank deeper.
But Pulse's roar pulled her attention. Draven lay motionless beside a crater.
"DRAVEN!" Evelyn's voice screamed over the comm.
Nyx turned, torn between revenge and something unfamiliar—fear. Real, blinding fear.
She stepped away from Lysandros.
She ran.
She reached Draven just as Pulse raised his arm again.
And then—
BOOM.
A sniper shot rang out.
Pulse's shoulder sparked.
He stumbled.
Another shot.
Evelyn's voice: "Get out—now!"
Draven rose slowly, spitting blood. "We're not finished," he growled.
"No," Pulse grinned. "We're just getting started."
He vanished into the shadows.
Later – Abandoned Safehouse
Draven sat with his shirt off, fresh wounds stitched by Evelyn's careful hands. Nyx stood nearby, silent.
"I should've killed him," she muttered.
"You saved me instead," Draven replied.
She met his eyes. "That's the problem."
"No," he said. "That's what makes you human."
A beat of silence.
Then Evelyn, gently cleaning the blood from his chest, whispered, "We need each other, more than we admit."
Draven looked at her, truly looked, and for a moment—just one—the storm outside felt a little further away.
In the Shadows
Lysandros knelt in a dark room, bloodied.
"You failed," a voice said from the gloom.
"I—Pulse intervened—"
"Excuses."
A figure emerged.
White gloves. A smirk. The flicker of a laugh.
The Joker.
"You all think this game is about science and soldiers," he whispered. "But I'm playing something bigger."
He leaned in close.
"Tell your bosses. The king's still on the board."