The city lights dimmed behind him as Draven approached the quiet stretch of riverbank. The docks were nearly empty, the water reflecting faint streaks of moonlight. The port had an abandoned, almost forgotten air, but Draven's instincts told him that somewhere in this place, answers waited.
He dismounted the motorcycle, letting it fade into the shadows, and moved carefully toward the old boathouse at the edge of the pier. Its weathered wood groaned under his touch as he stepped closer, the night air thick with the scent of water and decay.
Draven's eyes swept across the ground, scanning for any unusual markings or hidden entrances. Then he noticed it — a small patch of green, slightly out of place among the worn planks. A tuft of grass, clinging stubbornly to life at the corner of the boathouse. He knelt, inspecting it, fingers brushing against the wooden floor.
A quiet tick, tick — the sound of something loose beneath the boards. He pressed down, breaking a small section of the aged wood, and reached inside.
His fingers touched a stack of folders, old but carefully preserved, hidden from casual eyes. He pulled them out, brushing off the dust. Opening the top folder, he discovered documents that made his eyes narrow: research projects, confidential company experiments, and records of illegal funding. They were tied to his father's company, secretive projects and transactions that had never been disclosed — a financial and intellectual web hidden deep beneath the public image.
Nothing explicitly named UNSCAD, but Draven could feel the threads stretching outward — patterns, anomalies, and transactions that suggested something bigger, a hidden structure orchestrating events from the shadows.
He leaned back, the folders spread before him, and allowed himself a moment to see the bigger picture forming in his mind. The return of the Ashbourne heir was only the beginning. Beneath the surface, a vast and dangerous network awaited, one that had touched his father, his family, and the city itself.
---
A faint sound caught his attention — voices, low and cautious, drifting toward the boathouse. Draven froze. Three tones, then the creak of footsteps. Slowly, he peered through a gap in the boards, counting shapes in the dim moonlight: five figures, each armed, moving toward the boathouse.
He melted into the shadows behind stacked crates, calm and controlled. His mind flickered briefly to the past — the battlefield, the smell of smoke and gunpowder, the weight of weapons in his hands, the chaos of orders shouted over the roar of combat. A small smile touched his lips. He had faced worse.
---
Draven moved with lethal precision.
The nearest man leaned against the doorway — a sharp elbow, and he collapsed silently. The second turned, alert — a swift leg sweep, and he toppled over with a muted thud. Two more approached from opposite sides; a knee here, a strike there, and they joined their companions on the ground, unconscious.
Only one remained — the leader, slightly taller, eyes wide as he realized the others had fallen. Draven emerged from the shadows, voice calm and deadly: "Stay on your knees. One wrong move, and you'll join the rest."
The intruder swallowed hard. "I… I don't know much," he stammered, voice trembling. "The call came from an unknown number. I couldn't return it. I swear, I don't know anything else!"
"Where is your boss?" Draven asked, dark eyes narrowing.
"He… he's at the old warehouse by the east docks. That's all I know, I swear!"
Draven rose smoothly, striking the intruder to render him unconscious. He slipped onto his motorcycle, the black machine gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Engine growling, he sped through the night, adrenaline humming through him, each second bringing him closer to the warehouse that held the answers he sought.
---
Arriving at the east dock warehouse, Draven parked his bike in the shadows. He pulled a black face mask over his features, slipped on a hooded jacket, and approached the entrance. The warehouse loomed, spilling light and muffled voices into the night. About twenty men were inside, clustered in small groups, talking and laughing.
At the far side, the boss sat casually on a crate, two women playfully leaning on him, laughing. Draven stepped into the warehouse, every movement measured, every step deliberate.
"Who's the boss here?" he demanded, voice low but firm.
The man glanced up, a smirk forming. "Who's asking?"
Draven didn't flinch. He stepped closer, the shadows of his hood hiding his features, letting the silence press against the group like a tangible force. "I want to speak to the one in charge. Now."
The boss's smirk faltered slightly as the room went quiet. All eyes turned to the newcomer, a single figure who carried authority without needing to raise his voice. For the first time tonight, the man on the crate realized that the Ashbourne heir did not return to wait.
---
The twenty men immediately stepped forward, brandishing bats, pipes, and other crude weapons. Draven's dark eyes swept across the room, calculating. He picked up a handful of loose lightbulbs and flung them across the floor, shattering several at once. Sparks and shards flew as the warehouse plunged into darkness.
Chaos erupted. Men swung blindly at shadows, crashing into walls and crates. Draven moved like a shadow himself, striking quickly, efficiently, taking them down one by one. Elbows, knees, and precise strikes incapacitated all twenty men within minutes.
As the last man hit the ground, the two women who had been with the boss ran screaming toward the exit, disappearing into the night.
The boss rose, finally confronting Draven alone. He threw a few hesitant punches, but each was easily dodged or countered. Within moments, Draven struck him with a combination that sent the man sprawling unconscious.
Draven moved swiftly, securing the boss. Using ropes nearby, he hanged the man upside down, suspended from a beam in the center of the warehouse. By the time the boss awoke, groaning and disoriented, he was already dangling helplessly, staring up at the calm, dark figure of the Ashbourne heir.
---
The boss's subordinate stammered, voice trembling. "I… I don't know… The call was from an unknown number. I couldn't call back. That's all I know!"
Draven stepped closer, calm and deliberate. Without a word, he grabbed the man's phone, checking the recent call logs. Then he dialed. A brief pause, a few taps, and a voice answered. The police.
"Hello," Draven said, steady and precise. "There's a warehouse at the east docks. Twenty armed men, a gang leader, and an illegal operation underway. You're going to want to send backup immediately."
He hung up, dropping the phone back into the subordinate's trembling hands. The message was clear: the law would soon handle the rest.
---
Draven mounted his motorcycle once more, engine humming as he sped away. Behind him, sirens began to wail faintly in the distance. A mile down the road, he slowed, pulling to the side.
From his pocket, he retrieved his phone and dialed a trusted contact. The line clicked. "Hey," he said casually, a hint of a smile in his tone. "I need a favor. Can you help me track a number? I'll send it to you — nothing urgent, just… details. Can you handle that?"
"Of course," came the warm, familiar reply. "Send it over."
Draven ended the call and forwarded the number, already envisioning how the information might unfold. The sirens in the distance grew louder, but he didn't glance back.
He started the bike again and headed home, letting the city lights fade behind him. Once inside, he parked quietly in the garage, removed his helmet, and walked straight to his room. The night had been long, but the threads were finally beginning to unravel. In the solitude of his room, Draven could think, plan, and watch the pieces move into place.
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