It had been a week since Isabelle's kidnapping.
The city had already moved on, newspapers replacing the incident with fresher headlines. The police filed it as "a failed abduction," the kind that begins and ends with unanswered questions. The official story said a van dropped her off outside the nearest precinct one foggy night, unharmed but shaken. No names, no faces, no trail.
But inside the Ashbourne mansion, silence had become the loudest sound.
Draven hadn't slept properly since that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, the battlefield came back—
the clash of steel,
the screams of dying comrades,
the heavy stench of blood thick enough to taste.
And in the middle of it all, he saw himself again—
not the businessman the world knew,
but the weapon he'd once been.
He woke with a gasp, his body coated in cold sweat.
Morning light bled weakly through the curtains. He rubbed his face, sighed, and whispered to no one,
"Still there, huh?"
After a cold shower, he made his way downstairs, past the quiet hallways and portraits of ancestors who seemed to judge him with their painted eyes. The gym smelled of metal and discipline. He wrapped his hands, stepped to the center mat, and began his routine.
Each strike was sharp, rhythmic—
left jab, right hook, pivot, kick.
Every motion designed to silence the noise in his head.
But the silence never lasted long.
Upstairs, Isabelle knocked on his door.
No answer.
She frowned, pushed the door open, and found the room empty. The bed untouched, documents scattered on his desk. She sighed softly and turned, following the distant sound of fists hitting something hard.
When she entered the gym, she froze.
Draven was shirtless, his skin gleaming with sweat, veins standing out across his arms as he pounded the sandbag like it had personally offended him. His strikes were too sharp, too precise for someone who wasn't trained to kill.
For a moment, her mind flashed back—to that night, to the faceless man who had saved her. The man who moved just like this. The way his shoulders rolled, the silent grace before each strike.
She swallowed hard.
"Draven," she said softly.
He stopped, breathing hard, eyes still dark with something she couldn't name. When he turned to her, it was like watching two versions of him—the calm brother she knew, and something else lurking beneath the surface.
"You're up early," he said, voice rough.
"So are you," she replied, crossing her arms. "You've been training every morning this week. What's wrong? You look… exhausted."
He grabbed a towel, wiped his face. "It's nothing. Just business pressure. The company's expansion, new investors—too much noise."
Isabelle studied him quietly. She didn't believe a word.
She'd tried asking before—about the night she was rescued—but he always brushed it off, pretending it was luck, or that the police found her in time. Yet deep down, she felt the truth hovering between them.
A truth he refused to let her touch.
"Business pressure," she repeated, almost to herself. "Right."
He looked away. "Go get some rest, Isabelle. You've been through enough."
She hesitated, then nodded and left, though her heart felt heavier with every step.
Later that morning, Draven sat in his office, staring blankly at a stack of documents. The numbers blurred together, meaningless. When the door opened, Orion stepped in, his usual half-smile in place.
"You look like hell," Orion said casually, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Draven smirked faintly. "Good morning to you too."
Orion leaned on the edge of the desk. "You haven't been sleeping much, huh?"
Draven shrugged. "I'm fine. Just restless."
"Restless," Orion echoed, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "Yeah… business can do that."
The sarcasm in his voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to earn him a side glance.
"Something you want to say?" Draven asked.
"Not a thing," Orion replied, straightening with that fox-like grin. "Just saying you should learn to rest once in a while. You're human, last I checked."
Draven gave a dry laugh. "Sometimes I wonder."
Orion smirked, then waved lazily. "Anyway, I'll let you drown in your paperwork. I've got my own pile waiting."
And with that, he was gone.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Draven sat there for a long time, unmoving, until finally he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered for a second over a contact marked only with a symbol—no name. Then he pressed it.
The line rang once, twice.
Then a low voice answered, calm, amused.
"Well, well… I didn't expect you to call first."
Draven's tone was steady but cold. "We need to talk. Urgently."
"Mm." The voice hummed. "Convenient timing. I was planning to come to your city anyway. Let's say… by the weekend?"
Draven's eyes narrowed. "Fine. I'll be waiting."
"Good. Try not to start another war before I arrive."
The call ended.
He sat back, exhaling slowly, mind already shifting gears.
The weekend.
That meant less than two days.
That evening, when he returned to the Ashbourne mansion, he found Nora descending the stairs, dressed in casual elegance, phone in hand.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, raising a brow.
She smiled awkwardly. "Yeah… a date."
He sighed. "Again? With who this time?"
Silence.
Then she met his eyes, hesitant but firm. "Orion."
The room went still.
Draven stared at her, unreadable. His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed low.
"You're serious?"
She nodded. "It's not official yet. I just… like him. And I want this to work. Please, big brother… don't get in the way."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he gave a short, tired exhale and turned away.
"Do whatever you want," he muttered. "Just don't get hurt."
Her face softened with relief. "Thank you."
He didn't look back as she left, the sound of her heels fading down the hall.
When she was gone, Draven walked into the old family library. The air smelled of aged books and memories. He stood in front of the massive window where his father once used to watch the rain fall and the city lights flicker below.
He took out his phone again, this time calling Gideon.
"Prepare a room in one of our hotels," he said quietly. "I'm expecting someone. Someone important."
"Yes, sir," Gideon replied.
Draven ended the call and stayed there a while, his reflection staring back at him from the glass.
The night outside was quiet.
Too quiet.
And somewhere inside him, the Raven began to stir again.