Draven hated hospitals.
The antiseptic sting in the air. The sterile light. The hum of machines pretending to care.
But he wasn't here for care.
He was here for answers.
The underground medical bay beneath Burnside General was run by off-the-books professionals—ex-military medics, rogue surgeons, even one former League of Shadows defector. Gotham's wounded warriors came here when official channels weren't safe.
Draven winced as a pair of cold hands pressed against his stitched ribs.
"Still breathing. Impressive, considering how much blood you left behind," came a voice—cool, dry, but distinctly feminine.
He turned his head.
She stood in a sleeveless black tactical vest, her raven hair tied back, a small tattoo curling from her collarbone. Her gaze was sharp—calculating, like she could strip a man's soul bare with a glance.
"Selene Voss," she said before he could ask. "Combat medic. Sharpshooter. Very good at keeping people like you alive."
"You patched me up?" he asked.
She nodded. "I also pulled you out of the blast zone while Batman was playing shadow tag."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No," she said, smirking. "You need a leash."
He tried to sit up. Pain flashed through his ribs. She didn't stop him—but she didn't look impressed either.
"You're not GCPD," he muttered.
"Nope."
"Not Ash Circle either?"
"Hell no."
"Then why help me?"
Her smile vanished.
"Because Gotham doesn't need more soldiers. It needs survivors."
The words hit harder than they should've.
Before he could reply, a tremor rattled the underground facility. Alarms flared red. Selene turned sharply, reaching for her rifle.
"What now?" Draven muttered, sliding off the bed and staggering to his feet.
Then the intercom crackled.
"Multiple hostiles breaching through sewer access. Armed. Coordinated."
Ash Circle.
Draven grabbed his sidearm. Selene was already moving, her footsteps silent as she stalked toward the blast door. He followed, adrenaline blurring the pain.
When the doors opened, smoke flooded the hallway.
And through it came monsters.
Not literal—but close. Black tactical armor. Crimson visors. Modified rifles. These weren't street thugs.
These were killers.
Selene opened fire first, a shot to the lead attacker's visor that sent him tumbling backward. Draven flanked her, emptying his magazine into the hallway as he advanced.
The corridor became a warzone.
Sparks danced on metal. Muzzle flashes lit blood-slick floors. Draven vaulted over a gurney, tackled one of the intruders, and slammed his elbow into the man's throat.
Behind him, Selene spun with lethal grace, reloading mid-motion, dropping two more with precision headshots.
"Who the hell are these guys?" Draven shouted.
"No idea," she said, breathless. "But they don't want us dead."
Draven frowned. "What?"
She pointed.
The soldiers weren't shooting to kill—they were targeting the database. The facility's drive cores. Erasing files. Erasing people.
"They're cleaning house," Selene said grimly.
And that's when it clicked.
They weren't after Batman.
They were after Draven.
Or more accurately—his past.
Whatever he'd stumbled into, it wasn't over.
A sudden explosion rocked the ceiling above. Dust cascaded like ash.
From the smoke, a final attacker emerged—taller, more armored than the others, bearing a strange insignia carved into his chest plate: an ouroboros, serpent devouring its tail.
He lunged at Draven.
Fists met fists.
Draven was tough—but this one was faster. Trained in close combat. For a moment, Draven faltered—until Selene leapt onto the soldier's back and jammed a syringe into his neck.
The man spasmed—and collapsed.
Draven caught his breath, panting.
Selene looked at him. "Still think you don't need a babysitter?"
He chuckled, despite the blood on his lip. "You always flirt with adrenaline in your veins?"
She stepped closer. "Only with guys who don't know when to quit."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, just a moment, the war faded. There was fire there—but not just from combat.
Connection.
And it terrified him more than any bullet.