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[h3][b][The Old Sentinel District, a Derelict Warehouse]
[The Night Before][/b][/h3]
Draven trudged through the crumbling streets of the old Sentinel District, a plastic grocery bag dangling from his hand. The ‘hero’s’ salary—what little was left of it—had sustained him thus far, but it was a far cry from the life he used to lead. His latest attempt at grocery shopping had been another exercise in frustration. The stores were crowded, even during hours when only night owls and misfits once roamed. He had preferred it that way, back when he didn’t have to dodge strollers or endure the endless chatter of the public he once served.

As he neared the warehouse that now masqueraded as his home, he paused at the battered metal door. A sigh slipped out, carrying with it a quiet prayer.

[Colour=B20000][i]Please, not tonight,[/i]”[/colour] he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with resignation.

The door groaned open, the hinges protesting in a drawn-out wail. The interior was just as he’d left it—dim, damp, and bearing the scars of long-forgotten fires. Charred walls and a lingering smell of ash reminded him daily of the life he’d burned to the ground, both literally and figuratively. Yet, past the desolation of the outer corridors lay a patch of relative normalcy.

Draven had spent months carving out a semblance of living space from the ruins. The concrete walls, ceiling, and floors gave the area an austere, bunker-like quality, and every piece of furniture—if it could be called that—was made of concrete or metal. Anything remotely flammable was locked away in fireproof containers. It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe, and for Draven, safety had become synonymous with solitude.

He entered the makeshift kitchen and set the offending plastic bag on the counter. The fact that paper bags had fallen out of fashion annoyed him more than it should have. After all, they were biodegradable. Grumbling to himself, he unpacked the meager assortment of items he had managed to procure.

For once, the warehouse was silent, devoid of unwelcome visitors. His self-proclaimed ‘fan’ hadn’t shown up yet, which spared him the task of scrubbing scorch marks off the floors after futile attempts to burn the creature into oblivion. He leaned against the counter, his mind drifting.

Why Glutton—[i]that thing[/i]—kept coming here was beyond comprehension. The demon, as he liked to call it, was the only one who still dared to call him by his old name: Blaze. A name Draven had long since buried, along with the bright-eyed fool who thought the world was worth saving.

Blaze was dead. Nova City had killed him. He had been remade in the ashes of their betrayal—he was Hellfire now. A villain, yes, but at least an honest one.

Still, Glutton clung to the name as if it had meaning, as if the hero it belonged to could somehow be coaxed back to life. [color=FF4040]“[i]Blaze,[/i]”[/color] the creature would rasp with that maddening grin. Draven’s fists clenched at the memory. He’d tried to burn it out of Glutton, but the demon was as stubborn as it was grotesque.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. The flames flickering at his fingertips faded.

[hr]
[h3][b][The Following Morning][/b][/h3]
The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Draven was already awake. Sleep came in short, unsatisfying bursts these days. Concrete beds weren’t exactly designed for comfort, even when covered with the best flame-retardant sheets he could find. Not that it mattered. The lingering heat from his Hellfire often left the bedding smelling faintly of smoke by morning.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the slab, his feet met the cold, unforgiving surface of the concrete floor. He winced slightly, slipping on a pair of well-worn, fireproof slippers that made faint scuffing sounds as he shuffled into the kitchen.

With the remote in one hand, he flicked on the television, letting the familiar hum of morning news fill the air. It wasn’t so much entertainment as it was white noise to drown out the echoing silence of the warehouse. The anchor’s monotone voice prattled on about weather forecasts and mundane local events, but Draven hardly paid attention.

His focus was on the battered coffee maker sitting on the counter—a relic from a better time. He filled it with water and a scoop of cheap, pre-ground coffee, its bitter smell wafting through the kitchen as it brewed. Grabbing a chipped ceramic mug, he waited, leaning against the counter as the machine sputtered to life.

The screen behind him flashed brighter as the segment transitioned, catching his eye. He turned back, watching absently as the headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“[b]Bank robbery in progress at Nova First National Bank,[/b]” the anchor announced, her voice carrying a note of urgency.

Draven’s brow furrowed, his interest piqued. He grabbed his mug, the coffee still steaming, and took a careful sip as the report continued. The camera cut to a chaotic scene outside the bank—shattered glass, panicked civilians, and the familiar glint of hero armor.

Still shirtless, he crossed the room, leaning closer to the television. The announcer began listing the heroes who had arrived on the scene, her voice now bordering on excited. Then, a name that made him freeze:

[b]”Glutton.”[/b]

Draven’s breath hitched slightly, the mug hovering mid-air. He set it down with a faint clink, his jaw tightening as the screen displayed the figure of the demon among the would-be heroes.

[Colour=B20000]“[i]What the hell are you doing?[/i]”[/colour] he muttered, his voice laced with irritation.

He turned from the television and walked briskly back to the bedroom, the concrete floor cool under his feet. Tossing on a black shirt and a pair of worn jeans, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. A shadow of who he’d been stared back—gaunt, unshaven, and tired.

Fully dressed, he returned to the kitchen, pouring another splash of coffee into his mug. Glutton’s name repeated in his head, each echo tugging at a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

The thought of the demon meeting its end in a mundane robbery was, at first, satisfying. But the longer the idea lingered, the more it rankled. Draven chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter to watch the broadcast unfold.

[Colour=B20000]”I’ve tried to kill you myself, you [i]bastard,[/i]”[/colour] he mused aloud, taking another sip. [Colour=B20000]”If I couldn’t, I doubt a couple of crooks will manage it.”[/colour]

He set the mug down, his lips twitching into a wry smile. Still, a flicker of unease remained. Whatever game Glutton was playing, it was bound to be as maddening as it was dangerous.

[Colour=B20000]“[i]Do [i]not[/i] disappoint me, Demon.[/i]”[/colour] Draven muttered, his voice low and cold.

As the camera panned to the ongoing chaos, he settled into the chair nearest the television, coffee in hand, wondering just how far the morning would spiral.