A-25

Nevertheless, Draven remained fixated on the bartender, not sparing a glance at the bald man and his agitated group of five.

Strange loading sounds emanated from the blaster-like muzzle as a blue energy slowly accumulated at its tip, poised to unleash upon Draven at any moment.

Still, Draven's demeanor remained unchanged, his indifference unwavering.

At that critical juncture, when the energy blast was on the verge of exiting the blaster's muzzle, a slightly portly man, dressed in a formal white button-up shirt and black trousers, leaped in between the bald man's blaster muzzle and the apathetic Draven.

"No showdowns in my bar, Azeroth. Last time something like this went down, I lost half my staff and my bar was practically demolished," the man chided, his irritation palpable.

Despite this, the bald man's blaster still remained aimed, the blue energy poised to erupt at any second.

This visibly irritated the bar owner, who, with a firm push, redirected the bald man's blaster away from both Draven and himself.

"If you can't follow the rules, find another bar where you're less likely to attract the attention of the government's Mecha Task Force," he scolded sternly.

Azeroth, deep in thought, seemed to consider the bar owner's words, and the energy building within his blaster muzzle dwindled significantly. After a while, he retracted the blaster's muzzle, replacing it with a clenched fist.

"Let's go," he stated simply, and began walking away from the bar, followed closely by his group of five.

Watching Azeroth and his crew retreat, the bar owner let out an exasperated sigh before turning to glance at Draven. He seemed to want to say something but, after another resigned sigh, he walked away.

Draven shifted his gaze in the direction the bar owner had departed, then returned his attention to the empty glass before him.

"Another," he requested.

Having consumed over ten shots of Jägerbomb and feeling slightly intoxicated, Draven retrieved his transparent card, paid for his drink, and prepared to leave the counter and the bar. However, as he moved to do so, a figure dressed in a black trench coat and black pants, their face concealed beneath a fedora hat, approached him, gripping his shoulder.

Draven's hand instinctively reached for his dagger, but when he realized the grip wasn't hostile, he refrained from drawing it yet.

"You're Draven, the Mercenary, correct? I have a job for you," the figure inquired.

Draven furrowed his brows, trying to discern the face hidden beneath the hat. He could tell from the figure's voice that they were male and in a hurry.

"What do you want?" Draven finally responded.

The figure swiftly took a seat beside Draven, producing a package from his coat and passing it to Draven.

Draven examined the package with caution. It was wrapped in a small envelope labeled 'confidential' with tape.

"What's this?" he asked after a careful inspection.

"We don't have time to delve into details. All you need to know is it's called A-25, and I need you to deliver it to someone."

Draven's skepticism and caution were more evident as his grip on the dagger in his suit tightened.

The figure who seemed to sense his apprehension, quickly raised both hands in a gesture of non-hostility.

"Listen to me. You'll have to trust me on this. The less you know, the safer you'll be."

"We're running out of time. I have money, a lot of it, for this mission— I'll pay 1 million credits, I swear, and I can give it to you right now."

Draven's grip on the dagger relaxed upon hearing the substantial sum, although his gaze remained suspicious.

"Where and to whom am I delivering this?" he inquired.

"You'll be delivering the package to—"

The figure abruptly ceased speaking, and after a few moments of silence, Draven sensed something was amiss.

He leaned closer to the figure's face, noticing a trickle of crimson liquid slowly emerging from a small but noticeable hole that pierced the man's head, from the back to the front.

Within seconds, the figure slumped lifelessly to the floor, drawing the attention of most patrons in the bar.

He could hear people gathering around and asking what had transpired, but the words were unintelligible as Draven's mind was however preoccupied with something else.

Swiftly, he tore open the envelope concealing the package.

Inside was a small black cube adorned with dull blue stripes of light that intermittently pulsed as though it had a heartbeat.

As Draven took hold of the cube, his heart rate quickened, and an ominous sensation enveloped him. His breath grew heavy, the surrounding voices and inquiries growing more distant.

Someone suddenly firmly grasped his shoulder, causing him to slowly turn and face the intruder.

It was then he realized that the bar was ablaze. 

Flames consuming everything in their path, accompanied by agonized screams and shouts.

Some patrons attempted to escape but found themselves unable to breach the inferno, ultimately succumbing to the flames.

Draven then noticed that he too was engulfed in flames—his clothes, flesh, and bones slowly succumbing to the intense heat.

As he registered his dire predicament, he unleashed guttural screams of agony, joining the few who had yet to succumb fully to the inferno.

Draven could feel his organs rapidly disintegrating from the heat while the smoke from the fire slowly suffocated him.

It was the most painful feeling he had ever had.

And trust. For a singular mercenary in this era without any form of cybernetics augmentations or backings, he had seen a lot of different pains.