He is seething. His knuckles are aching to connect with skin and bone. Nobody treats him like rubbish and gets away with it.
He starts his assault. Blow after blow lands unforgivingly on the worn out leather of the punching bag that hangs in the corner of his bedroom.
Not enough. Not enough. He needs more.
Wordlessly he turns around and goes straight for the sparring dummy near his closet. He closes his eyes and wills the image of the cause of his humiliation into his mind.
He needs to hurt the way he was hurt. He needs to inflict pain the way pain was inflicted on him. He needs to win. He was born to win. Nobody is better. Nobody is more worthy of winning than him.
The shrill ringing of his phone snaps him out of his mindless rage. He looks down and sees his bloody fists, momentarily confused as to why they are a mangled mess. When he looks up, he sees blood on his wall with bits of flesh sticking out glaringly against the white paint.
He makes a mental note to call his father's head contractor to get his bedroom wall fixed before picking up and answering his phone.
"What?"
"I have the photos and the address you wanted me to get. Where can we meet and when?"
He looks at the clock and sees that it is half past 10 in the evening.
"I'm coming over."
He hastily showers and bandages his knuckles, eager to see the pictures he paid for and the woman he paid to get them for him.
*•*•*•*
Author's note: PLOT TWIST! Yun lang. Bow.
