Mine

Rage

Charles

I couldn't bear it any longer. Watching her pull this shit on purpose, clearly pushing my limits, was driving me insane. When I saw her hug him, I wanted nothing more than to go up to that bastard and slice his hands for even thinking he could touch what was mine. Then I would punish her for letting another man touch her. She stood there, basking in her five minutes of victory, looking up at me with that smug expression, clearly impressed by her own actions.

I couldn't fucking stand it anymore.

Without a second thought, I turned and stormed away from the rink. The image of her in his fucking jersey was burned into my mind, a constant reminder of how she was torturing me. And it was exactly what she wanted.

I needed a release. Something to take the edge off this rage boiling inside me. As I made my way towards the underground illegal fighting ring, I tried to shake off the haunting image of her and Seb. The dimly lit alleys and the dark corners of the city provided the perfect backdrop for the chaos I was about to embrace.

The fighting ring was my sanctuary, the one place where I could unleash my anger without holding back. As I entered the dank, smoke-filled room, the familiar buzz of the crowd and the scent of sweat and blood hit me. The atmosphere was electric, charged with violence and adrenaline.

I approached the ring, my jaw set, fists clenched. The organisers knew me well, and they nodded in acknowledgment, already aware that I was here to vent. Without a word, I pulled out a thick stack of cash and slammed it onto the table, making it clear I wasn't here for bullshit. I was here to take out my rage.

They quickly found me a match a burly guy with a menacing look in his eyes. Perfect. As I stepped into the ring, I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. The crowd roared, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart and the relentless thoughts of Sarah in that damn jersey.

As I stepped into the ring, the dim lights cast eerie shadows on the bloodstained mat. The crowd's roars faded into a distant hum, replaced by the relentless pounding of my heart and the searing image of Saarah in that damn jersey. My opponent, a hulking mass of muscle with a sneer plastered on his face, stood ready. But he had no idea what was coming.

The bell rang, and I charged forward like a predator unleashed. My first punch connected with his jaw, sending a spray of blood and sweat into the air. He staggered, but I didn't give him a chance to recover. Another punch, this time to his gut, doubled him over. I grabbed his head and drove my knee into his face, feeling the sickening crunch of bone.

The crowd's cheers grew louder, but all I saw was red. I landed blow after blow, my fists a blur of fury. His attempts to fight back were feeble, barely more than a distraction. I was relentless, each punch fuelled by the image of Saarah and Seb. His face became a bloody mess, eyes swollen shut, lips split and oozing blood.

He fell to the ground, but I wasn't done. I straddled him, raining down punches with a primal roar. His blood coated my knuckles, his body twitching with each impact. The referees and organizers shouted, but I was beyond reason. I wanted to break him, to release every ounce of rage coursing through me.

Finally, hands pulled me off him, dragging me away. I looked down at my opponent, barely conscious, his face unrecognizable. I had beaten him nearly to death, but the rage still simmered beneath my skin. The crowd was in a frenzy, but I didn't care.

As I was led out of the ring, I glanced back one last time. The gruesome sight should have satisfied me, but it didn't. The fight had only momentarily dulled the pain. Saarah had won this round, but the game was far from finished.