COMPLETED
Mad:
•Insane
•Very angry
•Great, remarkable
Sang Sorenson is mad. Very mad. But growing up in the mafia with an abusive family, who wouldn't be? Sang is ordered to kidnap a certain growing team in the Academy, the Blackbourne-Toma team. Wi...
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Leaving the dungeon, I amble to the library for my studying.
What fun.
Trey greets me with a huge smile, his dark eyes glittering and his orange hair sticking out in every direction.
"Hey, Sang! It's been a few days since you last showed up. What happened?"
Annoyed that I have to answer that same question again, I reply, "Got my ribs broken in a fight, lost control and killed my opponent, got locked in the Waiting Room, got locked in the White Room, and then was beat with the leather again."
Trey winces dramatically, "That would certainly explain it. You okay?"
I nod and select a thick, red book from his spilling stack on the table.
Trey smiles again and we begin to learn together.
Trey struggles a little with the math, but I am able to easily help him with it.
"Sang, I feel bad," Trey complains. "I'm supposed to be teaching you, not the other way around!"
I roll my eyes.
"Big deal, Trey. It's just quantum mechanics, it's not rocket science or anything."
Trey mutters something under his breath that I am unable to catch.
Deciding to ignore him, I throw myself into my studies and lose myself in the facts. Once again, I am thankful for my tunnel vision.
Finally done, I head to the training center same as usual. Well, until I am stopped by McCoy. His oh so familiar smell of cologne and blood hits me like a smack in the face.
"Hello," He says slowly, looking me up and down.
"Damianus," I greet him curtly. I smile inwardly as he clenches his jaw at the use of his first name.
Damianus McCoy. My last favorite person on this planet. If I had the choice to kill one person in the world, I wouldn't choose him. I would make his life hell and slowly torture him psychologically and physically, enjoying every second of his agony and revelling in his screams. No, death would be too kind and wouldn't give me the satisfaction of seeing the blood drip out of him, seeing him struggle and break down, and the feeling of his bones breaking with each blow.
His intense brown eyes seem to pore into your soul and his dull brown hair is always combed back carefully. McCoy is careful, too careful if you ask me, to maintain his image of a respectful and powerful man.
McCoy's followers are behind him, like always.
"Hello, Ancel, Bardolph, Nym, Malcolm," I say to the four men flanking McCoy. Honestly, I am a bit surprised that there are only four of them with McCoy. After all, McCoy has many followers.
