“I feel the fury coursing through my veins - a burning, explicit anger that transforms every drop of blood into a weapon. Tonight, rage isn’t an emotion; it’s ammunition, and I can almost hear every heartbeat chambering another round.”
--
The training yard squats on the fringe of a ruined industrial block - four cracked walls, a ceiling long gone, and enough open sky for the moon to stare down like a voyeur. Rust‑flecked floodlights throw harsh cones across scarred concrete, illuminating stains that never quite wash away. Broken pallets and dented steel drums form improvised barriers; shattered rebar juts like fangs from the ground. The air reeks of engine oil, gun solvent, and something coppery that memories label instantly: dried blood, sweat, fear.
I step onto the pitted floor barefo
