I tried not to think about it too much as we headed back to the training ground.
The rest of practice was intense. Hazel pushed us harder than usual, running us through drills until my muscles screamed. But I welcomed the pain. It was better than thinking about those pictures, about those dead children, about my father’s role in all of it.
Every punch I threw, I imagined it landing on my father’s face. Every kick was meant for him. Every block was me protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.
By the time the second break rolled around, I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard, but I felt more alive than I had in days.
“You’re doing well,” Hazel said, handing me a towel. “Better than well, actually. You’re angry.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all. Anger can be useful if you
