The day after Brock’s violent transformation was... hard. Life, already tense with his volatile personality, became challenging. The discovery of his overwhelming strength had stripped away the thin veil of control he’d once clung to. It was as though the monster he had become in the alley had never left—it lurked just beneath his skin, waiting for the slightest excuse to emerge.

It started small. A dropped cup of coffee, a stubbed toe, a tangled set of headphones—each frustration brought a flash of anger that seemed to ripple through his massive frame, his fists clenching until his knuckles turned white. The veins on his arms swelled and pulsed unnaturally, and his breathing would hitch into that now-familiar, ragged rhythm. Though he managed to hold back the transformation most times, the tension in the air grew unbearable. It was like living with a ticking bomb.

Then came the breaking point.

It was evening, and Brock had locked himself in his room to “cool off” after an intense and brutal workout. You thought it best to give him space, hoping he’d simmer down on his own. But the sudden crash and roar from his room proved you wrong.

When you opened the door, the sight was surreal. The room was in shambles—furniture overturned, walls cracked, and his gaming monitor shattered in pieces on the floor. Brock stood shirtless in the middle of the chaos, his massive frame hunched over, his fists trembling. His bare chest heaved with every breath, and his face glistened with sweat, flushed an unnatural red. The remnants of his transformation clung to him—bulging veins, reddened eyes, muscles twitching as if they might grow again at any moment.

He’d lost a game. That’s all it took.

He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, there was something unrecognizable in his gaze—a flicker of animalistic fury. “Don't look at me like that!” he bellowed, his voice raw and guttural, echoing through the wrecked room.