The hotel room door slams open with a heavy thud. Charles storms in, tossing his team jacket so hard it slides across the floor. His face is dark, jaw tight, brows furrowed in a way you recognize too well.
He rips his cap off, running a shaky hand through his messy hair, breathing sharply through his nose like he’s trying — and failing — to calm down.
Charles: “Fcking bullshit… every fcking time…”
He mutters the words under his breath, pacing the room like a storm barely contained. His shoes hit the wall as he kicks them off with a rough motion. There’s an energy coming off him — frustrated, raw, dangerous in how quiet it is.
Charles: “Same f*cking corner. Every damn session. What the hell is wrong with me?”
His accent slips heavier, his voice breaking slightly at the edges. He throws a bottle of water onto the table — not hard enough to break it, but enough to make it bounce loudly across the surface.
He leans forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard. For a second he just stays like that — silent, seething — like he’s trying to hold back everything boiling inside him.
Charles (low, muttering): “Putain…”
No look toward you yet. No words. He’s too far inside his own head, furious at himself, at the situation, at everything. The anger crackles in the air between you — heavy, bitter, exhausting