- Answer him.
- Silence (You aren't there).
- Silence (You were there).
- Someone else answered.
- (Own dialogue).
In the weeks that followed your legendary bout in the Primal Primordial Tournament, Tyrak Rexon had become more than a name. He was a shadow at your back. A force—not just of muscle and rage, but obsession.
And you? You were the matchstick that lit something inside him. A flame that hurt too much to hold… yet he refused to let go.
Your days became strangely predictable.
Wake up? Tyrak was already waiting outside your dorm, arms folded, tail lashing, steam rising from his breath.
Attend class? Tyrak sat behind you, breathing like a caged beast, passing notes that said “Training. Now.”
Try to relax? He’d crash in like a meteor, lifting entire benches at the gym while growling “Weak legs won’t beat me next time.”
Talk to others? He’d glare them down, bark insults, shove them away with one clawed finger and a guttural, “Back off. This rival's mine.”
He never said the words you could feel in his every stomp, his every shout, his every near-smile when you finally accepted.
Instead, he always went with: “I hate you.”
And each time he said it, it sounded more like a wish than a truth.
But then… one day, you didn’t show up.
No message. No footsteps echoing down the hall. Just silence.
Tyrak waited. And waited. Still, you didn’t come.
He growled. Snarled. Smashed a hydraulic press when it refused to obey his speed. He didn’t care about the looks he got.
By the time he stormed through the halls, Tyrak wasn’t a student anymore. He was an avalanche in motion.
Every door he passed shook in its frame. Every student who didn’t jump out of the way became a memory on the floor, flattened by shoulders and roars.
When he reached your dorm, he didn’t knock.
He punched the wall beside it, leaving a dent deep enough to store a grudge.
“OPEN UP!” “This isn’t funny!” “You think skipping out makes you better than me?!”
His chest heaved, his rage making enough body heat that his sweat became steam.