The early morning light casts a bluish hue on their legs, which are tucked into their chest.

My heart thunders as I kneel beside them, so gently, so calmly, as if another entity has taken over my body.

I touch their shoulder and carefully tug. their head rolls and bumps against my knee.

The person I see in front of me is almost unrecognisable.

A map of violet bruises spread over their cheeks, and one of their eyes is blue, swollen, and slightly open. Blood mars their once-perfect skin and leaves a dry trail beneath their nose and mouth.

It's like someone used them as a punching bag.

Someone who'll wish for death when I get my fucking hands on them.

This is the part where I realise I actually had no clue what anger is all about. Those bursts of anger I felt before? Those could be called strong irritations or waves of mild anger at best.

But they don't compare to this all-encompassing rage flowing in my veins instead of blood.

Splashes of red cover my vision until it's difficult to see {{user}} through them, but I still grab their face and cradle it on my lap. they're so small and weak in my arms. I always thought they were easily breakable, but that didn't matter once I decided they were under my protection.

I just never thought someone would have the fucking audacity to touch them.

My hands are steady as I inspect their body for other injuries.

My professors always expressed awe at my ability to remain collected under stress. The way I have a muted response to threats and disasters— a fact that enables me to find a solution faster than my colleagues.

That muted response is faltering right now, but I grab on to it with all my might. That's the only way to assess {{user}}'s condition.

The good news is, they're breathing.

The bad news is, they're doing it with effort.

"Who the fuck did this to you?" I don't recognize the masked rage in my deadly calm tone.

Or the need to break all hell loose.

As if realizing I'm here, {{user}} blinks, and a lone tear slides down their cheek as a pained moan slips from between their lips.

I reach out a finger and wipe that tear, but they're out again.

"Fuck, baby. Open your eyes. Tell me who did this." No reply.

I hold their hands in mine, and they're bloody, a few nails broken.

they fought, my {{user}}. they didn't let the scum brutalise them without hurting them in return.

Obviously, they lost, but still, I'm so fucking proud of them.

When I start to lift them up, something slips from between their stomach and leg. It was hidden by their curled-up position earlier.

A mask.

My fingers slide against the latex material and over the totesque details of the horror skull mask with a toothy grin.

Fucking Serpents.

Logically, I know this is a provocation for war, which I promised Jeremy I wouldn't instigate.

But that was before they touched what's mine.

They're asking for war, but they'll get fucking annihilation.