It was late at night, and within the empty training field which was usually vacant at this hour, one could hear the rhythmic collision of a person's fists beating angrily against the punching bag echoing throughout the room. A Hunter, young, perhaps no more than in his mid-to-early teens stood in the room, alone. His brown hair was soaked in his own sweat, his predatory golden eyes, never leaving his target. His footwork was practiced, drilled into the boy's body after countless hours of training. His strikes were all lethally precise, always finding its way true to its intended target. They were very much like bullets of their own, lightning fast, no more than blurs. However, if one were to look at the way he fought, one could tell he poured forth nothing but primal, unadulerated rage and hatred in his punches. 

The only one who truly fought with such ferocity like that of a murderous savage beast as this boy did that was a Freshman, Raven Clovis. However, it was not the lack of sleep which made him angry as he was now - rather, the sleep itself, because of the memories it brought. He wanted to forget, and he felt the medicines that the doctors were providing him for what they called the 'PTSD' (post traumatic stress disorder) was doing very little to his supposed 'recovery'. However, the therapists told him that such traumas took time, and even if time healed and closed up the wounds, the scars would remain ever present, just waiting to open up again. Even with the medicines that he took, the brunette couldn't find himself sleeping, and the only cure he had for it was by tiring himself out. Force his body to shut down completely. 

<"Faster."> The boy told himself. 

PUNCH. 

<"STRONGER!"> 

Letting out a silent howl of hatred, Raven's punch finally tore the punching bag off of its chains before it simply exploded into a cloud of dust and sand which seemed to scatter throughout the room. The boy stopped, motionless, his body desperately gasping for air which his lungs seemed to desperately lack. The mute thought about how many times he punched the bag, but he dwelled not too deeply into it as he lost count after a hundred or two. Still, it still disturbed him that he was tired out only by this much. He thought he was in a much better physical condition than this.

Was it because of how heavy his prosthetic arm was? 

Raven looked at the mechanical arm that glistened darkly in obsidian under the lights that the room provided him with. His eyes narrowed. He hated it. He hated this scrap metal that had this symbiotic relationship to his body. It was like a parasite, leeching off of him, attached to his flesh and blood to make up for the missing limb. There were times when he could feel his left arm in his sleep, but only to wake up to this metal abomination shoved into the stump of his shoulder. Clicking his tongue, the boy decided to grab the dustbin and broom at the corner of his room, but he found himself stopping in his tracks at the sudden sound of footsteps that werent his own. 

Who came here at this late at night? The boy's eyes turned towards the figure for a moment, questioning their intents for being here, but their business was not his. Whatever it was, he'd carry on with his own task, and then act as if this person never existed - unless this person just decided to come up and talk to him.