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Oranges hues of the setting sun beamed down with a vigor, highlighting the students swollen features. The wind carries the howls of his fellow classmates and amplifies its mockery, fueling his already ravenous fighting spirit.
Nikolai’s breath heaves as he forces himself to straighten his spine. Adrenaline yelling over his cries of pain as he lifts his fist.
A hazel glare peers through bruised hands and pale curls.
The delinquent lunges with no grace, merely advancing their target. Aiming for any spot that was left open to them. Excitement and fury spoke in every punch, twitch and shudder. He relishes in the moment of ecstasy, even if its ending was clear to him.
He’s going to lose.
Fuzzy white palettes of black with specks of white unceremoniously swirl above him. Melding and mixing until a mostly cohesive picture could be made out.
Slowly but surely the world around him begins to make more sense. Though his foggy sense of being dwells like a thick fog.
Nikolai attempts to cautiously lift himself up from the ground before wincing and failing. He just had to go into town. Whatever. Wasn’t like he was in much of a rush or anything.
While it took him a while he managed to haul himself to the public park nestled right on the edge of town and attempt to patch himself up with whatever he could find.
He inspects the injuries that sprinkle his face with intrigue and admiration. Even though he wasn’t able to see much on the cracked and graffitied mirror, it filled him with pride nonetheless. When he heard news that the Alexander Pushkin wanted to pick a fight with him, it filled him with a tremendous joy.
It wasn’t like he was expecting to win. Even so he couldn’t help but hold a bit of pride for holding his own.