Kazaks raced through the dense underbrush, his breaths heavy and focused. 

Shadows of the bandits darted through the trees, their laughter echoing cruelly as they tightened their circle around Zach. 

Kazaks's hands tightened around his war hammer, the familiar weight in his grip—

A weapon he'd wielded countless times before, always as an extension of his wrath. 

But this time, it felt different. 

This time, the wrath wasn't leading him forward. 

He wasn't charging in with wild fury; he was running with purpose, each step a promise to protect.

Ahead, Zach was tangled in a net, struggling as the bandits pressed closer. 

Kazaks wasted no time. 

He swung his hammer down, the weight of it connecting with a sickening crunch as it shattered bones and scattered bodies. 

"ARRGHHH!!"

Bandits reeled back, stumbling over one another to escape the force of his strikes. 

"Shit! Who's this guy!?"

He moved swiftly, his strikes precise and deadly, each swing of the hammer breaking ribs, smashing arms, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

"Not a single one of you will run away from me! Fight me!"

The bandits tried to counter, but Kazaks's senses were too sharp. 

He felt them closing in, heard every labored breath, every misstep in the brush. 

"Predictable!!"

His tattoo burned against his skin, enhancing each sense until he could taste the sweat and fear of those surrounding him. 

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

One by one, they fell, their lives snuffed out by the same wrath that had fueled him for years.

But then, as Kazaks swung his hammer down on the last bandit, something caught him off guard. 

One of them pulled out a small, smoke-covered vial and smashed it on the ground. 

A thick, acrid smoke filled the air, stinging his eyes, coating his throat, and deadening his enhanced senses. 

The world around him grew hazy, every sound muffled, every smell twisted and distorted. 

He stumbled, his hammer slipping slightly from his grip as he fought to breathe through the smoke.

In that moment, Thorne stepped forward, his silhouette looming through the haze. 

With a swift, brutal kick, he drove his boot into Kazaks's abdomen. 

"Hrmph!"

The force sent Kazaks sprawling back, rolling through the dirt, his war hammer clattering beside him. 

Pain shot through his ribs, and for a heartbeat, he lay there, gasping as the smoke closed in around him.

And as he lay there, clutching his side, something broke inside him—a quiet, gnawing crack he hadn't felt before. 

He had always been able to rely on his wrath to fuel him, to numb the pain and drive him forward. 

But now, as he stared up at the jeering bandits, the old anger felt hollow, like an echo of something that no longer fit. 

He had lived so long with that rage as his closest companion, had shaped his entire life around it. 

But what had it truly brought him? 

What had it cost him?

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his gaze fixed on Thorne, but his grip on the hammer faltered. 

Every face he'd ever scared away, every life he'd taken, every friend he'd pushed away came rushing back to him, their expressions filled with fear and rejection. 

He had always convinced himself that his wrath was a strength, that it made him unbreakable. 

But here he was—

Bruised—

Vulnerable—

Alone. 

In that moment, he realized the truth—that he had clung to wrath not because it empowered him, but because it kept others at a distance. 

It was a wall he had built to keep out anything that might hurt him, a defense against feeling anything else.

Thorne laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. 

"Look at you, Kazaks. All that anger, and it's gotten you nowhere. You're just a broken tool swinging that hammer around, clinging to fury like it's your only purpose."

Kazaks's jaw tightened—but the anger didn't come. 

Instead, a quiet, unfamiliar sadness filled his chest. 

Was that all he was? 

Just a warrior driven by wrath, bound to a path that led to isolation and emptiness? 

For years, he had believed his fury made him strong, that it gave him purpose. 

But now, standing here in the choking smoke, he felt the weight of that choice. 

He was tired—tired of fighting, tired of hurting—

Tired of living in a world where rage was the only answer.

His gaze shifted to Zach, still caught in the net, his face pale with fear but filled with trust—a trust Kazaks couldn't remember earning. 

Zach had always seen more in him, believed in him, even when Kazaks couldn't believe in himself. 

And suddenly, he understood. 

Wrath had been his shield, yes—

But maybe... 

Maybe it was time to let it go.

He looked down at his war hammer, feeling the worn grip, the familiar weight that had once felt like an extension of himself. 

He could still swing it, could still crush Thorne with a single blow. 

But what would that change? 

It would only feed the same cycle, fuel the same anger that had isolated him. 

It wouldn't bring him peace, wouldn't make him whole. 

It would just keep him trapped.

Kazaks straightened, lifting his hammer, but this time, he held it with gentler hands, his movements calm and controlled. 

"Ungh!"

He stepped forward, each footfall steady, his eyes locked on Thorne, not with hatred but with clarity. 

Thorne's grin faltered as Kazaks approached, as though sensing the change in him, sensing the quiet resolve that had replaced his usual fury.

"Hmmm?"

Thorne stood at the center of the chaos, broadsword at his side, a smug grin twisting his mouth as he watched Kazaks approach. 

Around them, bandits fanned out, weapons ready, encircling Kazaks and Zach with deadly precision. 

Arrows nocked, axes lifted, and the shadows danced across grim faces, each one ready to strike.

But Kazaks felt none of the familiar rage. 

The wrath that had once consumed him seemed distant now, replaced by something quieter—a steady, unyielding resolve that settled into his bones, grounding him. 

The anger no longer burned as it once did, no longer clouded his vision. 

It was still there, but it didn't control him. 

Instead, it fueled something deeper: a fierce drive to protect.

Thorne's mocking voice cut through the smoke. 

"What's wrong, Kazaks? Don't have it in you to strike?"

Without responding, Kazaks tightened his grip on the hammer and surged forward, swinging it with terrifying force at a bandit who had lunged at him. 

The impact sent the man sprawling, his body crumpling to the ground as others pressed in, undeterred by their comrade's fall.

An archer took aim from the side, releasing an arrow with a whistling hiss. 

"Got you!"

Kazaks turned just in time, raising his hammer to deflect it, the shaft splintering on impact. 

He took another step forward, sweeping his hammer in a broad arc, shattering the sword of the next bandit to approach him. 

Each blow he struck was precise, controlled—each movement backed by the strength he had always possessed. 

But now tempered by something else— 

Something that made his heart feel both heavy and unburdened.

In the midst of the battle, he felt a pang of sorrow—

An emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. 

For so long, he had believed his wrath was his strength, that his anger defined him. 

But as he looked at these men, their faces twisted with hatred and fear, he wondered if that same anger had made him weak in ways he hadn't wanted to see.

A bandit threw a smoke bomb, and thick, acrid fumes filled the air around him. 

Kazaks coughed, blinking against the stinging in his eyes. 

"Ack!"

His senses—his enhanced vision, his sharp hearing—began to blur. 

He could no longer see through the smoke or hear past the chaotic clash of weapons. 

And for the first time in years, he felt the vulnerability of being unable to rely on his heightened senses.

The rawness of being just... himself.

Through the haze, he saw Thorne's shadow advancing. Kazaks braced himself, his breath steadying even as his vision clouded. 

Thorne's mocking laughter grated against his ears as he struck, his broadsword slashing through the smoke with lethal precision. 

Kazaks blocked the blow, his war hammer meeting Thorne's sword with a bone-jarring clang, and they locked eyes, the weight of their clash vibrating through the air.

"Look at you," Thorne sneered. 

"All that strength, and what do you do with it? You could have anything you wanted if you'd just let yourself give in!"

Kazaks gritted his teeth. 

He had let anger drive him for too long, had used it as a shield to keep others at bay.

But as he looked at Thorne, his gaze hardening, he knew that strength wasn't about giving in—

It was about holding back—

About choosing when to fight and when to protect.

He swung his hammer again, sending Thorne staggering back, his expression flickering from arrogance to doubt. 

Kazaks's blows were relentless, each one more controlled, more powerful than the last. 

"Hrmph! Hrmph!"

But with each strike, he could feel something breaking within himself—the barrier he had built up, the anger he had clung to for so long.

A bandit lunged at him with a knife, and Kazaks instinctively swung his hammer in a backhanded arc, breaking the man's wrist with a sickening crunch. 

But there was no satisfaction in it, no thrill of victory. 

As the bandit fell back, clutching his arm in pain, Kazaks felt only the weight of regret—regret for every life he had taken in anger, every friend he had pushed away because he'd been too proud to let them in.

He shouted.

"I'm done being a tool for my own anger. I'm done letting rage dictate who I am!"

The bandits froze, momentarily stunned by the ferocity in his tone. 

Thorne's laughter faltered, his grip on his sword tightening as he watched Kazaks with growing unease. 

He lunged forward, his blade slashing toward Kazaks's chest, but Kazaks sidestepped the strike with ease. 

His movements were calm, each one precise and deliberate. 

He wasn't swinging wildly; he wasn't letting his wrath take control. 

He was fighting with purpose, with clarity—and it was this restraint that made him truly formidable.

Thorne staggered back, his confidence slipping as Kazaks advanced on him, his face set in quiet determination. 

"What's the matter?" Kazaks asked.

"Afraid to face someone who knows his own strength?"

Thorne's face twisted with frustration, and he swung his sword again, but Kazaks blocked the blow effortlessly, twisting the weapon from Thorne's grip with a practiced motion. 

He could see the fear in Thorne's eyes, the realization that Kazaks was no longer the wrathful beast he had once been. 

He was something far more dangerous now—

Someone who had mastered himself.

Kazaks's eyes softened, even as he held Thorne's life in his hands. 

For the first time, he didn't want to strike out of anger, didn't want to end this fight with bloodshed. 

Instead, he lowered his hammer, meeting Thorne's gaze with a quiet strength that spoke louder than any words.

"This isn't about winning or losing," he said softly. 

"This is about becoming better than the person I was yesterday."

Thorne looked at him, confusion flashing in his eyes, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might understand. 

But then, he scoffed, pushing Kazaks away. 

"Keep telling yourself that. One day, that gentle act of yours will be your downfall."

Kazaks shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

"Maybe. But for once, I can live with that." 

Kazaks's breathing was steady as he approaches toward Zach, his war hammer held firm in his grip. 

His eyes were locked on Thorne and the bandits surrounding him, determination simmering in the depths of his gaze. 

A quiet intensity filled the air, thickening with every step he took toward his mentor, who lay ensnared in the tight web of nets. 

But in Kazaks's mind, everything was focused, sharp. 

Every sound, every shift in the air, he felt with vivid clarity—his enhanced senses working in tandem with his movements.

The bandits shifted uneasily as he drew nearer, sensing the power radiating from him. Some exchanged nervous glances, but they quickly steeled themselves, tightening their grips on their weapons.

Kazaks's voice rang out, low but resolute. 

"Let him go."

Thorne chuckled, the gleam in his eyes mocking Kazaks's resolve. 

"You really think you're in control here, Kazaks?" He gestured to the swarm of bandits around him. 

"Let's see just how far that wrath of yours can get you."

Without waiting for a response, three bandits lunged forward, their weapons gleaming in the dim light as they aimed to catch Kazaks off guard. 

But he'd felt them coming long before they'd made their move. 

He could feel their footsteps reverberating through the ground, the subtle shift in the air as their arms raised, their breaths quickening with anticipation.

Kazaks spun, swinging his war hammer in a deadly arc. 

The weapon connected with the first attacker's chest, shattering bones with a sickening crunch, and he continued his swing, catching the second bandit by the shoulder. 

The man crumpled, and Kazaks barely broke his stride as he turned to face the third, bringing the hammer down with a force that left the ground vibrating beneath him.

Zach, watching from his trapped position, saw the man he'd trained fighting not just a battle of strength, but of will. 

Even from a distance, he could see the struggle in Kazaks's face.

The fire that had always been there now tempered by something new—

A hesitation that both pained and inspired him.

Zach murmured, his voice strained. 

"Kazaks..." 

He hadn't meant to say anything, but the words slipped out, carrying the weight of everything he wished he could tell his apprentice. 

"There's a strength beyond anger," he whispered, almost to himself, though he hoped Kazaks could hear. 

"You're stronger than you think... stronger than I was at your age. But strength isn't just what you can break. It's what you can hold back, what you protect."

Kazaks could feel Zach's gaze on him, could almost hear his voice through the chaos. 

And those words, though silent in the noise, sank deep within him. 

It was as if a wall he hadn't even known was there had suddenly been torn down, exposing a truth he'd kept buried beneath his anger. 

He'd always thought of himself as wrath incarnate, but maybe he'd been wrong. 

Suddenly—

A loud hiss filled the air as another bandit hurled a thick smoke bomb directly at him. 

Kazaks staggered back, his vision obscured, but he forced himself to adapt.

He focused, filtering through the sting of the smoke.

But just as he steadied himself, a sharp kick hit him square in the abdomen. 

Thorne had surged forward through the smoke, his boot connecting with brutal force. 

Kazaks felt the air leave his lungs as he was knocked back, rolling against the rough ground before he managed to catch himself, hammer in hand, anger smoldering.

Thorne sneered, his gaze dripping with contempt. 

"See, boy? Anger blinds you," he mocked, circling Kazaks as if he were a trapped animal. 

"Wrath has always been your weakness. You've been nothing but a blunt instrument, too consumed by rage to see the whole picture."

Kazaks staggered to his feet, his chest heaving, but he didn't respond. 

He tightened his grip on the hammer, gritting his teeth against the sting of the smoke and the ache in his ribs. 

He was done letting rage dictate his moves—

Done letting it control him.

Thorne's face darkened, seeing Kazaks's renewed determination. 

With a scowl, he motioned to the bandits around them, who quickly pulled more weapons from their belts. 

One bandit reached into a pouch, hurling another thick cloud of smoke around Kazaks. And then, just as he steadied himself in the dense air—

A sandbag came hurtling from Thorne's hand, exploding on impact against Kazaks's face. 

The coarse grains stung his eyes, blurring his vision further, and he was forced to take a step back, blinking furiously. 

He was still processing the blinding pain when Thorne's next move came, swift and unyielding.

A glint of steel caught Kazaks's eye just before the blade sliced through the air, a swift, calculated motion that his senses couldn't entirely counter. 

Thorne had thrown a knife, and as it arced toward him, Kazaks barely had time to brace himself. 

He twisted to avoid it, but the edge grazed him.

He gritted his teeth, pushing the pain to the back of his mind.

But Thorne wasn't done. 

Moving with lethal speed, he closed the distance between them and swung his broadsword in a wide, merciless arc. 

Kazaks raised his hammer, blocking the blow, but the force rattled through him, the weight of the blade bearing down on him.

And then—

In a brutal, swift motion, Thorne aimed for Kazaks's arm, his broadsword slicing through flesh and bone just above the elbow. 

The world seemed to slow as the blade connected, searing pain radiating up Kazaks's arm. 

"AAAAAAGH!"

He staggered back, his breath coming in gasps, shock and agony flooding his senses as he stared at the blood pooling around him

His arm hanging limp, severed just above the elbow.

He barely registered the gasps of the bandits around him, or the horrified shout from Zach in the distance. 

Zach shouted, his voice was in pain.

"Kazaks!! Kazaks!!"

For a moment, he felt himself slipping, his anger boiling to the surface, raw and unrestrained. 

Every fiber of his being screamed to give in to that rage, to let it consume him, to lash out at Thorne and every last bandit in his path.

But then he remembered Zach's words, the quiet strength in his voice, the wisdom he'd tried to impart. 

"In the realm of battle, composure is your sword."

Kazaks let out a shuddering breath, blinking back the tears that blurred his vision. 

His wrath simmered, but he held it back, channeling it into resolve instead of rage. 

His chest heaved, and he forced himself to steady his breath, to focus on the task at hand, the life he still had to protect—Zach, his captain.

Slowly, painfully, Kazaks straightened, his gaze locking onto Thorne, who looked at him with something resembling surprise. 

"Oooooh?! Getting back up?! Come on, now. I'll give you the time you need!"

Kazaks's voice was low, steady, the pain evident but held back by sheer willpower.

"This isn't over."

Thorne sneered. 

"Pathetic."

Kazaks met Thorne's gaze, unflinching, the fire in his eyes no longer fueled by anger but by something deeper. 

He was fighting to protect, to honor the bond he had with Zach—

The man who had trained him—

Believed in him—

Who had seen the best in him—

Even when Kazaks couldn't.

The pain in his arm was almost unbearable, but he kept his focus, readying his stance, refusing to back down. 

His left arm might have been gone—

But his spirit was unbroken. 

With his remaining strength, he lifted his hammer, the weight a reminder of everything he still had to fight for. 

And as he looked at Thorne, his voice came out steady, carrying the weight of a decision made long ago.

"I'm done letting wrath control me," he said, each word a promise to himself. 

"I'm not fighting for anger, Thorne. I'm fighting for something far more powerful. Something you'll never understand."

And with that, he took a step forward, hammer raised, his every move guided not by rage but by the strength he'd found within himself. 

The battle raged around him, but Kazaks felt a calm settle over him—

A calm that told him, no matter what happened next, he had already won.

"Think you've found some kind of peace?" Thorne's voice was a snarl, twisted with disdain. 

"You think that'll help you? I'll crush you, peace or no peace."

Kazaks only met his gaze, steady and calm. 

"You think I don't know the depths of that anger? I know it better than you ever will, Thorne. That's what gives me the edge."

Thorne sneered, his muscles tense, his broadsword raised.

"Come on, then! Let's see what that so-called strength of yours is worth!" 

Thorne snarled and lunged forward, his broadsword cutting through the air. 

Kazaks shifted his stance and blocked the blade with his hammer, the impact vibrating up his arm. 

Thorne pressed forward, slashing with wild, powerful swings, each one pushing Kazaks back a step. 

But Kazaks remained grounded—

Letting Thorne's fury expend itself with every reckless blow.

Thorne's sword came at him again, and Kazaks dodged to the side, twisting his body to avoid the edge by inches. 

He saw Thorne stumble for a second, unbalanced, and took the chance to land a hard, upward strike with his hammer to Thorne's ribs. 

Thorne gasped in pain, staggering, but he quickly regained his footing, his eyes blazing.

"Aggh! You... you... You think that'll stop me?"

 Thorne spat, his breath ragged. 

He swung his broadsword again, his strikes becoming increasingly erratic. 

Kazaks could feel the heat of Thorne's rage,

The way it pulsed through every movement making his attacks faster—

But more predictable.

Kazaks deflected the next strike, taking note of the subtle weariness in Thorne's eyes. 

He could sense that Thorne was beginning to tire, even if the man refused to show it. 

The anger that fueled Thorne was also draining him—

And Kazaks knew exactly how to exploit that weakness.

As Thorne came at him once more, Kazaks shifted his weight, anticipating the strike. 

When Thorne's blade swung down, Kazaks met it with his hammer, deflecting the blow with a loud clang. 

Thorne staggered, unbalanced, and Kazaks seized the moment, swinging his hammer in a swift arc and slamming it against Thorne's shoulder.

Thorne cried out, clutching his arm as he reeled back, his grip on the sword faltering. 

"You're... nothing," he growled, trying to mask his pain. 

"I'LL KILL YOU!"

Kazaks narrowed his gaze, feeling his own anger rising—

But unlike Thorne—

He channeled it with precision. 

"I'm not the one about to fall."

Thorne lunged again, his swings desperate now, each one wider and more feral than the last. 

Kazaks sidestepped, weaving around the strikes, letting Thorne wear himself down. 

The sound of their weapons echoed through the clearing, a brutal symphony of metal and force.

Sweat dripped down Thorne's face, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. 

His rage was consuming him, blinding him to his own fatigue. 

Kazaks could see it in every labored swing, every tremor of his hands. 

Thorne was a storm raging against itself.

With one final cry, Thorne raised his broadsword high, intending to bring it down with all his remaining strength. 

Kazaks saw the opening, and in a split-second decision, he sidestepped, letting the blade crash into the ground beside him. 

Thorne stumbled, his momentum betraying him, and before he could recover, Kazaks brought his hammer down hard on Thorne's back.

Thorne crumpled to his knees, the impact reverberating through his entire body. 

His grip on the sword slackened, his hands shaking as he tried to push himself up. 

But Kazaks was relentless. 

He stepped forward, his expression cold, and swung his hammer one last time, connecting with the side of Thorne's head. 

The blow was precise, controlled—a knockout, not a kill.

Thorne's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, his body limp against the dirt.

Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves and the quiet gasps of Thorne's men. 

The bandits watched, frozen in fear and disbelief as Kazaks stood over their fallen leader, his hammer lowered but still firmly in hand.

"He... he..."

"He took down our leader..."

"What a beast..."

Kazaks turned to face them, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. 

The bandits, a motley group of hardened men, suddenly seemed small and vulnerable under his scrutiny. 

Not one of them dared to move.

With a calm, steady voice, Kazaks spoke.

"Pick up your leader. And leave."

The bandits hesitated, glancing at each other in fear. 

But the look in Kazaks's eyes left no room for argument. 

Slowly, a few of them stepped forward, lifting Thorne's unconscious body with trembling hands.

Kazaks watched as they struggled to carry their fallen leader away, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. 

He didn't move until they had disappeared into the shadows, leaving the clearing silent and still.

In that moment, Kazaks let out a deep breath, feeling the weight of his own anger settle. 

He had fought with purpose, not vengeance.

And that purpose had given him victory—

Not just over Thorne—

But over his own past self.

With Thorne's men retreating into the forest, dragging their unconscious leader away, he finally allowed himself a moment to process. 

His eyes traced the torn, bruised skin along his right arm, the same arm that had shouldered his wrath and his strength—yet at a great cost. 

Blood trickled down his knuckles, staining the handle of his hammer, and his entire body ached with a fatigue that went beyond the physical.

Slowly, Kazaks turned, his gaze shifting to where Zach was still trapped in the net, watching the fight's aftermath with a mixture of awe and unease. 

Kazaks walked over, each step feeling heavier, his breathing settling as he took in the sight of his captain bound and silently observing.

Reaching the net, he gripped the ropes, unraveling them with careful but tired hands, each movement deliberate as he freed Zach from his bindings.

Zach stepped out, his silence filling the space between them. 

He glanced at Kazaks' arm, his eyes welling up as he saw the bruises and the blood, the toll of the battle etched into every muscle and scar. 

For a moment, words failed him, and he struggled to find something—

Anything—

That would ease the weight in his chest.

Zach's voice was soft.

"Kazaks... your arm..." 

Kazaks simply looked down, flexing his sore fingers, his own expression unreadable as he processed the aftermath of both the physical and emotional battle he'd just endured. 

He paused, letting his gaze drift upward, tracing the distant stars in the night sky as if seeking answers from the vast, quiet void above. 

"'In the realm of battle, composure is your sword.' I heard those words from you when we were fighting at the rainforest," he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Did I do a pretty good job... captain?"

Zach's eyes glistened, his gaze filled with unspoken admiration and sorrow. 

He knew how much those words meant to Kazaks, how they had guided him in his struggle to control the anger that had once threatened to consume him entirely. 

Zach took a step closer, his hand reaching out to Kazaks' shoulder in a quiet gesture of support. 

"You did more than a good job, Kazaks... you proved what true strength looks like."

For a moment, they stood there in silence, two warriors bound not just by their battles but by an understanding that went beyond words. 

Kazaks' gaze remained distant, still fixed on the stars, his mind drifting to the weight of his past. 

In Thorne's rage, he had seen a reflection of the man he could have become—

The man he had feared he was. 

But tonight, standing victorious not over an enemy but over himself—

He felt a new kind of peace settle within him.

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a quiet serenity that seemed to soften the edges of the night. 

Kazaks let his shoulders relax, finally allowing himself to breathe, truly breathe, as if a heavy chain had been lifted from his soul.

"I thought... I'd never feel this," Kazaks admitted, his voice barely a whisper. 

"I always thought that the anger was all there was for me. But tonight... it's like I finally let go of something I didn't even know I was holding onto."

Zach nodded, his own heart heavy with the depth of Kazaks' words. 

He could see it—the shift in his friend, the freedom Kazaks had fought so hard to reclaim. 

"You're stronger than any anger could ever make you, Kazaks. You proved that tonight."

The two stood together, bound in a rare, quiet moment, surrounded by the vastness of the night. 

And as they turned to leave for the others, Kazaks felt that hope—a fragile, barely-there flicker in the dark—start to take root, guiding him forward.

In this fight, Kazaks had proven that true strength wasn't in wrath—it was in mastering it.

And for the first time in years—

He felt something he hadn't dared to hope for—

Peace.

═════ ◆ TO BE CONTINUED ◆ ═════

◆ ◆ ◆ Author's Notes ◆ ◆ ◆

I actually loved writing this.