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Booted footfalls reverberate along the debris littered hallways, the occasional crunch of glass under their step cutting through.
The dust has mostly long settled, but there's a haze filling the air that wasn't there before. Ruined equipment. Weights slung around with reckless abandon. Blood, splattered and caked along many of the surfaces in this place of learning.
Distant sirens, medical personnel in the more untouched areas working desperately to keep those harmed and lucky enough to be alive in stable condition.
A rush of water, from a bathroom faucet, presses against a pair of hands, brushed with faded crimson and rust. Once freed from the dyeing, the hands would dry themselves against the rough denim.
>Personal.
>Everyone always needs some sort of personal stake.
>Nobody wrestles anymore. It's not about the product. It's not about the art.
>It's all a platform
>For ego
>For self-righteousness
>For desperate validation
>There's one place, where things were different, even just a little.
The footfall exits the bathroom once, the sounds bouncing off the narrow acoustics before being swallowed by the broader space of the main training area.
