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    It is strange for Heat to be still, he wonders if perhaps tranquility is finally sinking in through his thick skull â not likely, as the torments only paused to catch a breath, they are back as soon as he starts thinking about it once again, could it be a divine punishment, like some people have said during the battlefield? Whatever that means.Â
    Wrath doesnât need effort to rebel, doesnât need to be spouted. It is always within his insides, revolting around every corner of his body, passes through veins with boiling blood, or destroys the little peace his head can offer at times (very unlikely).  He grits his teeth with force at the same time his fist clenched. Urging for something physical, something visceral, something violent. If it hadn't already been obvious in those narrowed, passionate eyes that burned, it would have been in the the way he walks, the way his vibe emanates naught but contempt and the so-mentioned anger.Â
    He observes a woman, heading his way. Gazeâs already on her, not because heâs interested, but because sheâs the only one around â people here doesnât use unorthodox shortcuts like he does, after all. The pathâs narrow, and he has no intention to move aside so she could pass first, not at all. His barely-contained anger becomes more apparent when he stops when they are closer â and he grumbles, impatience growing, âOutta my way, wasting time is the last thing I need right now.â
