Conroy knew him.

The figure ruffled its hooded coat. He couldn't see the man's face, but Conroy knew him and knew that he was staring him down. Slowly, the man's hands went to his face and pulled back the veil. Blackness and a mismatch of hard to recall flesh lurched out at Conroy.

He felt his eyes fill with pressure, his veins' blood turn to boil. Without warning, he lunged a fist forward. The man didn't need to move from the straight's path; Conroy's strength drained from his body before the blow could connect. His knuckles touched lovingly and it fired his anger. Refueled, he threw a high knee that fell as softly. Disappointed, he tried his hardest to hurt the figure, but each of his limbs moved slowly until they stopped. All of his force turned inwards until his weakness beat into the fragile tissue of his own organs. Conroy bore himself into the man until he bled from the inside out. Until he woke, calm as a usual morning.

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