[TW: Bad language. Morbid thoughts of death and one's value.]

"I'm pretty sure I said I would cut yours off!" Caelan said. "I expected a fight but not this! Next time we should just have a fight. Unless you're a chicken shit? I'd expect you to be able to beat me up right and proper. There's nothing right and proper about this. So, yeah. You better truly consider killing me, because I'll be out to get you real bad."

Of course, anger beat fear somehow. But why should Caelan be afraid to die? His life was picking up, but right now he lived in a broken down building that would probably fall down by itself in another decade. While he found a job and a new clean apartment, it didn't mean it would last. And he still had to deal with this asshole. So, Caelan really didn't have anything to care about. And no one would care too much if he died either. He didn't care if anyone cared about this prick right now, because as far as Caelan was considered as soon as he got up, he was going to attack the fucker and punch him or kick him in his balls if only for a chance to carve his initials into his fucking forehead.