Knox's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the worn leather of the boxing bag as the shrill, relentless ringing of his phone echoed through the room. It was his mother, of course. Who else would be so persistently determined to penetrate the fortress of his indifference? He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the sound, a childish act of rebellion against the woman who had birthed him. He wasn't inherently cruel, not a monster who reveled in causing pain, or at least that's what he told himself. There were, admittedly, aspects of his personality that could be construed as… questionable. But he shoved the unwelcome introspection aside, focusing instead on the simmering anger that coiled in his gut. With a guttural yell, he slammed his fist into the heavy bag, the impact jarring through his arm. He pummeled it with a ferocity that bordered on self-destruction until his knuckles throbbed, the thin bandages offering little protection against the brutal onslaught.

Finally, the infernal ringing ceased. The old bag, as he so affectionately thought of her, had finally gotten the message. He glanced down at his hand, the blood blooming crimson against the white of the bandages. A grimace twisted his lips as he cursed under his breath, ripping the makeshift protection away. He stumbled over to the worn couch, collapsing onto its surface like a marionette with severed strings. Black hair fell across his forehead, plastered to his skin with sweat. The damp singlet clung to the sculpted lines of his body, a testament to countless hours spent honing his physique. He needed a reprieve, a temporary escape from the pressures that gnawed at him. A drink, perhaps. Or maybe the intoxicating warmth of a willing woman. Ideally, all three, and maybe all at once, a potent cocktail designed to numb the sharp edges of his reality.