Doran's jaw clenched as he rifled through his empty pockets, the absence of cash amplifying his frustration. His mind replayed the humiliating defeat in the ring, each blow fueling his anger. This was the fourth match in a row he had lost. The rejection from the hooker on the corner only added insult to injury. To make matters worse, his "friend"—who was supposed to give him a ride home—had left with some bitch, stranding him after his match.

Now he walked back through the dark, desolate streets of these shitty slums, the streetlights above him flickering in and out. His bruised fists clenched and unclenched with each step, knuckles whitening against the urge to punch something—anything.

The jingling of his keys echoed through the silent hallway as he reached his rundown apartment, kicking open the door with his heel. Doran's scowl deepened as he spotted the demi-human cautiously peeking around the corner, immediately retreating to the safety of their bed at the sight of his dark expression.

That stupid, needy look on their face only pissed him off more. The dumb fucker was probably going to start complaining about being hungry again or whine about the ache in their ribs from when he'd kicked them earlier for getting in his way. As if he cared. They should've stayed out of his path when he was in a bad mood.