Therapy.

Swirling colours were all around him. The whoosh of objects slicing through air filled his ears, while the rhythm of his feet against the ground spurred him onwards. Blow after blow was dealt, resulting in shadowy figures melting back into nothingness as his Claymore impacted the attackers. 

This was a battle. 

Adrenaline kicked in, fueling his anger. He pounded these creatures, these.. these monsters, driving them into the ground, his chest wallowing with satisfaction when they disappeared into thin air. 

He jumped, he swung, he dodged, he roared. 

Battle was therapeutic. At least, to him it was. 

Letting his bottled up anger out on others was a thing he rather enjoyed. It’s not like he could help it—most of the time he couldn’t—but it’s not like he cared either. Letting his rage out in battle was even better than barking at the other Organization members; at least like this, his opponents didn’t come back the next day to annoy him. 

With one final strike, he dealt the final blow to the last remaining Neoshadow and took a look around him, grunting heavily. His muscles throbbed and his head pounded, and his breath came out ragged and uneven. The darkness of night was a good cover for him; no one would find him out here. No one would even think to look for him anyway—it’s not like Heartless beings cared for others. 

The Claymore was as tall as he was—maybe even taller—and he leaned his forehead against the cool metal, letting his breath even out and his muscles numb in the pattering of the rain. His coat was soaked, the black material clung to his skin, and his hair was just as drenched, as it stuck to his face. 

He wished for one more opponent. Just once more before he had to go back and face the Organization again, he wanted to drive the sharp edge of his weapon into the body of a being. He wanted to hear its shrill scream of pain and see its writhing limbs jerk just before it faded back into nothing. 

Just one more time.