Smoke sits with his head in his hands.

All he had been through in the XWF. All he had done. Moving to America. It has all been for nothing.

He's breathing heavily, his mind still racing from the events, the horror of the swirling orange engulfing the building and the sky above it, black smoke billowing out and into the rain, which still pours down, a storm brewing since.

His money is gone. His possessions are dead. All he has is what was in his suitcase and what was in his pockets. His television, laptop, his bed that had been the one safe haven, all have been reduced to mere ashes.

The wind had caused his photograph to be whisked out of the open door of the taxi, into the air of the cold and bitter night. Who knows where it is by now.

Smoke pushes his fingers against his closed eyelids, pushing the tears out of his eyes.

How had it come to this? How could he have made such a stupid mistake, a mistake that cost him everything he owns, or at least had once owned.

What had he done to deserve this.

He looks up and around the locker room, breathing through his mouth has his rage builds up, angry at whoever responsible, angry at his misunderstanding, angry at how he had acted. Angry at himself.

GRRRRAAAHH!

He grabs his bag of wrestling gear and throws it at a wall, full force, extremely denting the plaster with a loud crack!

But he's not done, grabbing the dusted bag and flinging it across the room, overarm, with a scream, sending it careening and smashing one of the lockers - labeled 'raYne <3'.

He stands in the same spot, staring daggers into the shattered wood, breathing more and more heavily. He clenches his teeth, tighter and tighter until his gums are white and his face his red.

His clenched fist has grown tighter too, with his white knuckles sticking out of the ball, his fingers, palm and arm getting redder and redder.

Holding his breath, and without so much as turning, he punches blindly to his side, severely denting a locker labeled 'You Can't See Swift Ion!'.

Relieving his tension on his arm, he drops it back to his side and breathes in, smacking both hands against his temple and slowly running them through his hair to think.

Think.

Think.

Thinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthink.

That's all I ever fucking do.

He turns around and puts his hands on his hips, staring at the cracked wall. He controls his breathing, slowly inhaling through his nose, and exhaling out the mouth.

His lips rise slightly as he comes up with an answer. Not quite forming a smile, but by comparison to what he was like before it would seem like he won the lottery.

I'm going to find whoever did this to me.

He turns around and looks at the carnage in front of him.

And I don't care who gets in my way.