I steadily adjusted the black boxing bag gloves I had on my wrists, making sure to stand with my front foot facing the punching bag and my feet shoulder-width apart. I unleashed my punches, making sure to hit the punching bag hard and quickly. I planted my feet firmly when I threw the punches, and when I wasn’t, I moved aroused on my toes, laboring through my breathing. I’ve been doing this for a good hour, maybe even longer, but I can’t quite tell. Suddenly, I’m growing a little bored with the exercise. I could have enjoyed myself a bit more if I had been sparring with a real opponent. My subconscious, as usual, formed a well-built, sturdy figure, a monster that, after my life, looked virile and manly; he wore black leather pants and a black tacky jacket that looked like one formed from the heat and strain of battle in the medieval times; his face was covered in a golden mask, but the color of his eyes was red and dangerous, and the conviction in his eyes was as firm as every monster
